Four Poems by Ian J McKenzie

 

 

A Cracked Pot

 

There is a strange beauty in broken things,

That when put back together signify

A story told of a life lived to the full;

Like the crow’s feet and laughter lines

That do honour to a careworn face,

Just like those that illuminated

My Nana’s features when she hugged me,

Or fed me rolls of sugar-coated butter –

A conspiracy of contraband,

Just between her and me – and just like

A cracked pot welded and repaired

By lines of burnished precious metal,

I am more than the sum of broken shards

Collected and put back together, forming

My back story, the collective memory

Of experience, failure and success

All joined in a patchwork quilt of narrative,

Containing all my flaws and imperfections.

 

In these pieces I am whole again,

With golden threads running through my veins –

I am many; I am multitudes,

And my story can be told – just read

The lines woven across my face, etched

In fired lacquer cured with liquid gold!

Mercury Rising...

 

As Mercury rises along the line

Of the ecliptic, I lie here half asleep

Waiting for dawn stealing in quietly,

Seeping through thin clouds trimming the horizon.

 

Nothing is moving in here, but my

Awkward shifting limbs trying to adopt

A more comfortable repose, entangled

In the rumpled sheets kicked up in my sleep.

 

The night is locked down tight, except for the

Restless blinks of the digital bedside radio,

Which beats the time vainly to hurry along

The day that is waiting in the wings.

 

The clocks all hold their breath, while under

Cover of enfolding darkness I cling

To my dreams, like a suckling babe holding

On for the coming hour of redemption.

 

The Moon flirts in a skimpy cirrus skirt,

Rippling camply in the silvery haze, like

A dancer backlit enticingly against

The inky curtain of night; the air is still.

 

And in the stillness nothing moves in here,

While Mercury passes through, on its way

Along the plane of an alien meridian,

Sweeping over my covert visions.

 

Time hangs weary in a creeping suspense,

Moves imperceptibly towards its sweet

Oblivion, as flickering eyelids take

One last flutter; a faint embrace of dream-sleep.

 

And still there is nothing moving in here,

As the clocks tick off the final moments

Until that first salacious kiss of sunlight,

To kick-start one more step along the way…

The Coffee Drinkers

                           

Under the awnings they sit,

Regular as an overcast sky

In an English summer; syphoning

Off the dregs of another dull morning,

Enjoying the fractured rays of sunlight,

A murmur of starlings at roost. Familiar

Faces, but strangers to me; a quilted

Patchwork merging in their random

Communion; a cosmopolitan Chorus.

Each one with their own back-story,

Converging on this street corner

Sanctuary. One common denominator:

Time on their hands. They sit talking,

To their mobiles, to each other

Across a quorum of occupied tables;

Friends, acquaintances, passing

Ships drifting on lazy currents

Of lackadaisical routine. By

Measured sips they keep their places,

Eking out the extended welcome

Of their stay. These hardened loungers

Seem well adapted to passing the time,

As time hangs loosely about their motley

Array; casual participants in the

Morning ritual of the coffee drinkers.

Talking To Buddha


There’s a lady in Ko Loi Park, Chiang Rai,
and she’s talking to Buddha. She’s kneeling
in front of ‘The Woken One’ residing
at the back of the park looking down
His eloquent aquiline nose, posing
stoically in perpetual bliss.

He’s not giving anything away.


She parks her motorcycle neatly
to the side, kneels facing directly
this modest Buddha, lighting candles
to illuminate the darkness in
the hard rays of midday Sun. Winding
coils of incense waft gently over
languid air rolling off a snaking
meander of the Kok River wrapping
itself around one side of the park.
She’s bending his elongated ear
with silent prayers to gain merit,
laying down simple offerings: garlands
of flowers, burning joss sticks, to attain
spiritual growth and purify herself
before His elegant thin lotus feet.


She has Him all to herself, almost,
as I wander across the Sun-hardened,
ground, weaving between emaciated
trees offering threadbare cover from the
noon-day glare. The park is deserted,
wearing a sad patina of neglect;
just me, a stray tourist, wandering
over from the ‘Melt In Your Mouth’ cafe,
and the lady who’s talking to Buddha.


She’s engrossed in her one-on-one,
unaware of me standing there, coy
witness to this private audience,
while He looks on in silence,
the perfect bedside manner, listening
graciously all hours of the day to
supplicants eager to bend His ear.


In her black suit and white blouse,
she looks quite austere, kneeling like
a penitent in her devotions.
I speculate idly about her hopes
and desires; what is it she's seeking
from these chats? Attaining good
credit for her next life, perhaps? Or
is she hopeful of some good fortune
in this one? Accumulating Karma
to acquire a kind husband, or simply
praying for the souls of those already
gone, travelling further along on the
eternal cycle of life? Who knows?


And so I begin to move away, off
to find directions out of the warren
of lanes taking me from this solemn
place, looking to cross the river in
search of my own gateway opening
to another pathway leading nowhere.
And as I take my leave, she is still
talking to Buddha, who sits gazing
benignly, rooted like a Bodhi tree:
He is the perfect listener;
a captive audience.

 

Ian J McKenzie - Born in Barrow in Furness Cumbria UK

Educated at local grammar school, then university, Queen Mary, London studying economics.

Leaving university to several random jobs, including fitter’s mate, insurance brokers in the City, and eventually completed a PGCE to teach English.

Moved to Reading taking position of secondary English teacher, which continued for 25 years; now retired, with regular annual shifts as and English Language assistant examiner with Cambridge International. (72)

During most this time has been writing poetry, sometimes masquerading as song lyrics. Only began to get really serious after early retirement and felt that work was becoming good enough to perform at open mics locally. (108)

Since the pandemic, 2020, has been participating in several international Zoom open mic events, and making attempts to get work published; so far two published – in

Reading Today, and The Madras Courier; also participated as a featured poet in the

inaugural poetry festival, ‘Blot From The Blue’, held recently in Newpitsligo, nr Aberdeen, Scotland.