Contemporary art

It has to be original;
the skill required is minimal;
avoiding jeers of mimicry
leaves only shallow gimmickry.

Elegy on an English allotment

The track beyond the gate leads to the sun
low in the sky now day is nearly done;
tall hedges either side harbour the birds
that cackle disapproval when disturbed;
bright clover heads' white horses fleck green seas
while trees, restless as waves, ripple the breeze.
A blackbird porpoises the viscous glare
with feathered fingers dipping, trailing air,
spreading behind invisible vortices
that swirl the few remaining bumble bees.
A lake of silence drowns the distant knolls
and flowers swim deep in scattered perfumed shoals.

The sinking sun inflames the anchored clouds
and I relax alone far from all crowds -
and yet not quite alone, one rabbit peers
between the bushes, still but taut with fears
of fox or weasel or that monster, Man,
and I try not to scare it if I can.
A little magic mouse, night's butterfly,
eddies the air with angular sallies by,
hunting the edge of these allotment plots
where moths seem unaware of what's
in store for them - a sudden end to life.
Will my end be as quick? I see my wife
below the slope where our house stands alone
empty of children now our birds have flown.
Our lives drift onward with momentum kept
from busier days and interests now all swept
away. What is there left in life for me
but her who's been my partner constantly ?
I haven't always treated her as well
as she deserved and she could surely tell
of pain unmerited caused by my flaws
which she for love of me kindly ignores.
The lingering summer light still drains away
and evening fears crawl out again to prey
upon a mind enfeebled by old age,
still mired in mediocrity, not sage
as honest effort and experience should
have made it and the young man thought they would.
A distant car crawls like a beetle by,
lights in the gloom aping a firefly
but sweating dirt and grating through its gears
to leave the twilight whistling in my ears.

June is so poignant, mid-summer eve like death;
evenings that last forever vanish like breath.

Now they begin, the funerals of friends.
Where previously one dutifully attends
a family wake with relatives unknown
to younger members, now those young have grown
to fill the coffins fashioned at their birth
regardless of success or moral worth.
Old friends begin to tread the narrow track
where all life's multitudinous paths lead back
to what they came from - time's oblivion
in dissolution not reunion.

The floating band of dusk wears like a charm
the burnished copper coin against night's harm.

I missed what life was all about and why.
What can I do worthwhile before I die ?
How can I fill, so late, a fading life
that never played a part in business strife,
that's nearly picked undone the Gordian knot
oF disentangling children from the plot
and long since willed itself against all chance
of aged infatuation to enhance
an otherwise dull life that lacked the drive
to status, power or fame (while still alive!)?

The Earth revolves some more; the stars soon vie
the absent sun, a flush upon the sky.

Too late for action, knowledge may suffice
but what's important is told in a trice:
things living die however long their day -
there is no shrine that sells eternal play;
and wealth does not ennoble but deprave
both those who have and those who only crave;
Man's vanity and pride are a disgrace -
love and compassion save the human race.
But turn your eyes away from human strife;
admire the impossible complexity of life.
Without such truths, trite as they are, to show,
knowing no more than when we came, we go.


The blushing pastel cheek of sky's delight
brushes the dark jowled face of  Earth goodnight.

Inappropriate

If I were twenty years younger,
I'd ask you to marry me.
But if I were twenty years younger,
you'd still be in junior school
and marriage might be a little frowned on.

They say
floating is better than sinking
don't they?
I'm quite
sure you don't have an inkling
what's right
and guess
nothing at all gets you linking
to stress.
Of course
water's involved, just a sprinkling
resource -
no doubt
not what you're probably thinking
about.
Suppose
proper disgust has you wrinkling
your nose
but pride
foils your impulse of slinking aside
convinced
finally, hurriedly shrinking
back since
these words
only concern daily stinking
fresh turds.

I never fret about the ferry;
I know my berth is booked ahead;
it certainly won't go without me,
waiting till I'm dead.

The voyage itself won't be too taxing
(the river Styx is not so wide);
a boat ride could be quite relaxing -
no threat the other side.

It's more the journey to the harbour
before I even reach the boat
depresses me as I get older
and life becomes just rote.

As muscles tire and bones grow weaker,
the transport system gets so frail
and people's outlook sure seems bleaker
when lights begin to fail.

The traffic then could cause disaster;
the road ahead is all downhill;
no wonder time starts going faster
so much of it to kill.

No problem with the route to follow -
prescriptions point the varied turns;
obsessed with illness I can wallow
in petty self-concerns.

No holdups threaten onward progress
though motorways may take their toll;
less chance of bed and hearty breakfast
for this convicted soul.

No holiday accomodation
required; no frolics at the port;
no postcards from that destination,
the journey's last resort.

Perhaps I ought to change my vehicle
for something more appropriate -
a wheelchair might make me more cheerful
once death is definite.

Or they might build a channel tunnel
to speed up progress with a train
or even fund an airport - one'll
get there quicker with a plane.

"But why all the fuss?" she enquired retreating
around the end of the bed in the gloom -
young girl unimpressed by my sad entreating
alone at last in her curtained room.

"It's only a body like any other."
she said while gliding away through the door;
but hers is the body I want to smother
with love and kisses for evermore.

I sail on the swell of her belly meeting
the crested curve of her breasts' dark tips;
I plunge down the dip to the bottom greeting
the smudge of hair in the trough of hips.

I rise up again to the shoulder whitening
the rolling wave of her waisted back;
ahead the face of the heavens brightening
is wreathed in swirls of fine curling wrack.

And then comes the storm with the thunder beating
my heart apart at the neck of the bay;
one last little thrust and her mouth's repeating
the words I always want her to say . . .

"I've got to be going. You'll have to leave."
A quiet voice puts an end to the gale.
Washed up on the beach what did I achieve -
passion or love or a fishing tale ?

Winter, North Vietnam

Grey bullocks plough the green fields brown;
a paddled tractor muddles by;
flat water squares awaiting rice
are grey fields mirroring grey sky.

Whole schools of children cycle past
misted banana trees and palms;
grey tarmac roads span splashy pools
where floats of tame ducks quell their qualms.

Grey walls of buildings front more fields
whose matt green spatters topee'd heads,
a real-life water colour scene
where sunless drizzle dourly spreads.


But coned bent backs plant change to come;
the new-shoot green shines winter's cure;
the wading cold promises sun
with message clear - only endure.