“It is time for the Resurrection,
Hibernation is not eternity”
Even a human being is entitled to wake up
without chocolate and haiku.
To rise from the dead at night,
well before dawn illuminates
bare tiptoeing feet of half-believers,
I am come from the other place,
where everything tastes
like raw, un-salinated olives.
I am come to be
in the presence of my redeeming
I am company for an escaping spirit.
I am come for the fun,
a party to celebrate the Resurrection of the Word.
A sapling stood,
blowing in the storm,
while a poet,
buffeted by a thunder of questions,
cut fingertips in crevices
edging along solid stone.
What’s your poetry like?
What do you write about?
What do your poems mean?
Are you published?
The composer stumbled
from stage to topsoil,
sand, silt, and clay,
strewn on limestone.
I am a translator.
You ask me
What’s your sapling like?
How does it stand in storm and flood?
What does your frail growth eat for breakfast?
How taste’s your sap?
– in a few words we’ll understand.
“And what’s more,
tell us the story of your conception:
What magic pollinated and fertilised you?
Who gave you seeds to throw,
and drew you towards the sun?
Where have you bloomed?
What has attracted you
to such a timely death?
– in words from which we can grow rich.
O Sleep, my lovely boy, that sucks all fragments
from stellar gas, and swallows time from where
the galaxy resounds, and thereby draws the stuff
of dreams in bondage deep to sweet mem’ry;
If Universe awards your constant love
of generating eyes that move beyond
the Pale of slumb’ring lids, I shall
open the stars you win as prize by night.
She watches all that moves in hearts sublime
and even chews the devil’s grandest scheme.
No matter how flat she lies waiting here,
she may abstain from tales of light, and song.
Her orbit, though retreating, will awake
your smile, and transport you for goodness sake.
With thanks to William Shakespeare, Sonnet 126
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Tiger was in his Hell,
he crawled into his Purgatory,
cried in silence,
like a bleeding lion
speared by an unrelenting hunter,
couldn’t walk to his Calvary
Tiger fell from his Garden of Eden
into Job’s pestilence,
out of the Mouth of the Whale,
and the tomb stone,
Tiger put on the mantle of Lazarus.
He faced his Peter at the Gates of Augusta
with firm forehead, trusty swing, and magic
conjured from the old days before his Flood.
Was it a plenary indulgence
lifted Tiger into his Heaven
in four days?
The black man from the innards of a dark wood
strode out on the Last Day of the Masters,
Up and down, in and out,
even clockwise and anticlockwise,
thesis & antithesis,
contrary & collaboratively
When does a conversation begin?
in the playground,
over coffee & tea leaves.
How does conversation move?
Like lichen in a hurry,
like racing jaguars
desperately striving to escape lava,
in fits & starts,
like a revolving Black Hole.
Who’s welcome in a conversation?
princes and umpires.
Here’s an example of a conversation…
called “Business Jazz Podcast”.
Before the second round of the Masters began, I found these 18 holes:
- Gets you out of the house
- Let’s you escape housework
- Gets you away from family
- Unites your outer & inner world
- Experience humility, be humbled
- Accept adversity, disappointments as core
- Lose hubris
- Realise you need more practice to become more skillful
- Know you need lessons, and a good coach
- There are times to shut up
- Fresh air is good – whether it rains, shines or blows
- . You need balls to play
- . You can get the same result with different clubs
- . Nothing is certain – and nothing is to be taken for granted
- . There is wild life outside
- . You can play alone or in company
- . You will miss the hole, and you will have near misses
- . You have to keep moving forward, even if only to keep away from people coming up behind – or let others through
19. You need time to celebrate & commiserate- and treat others to pints
When I lived in a black hole, no light escaped.
were sucked in by the gravity
of waning density.
My black hole never filled,
there was always room
for matters to collapse inward,
As pain sank in,
like nails driven into the palms of Christ,
you saw my face
lighten for a camera.
Scientists used to have a theory of general misery.
They said my black hole would collapse
and, just as Dante emerged from his dark wood,
I would regain my fire,
and become a star reborn.