Noonday Ghosts
This mole here is sinister,
Nostalgic for infinity.
These white stone towers minister
To those who seek divinity.
This medieval hilltop town
Was built on overweening pride.
I came up but could not go down.
Their old ways had me hypnotised.
Church bells on Sunday woke me up.
By twelve o’clock the sun was fierce.
Not used to it, I soaked it up.
It seemed my very soul to pierce.
I rubbed my eyes. In the town square
A crowd of ghostly people thronged
Before a master builder there
To whom subservience belonged.
Each carried in both hands a stone,
Apart from one, perhaps a priest,
Whose aspect chilled me to the bone.
He had a bundle he released
To one who down a ladder went
To bury in a chamber dug
Deep underground a something meant
To keep a tower standing up.
I saw the bundle move and dread
At seeing human sacrifice
Drove me against that crowd long dead
And made me fall, not once but twice.
I came to underneath a street
Where the high tower’s foundations were.
A human scapegoat does not bleat
But is expected to defer.
Imprisoned, sat in the same cell,
I found a girl I’d seen before.
She had a plate that was a shell
That half a pomegranate bore.
“Have the white riders come?” she asked.
“The waves of the returning sea?
My father’s tower will only last
Until they do. Then I’ll be free.”
The pomegranate quenched my thirst.
The poor girl crumbled into dust.
That mason’s daughter had been first
To satisfy construction’s lust.
* The word mole (MO-LAY) in line 1 is Italian for 'monumental building'.
A Spring Poem
The weather has its mantle shed
Of wind and cold and driving rain
And put on an embroidered train
Of sunshine and fine days instead.
No animal or bird it’s said
From loud proclaiming can refrain:
The weather has its mantle shed.
Each fountain, stream and river bed
Wears livery which in the main
Consists of silver filigrained
And all things a new measure tread.
The weather has its mantle shed.
Wonder
What if Jesus were alive today
On Lake Tiberias,
Not being captured on film
Despite his obvious charisma,
Effortlessly working,
Recreating some miracle?
A Tanka for Hokusai
Forked lightning flashes
Photographic negatives
Of fault lines in ice
One becomes a grey dragon
Erupts in black clouds of smoke
M. C. Escher’s Day and Night
It is hard to find words for. At first sight
There’s a skewed chessboard of fields slanting right,
Juxtapositions of dark squares and white.
But look again. There’s more to it than that.
As the eye goes up, shapes cease to be flat.
Become lines of birds, a black or white slat,
Fly south for the winter, no, east and west.
The skeins wind both ways, do not come to rest.
White birds in night, black in day seek a nest.
Travellers surprised by sudden rain
For Hiroshige’s travellers the rain
Is a surprise, makes white rods for their backs.
Palanquin bearers uphill feel the strain
Of carrying a passenger. Rain lacks
The scope for contemplation that’s in snow.
The legs in front, the legs behind, both try
To flee, as best they can, something they know
Has it in for them, up or down. The sky
Too threatens. There’s another wry vignette
By this artist of people on a bridge
Moving so urgently not to get wet
You’d think they’re being harried by a midge.
These scenes’ horizons, slanted, emphasize
Attempts to escape, unheard muffled cries.
No comments:
Post a Comment