THE WRITER

I am a teller of stories.

I live between a keyboard

And a screen lit blue,

Thinking about sagas

That do not matter

And none of them are true.

I am a composer of poems.

I live in a word-filled world

Where imaginings rhyme

And sometimes play tunes

Backed by ancient rhythms

And loves of another time.

PARADISE

 

GOOD FRIDAY

 

GREY ALL WAYS

MANGROVE GLADE

 

PERSIAN PRINCESS

We were both so raw back then.

I still have our photos

And they look

Almost primeval.

You were sharply cut

And I was chiseled.

You were like a goddess

From a fifties movie.

I was more like the hero

Of a forties western —

Grim greys and watery whites —

Ashen against your deep shades

And your eyes’ glossy lights.

But we found something

There in each other;

And, with loving hands,

We sculpted two into one,

One day — one wonderful day—

In the ancient Near East

(As diplomats used to say).

Once you were so close

That I could smell your perfume.

Every now and then

A wisp of your hair

Tickled my cheek.

You seemed so gentle

And you looked at ease

Even though

You were so close to me.

I longed to kiss you

And pull you closer;

But I could not do it. 

And yet you looked at me —

Your flashing eyes

Said you wanted me to react.

But I could not do it.

The next time we were so close,

I was just grateful

For a second chance.

So we kissed

And I held you so tight

You should have swooned

But we stayed upright.

And so it began – you and me.

Your body squeezed so hard against me

That we regretted only our clothes.

APPROPRIATION

The whole endeavour has been a scam.

We were tricked by the cult of the ram

And we gleaned little from rivers of gold,

Then you robbed us blind; we grew poor and old.

All those ochre mountains were trucked to the coast

And shipped to rich fiefdoms paying the most,

Ferried across seas our fathers fought to save,

Guided by sailors on the wage of a slave.

The best of us, soldiers of a grim past,

Upheld you because they loved our land;

Then you broke the promises you cast,

Set not in stone; sketched on windswept sand.

Cream from your profits bought greedy political tribes,

Because that was cheaper than taxes and royalties,

And you accepted foreign investors’ bribes.

You sold our inheritance, along with your loyalties.

Always was and always will be

Meant nothing to you;

And it meant little to me

Until you stole from me too.