Showing posts from August, 2018
9. Sunday in Gouda
The advent of the day is tolled by the bells, chasing the steeples, cowing the birds to swallow their call.

Behind skips the trill of the carillon. Dies out, and nature resumes its course, the birds their tremulous song.

Time to get up, not the usual tug to let in the day, but a revelatory draw to light up and lift.

The sunlight splashes the tiles, glitters the stiles, caresses a cat in reflection, silvers its whiskers. 

The faithful walk in droves to the church, in a huddle, skulked in hats and bonnets they tip to each other.

Turtled in collars, they peer out and wrinkle their faces, in sight of a youthful mob, bundled for the beach.
8. From one to many
You started out something simple, unified,
a gem of transparency,
lording it over me.

And then you expanded into multiple divinities,
gathered on a mountain
of inconsistencies.

They feast it up there, make a pagan of me,
invoking one god to fit
the worship of the day.

Forgive them all for their silliness, for they know
not what they do, like me,
no need any longer for infallibility.
7. The stream bears light (The Nasrid palace at the Alhambra)

Boxed within the battlements, crenellated,
lie squares of tranquillity,
surrounded by arched, pillared spaces
between the light and the dark.

The wisdom of the logic in it:
Finding a place between yes
and no, inside and outside, to step
out of the boxes of categories.

A garden, where trees reach high, hide shrubbery
in shadows, and benches in an
arcade, to sit and ponder all.

A pool, glaucous green, reflects the sky, adds space
multiplies light, divides
the firmament.

A fountain collects the glare, the white of the day, cups and presses
the light into the focus of its liquid lenses,
flows into a narrow stream, to bear the light.

To carry enlightenment inside, it passes through the in-between, reflects
and glitters pillars, suffuses into dark,
treasured in alcoves, carved braille

of Arabic, the Moors mastery of water, ducted down from the siërra
to suckle delicate gardens, feed
the streams that bear the light.

6. Down and out in the mind
The moon strokes balm on the degradation of the dark
cover of memories going down,
to find their rest or happily drown.

The past sinks into loss of time, the sequence of events undone:
they fall apart, step out of line,
regroup, then merge into one.

Identities blur, and are gone, or enter intercourse, wildly coming
to fuse, in logic redone.

Till daylight resets the march of time. The self dredged up, identity restored,
pressed back in line.
5. Siësta
Plane trees in their fatigues
embrace across the square,
where the dust has settled,
and the sun is still as well.

A drunk rummages around between the shadows, too short,
and stumbles, on nothing,
in the absence, the deaf of the street.

A dog twitches in his sleep. Across the fields reverberate
a whistle of the heat
and the racket of a cricket.

Under the roof of a pine, there is shadow for a rest,
to stare at the reddening grapes
in the white of the day.
4. Poetry pinfold

Rough and untended they roamed in herds,
crossed the paths of my life,
trampled the tended patch
where I had taken root to reflect.

In my twenties they were sexy,
pranced, in heat and in rut,
neighed their nonsense,
their romance on the cheap.

Untidily lined, not properly broken in,
they stamped their stanzas
into disarray, unbehooved
in their unruly revelling.

Later, their will to power wilted
and they grazed more
attentively,  chomped, smacked
their thoughts more carefully.

And now, grey in mane,
they home in, congregate,
rounded up, rubbed down,
aligned, the stockman tolerated.
3.Yin and yang
Out of an even sky of indifferent blue, the sun beats down on the rough, ochre slopes,
crags and crevices, gritty in hue.
Ancient land of hollow-eyed cyclops.

The sun-blast inflicts incisions, sharpens edges, blisters the crags.
And where it cannot conquer
the shades, it darkens the deep.

But time, with its ruthless mercy, wreaks a massive turnaround, dislodges
the edges, forces light to retreat, trade places
with shadows, the dark emerging to share the shine.

2. Night
The fever and delight
of weaving words at night, as the chime of a bell devours
the lateness of the hour.

Until you yield for lack of sleep to the fullness of the dark and deep.
When risen from the fall of slumber
festooned with algae from down under,

distill then from the fruits of light the moonshine of a thirsty night,
that will never cease to please 
those who mould the figurines of ease.