Sonnet for the Old Country

I never learned your language, though I tried
It more than once: cassette tapes, then CDs.
Each time I started strong, and then it died;
It seems that distance weakens family trees.
And thick as blood can be, it can be thinned
By years in isolation from the heart,
And one by one the notebooks were all binned,
Repeating their refrain: one more false start.

But though my tongue shrinks yet from all the twirls
And twists that you demand, still I can hear
The singing of the water as it swirls,
The whisper of the trees as I grow near.
And as the sun’s rays make the ripples glisten,
Speak to me of my father’s land. I’ll listen.
24/03/2008

Ode to the Dead

It’s been a while since I last went to see

The graves of those who died before I lived.

Though they still lie where they last were, it seems

That I am not the same. How could it be

That I have not found time? Even my dreams

Are dull without the visits of the dead.

Yet why should it be they who visit me,

Whilst I lie in my bed,

Full free to rise if I so choose, yet they

Are pent to rest in theirs till Judgement Day?

But why should mighty mountains care if men

Climb on their backs like swarms of ants, and why

Should open oceans pine for ships to sail

Across their vast immense expanses, when

Infinitude is theirs? Behind the veil

The dead return to whence they came: the Whole.

The Spirit lends its own wholeness to them,

The undiminished soul

In which they swell, and grow, and climb. Why, then,

Should they need us to visit them at all?

Yet men are mountains too, in their own way,

And locked inside each human heart, there lies

A universe, expanding endlessly;

A sun, whose light transcends all night and day.

And every mountain, high as it may be,

Cannot be such without its valley floor;

The deepest depths of every living sea

Are fastened to the shore.

All things by each are granted life, and thus

We need the dead. So too, the dead need us.

16/03/2008

Ibn Mashish

Some things are difficult for us to ken
Yet there is also truth, and truth is blind,
And oak trees burst out of the hearts of men.

No matter what a person’s acumen
Each one is limited by their own mind:
Some things are difficult for us to ken.

And what reaction is appropriate when
We reach the summit of the peak to find
That oak trees burst out of the hearts of men?

From deep within the most secluded den
There came an outpouring of verse refined;
Some things are difficult for us to ken.

The poet spoke with neither tongue, nor pen;
His verse was of an elemental kind,
For oak trees burst out of the hearts of men.

Some graves are domed and decorated, then
There are the ones that you can barely find.
Some things are difficult for us to ken,
And oak trees burst out of the hearts of men.

22/03/08

Terza Rima for a Train Journey

For a brief moment the tunnel emerged into light,
And suddenly we were high above the ground
Among sheer faces of rock, and all was height, and height.

There was not time to take in what we found
Before again we were between dark walls,
The echo of the trundling wheels the only sound.

Yet even as my memory of the journey palls
That briefest moment is the one that calls, and calls.

22/03/08

Statement of Purpose

I've decided to recapture my indolent teenage years by writing some poetry. It's not good enough to try and publish, so I'm putting it here, instead! Comments would be very, very helpful, please!