October 19, 2009
A Short Pantoum about Space
No last-minute reprieves
For Creation and stuff
Space is being squeezed
Making more's kind of tough
For Creation and stuff
To use all that room
Making more's kind of tough
Without another Big Boom
To use all that room
The Universe expands
Without another Big Boom
It's got time on its hands
The Universe expands
Its heat dissipates
It's got time on its hands
We are left to the fates
Its heat dissipates
Space is being squeezed
We are left to the fates
No last-minute reprieves
Posted by daen at 05:47 PM | Comments (0)
October 12, 2009
Secluded outlook
"I need more space," she says.
The old cliches spring, unbidden, to mind:
The final frontier ...
Plan Nine ...
No-one can hear you scream ...
"Ground control to Major Tom"
But, today, I have learnt it is best to say nothing of this.
It has already brought us discord;
and tears,
and recrimination.
Have our signals become so attenuated with distance?
I try a more subtle approach,
telling her how it can be
that hidden in the tiny, curling gap between two protons
the multitude of bright and shining universes lying there
outnumbers all the particles
in this twisted, broken cosmos of our own.
And surely, I say, that is room enough for anyone?
She regards me quietly for a moment,
choosing her words with great care.
"I only meant," she says,
"that I'm looking for something with a bigger dining room."
The next day, I am fired from the estate agents.
Posted by daen at 01:42 PM | Comments (0)
September 04, 2009
I have a Special Plan for this World
when everyone you have ever loved is finally gone
when everything you have ever wanted is finally done with
when all of your nightmares are for a time obscured
as by a shining brainless beacon
or a blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world
when you are calm and joyful
and finally entirely alone
then in a great new darkness
you will finally execute your special plan
one needs to have a plan someone said who was turned away into the shadows
and who i had believed was sleeping or dead
imagine he said all the flesh that is eaten
the teeth tearing into it
the tongue tasting its savour
and the hunger for that taste
now take away that flesh he said
take away the teeth and the tongue
the taste and the hunger
take away everything as it is
that was my plan
my own special plan for this world
i listened to these words and yet i did not wonder
if this creature whom i had thought sleeping or dead would ever approach his vision
even in his deepest dreams
or his most lasting death
because i had heard of such plans such visions
and i knew they did not see far enough
but what was demanded in a way of a plan
needed to go beyond tongue and teeth and hunger and flesh
beyond the bones and the very dust of bones and the wind that would come to blow the dust away
and so i began to envision a darkness that was long before the dark of night
and a strangely shining light
that owed nothing to the light of day
that day may seem like other days
once more we feel the tiny legged trepidations
once more we are mangled by a great grinding fear
but that day will have no others after
no more worlds like this will follow
because i have a plan
a very special plan
no more worlds like this
no more days like that
there are but four ways to die a sardonic spirit might have said to me
there is dying that occurs relatively suddenly
there is dying that occurs relatively gradually
there is dying that occurs relatively painlessly
there is the death that is full of pain
thus by various means they are combined
the sudden and the gradual
the painless and the painful
to yield but four ways to die
and there are no others
even after the voice stopped speaking
I listened for it to speak again
after hours and day and years had passed
I listened for some further words
yet all I heard were the faintest echoes reminding me
there are no others
there are no others
was it then that I began to conceive for this world
a special plan?
there are no means for escaping this world
it penetrates even into your sleep
and is its substance
you are caught in your own dreaming
where there is no space
and a hell forever where there is no time
you can do nothing you are not told to do
there is no hope for escape from this dream
that was never yours
the very words you speak are only its very words
and you talk like a traitor
under its incessant torture
there are many who have designs upon this world
and dream of wild and vast reformations
i have heard them talking in their sleep
of elegant mutations
and cunning annihilations
i have heard them whispering in the corners of crooked houses
and in the alleys and narrow back streets of this crooked creaking universe
which they with their new designs would make straight and sound
but each of these new and ill-conceived designs
is deranged in its heart
for they see this world as if it were alone and original
and not as only one of countless others
whose nightmares all precede
like a hideous garden grown from a single seed
i have heard these dreamers talking in their sleep
and i stand waiting for them
as at the top of a darkened flight of stairs
they know nothing of me
and none of the secrets of my special plan
while i know every crooked creaking step of theirs
it was the voice of someone who was waiting in the shadows
who was looking at the moon and waiting for me to turn the corner
and enter a narrow street
and stand with him in the dull glaze of moonlight
then he said to me
he whispered
that my plan was misconceived
that my special plan for this world was a terrible mistake
because, he said, there is nothing to do and there is no where to go
there is nothing to be and there is no one to know
your plan is a mistake,he repeated
this world is a mistake, i replied
the children always followed him
when they saw him hopping by
a funny walk
a funny man
a funny funny funny man
he made them laugh sometimes
he made them laugh oh yes he did
he did he did he did he did
oh how he made them roll
one day he took them to a place
he knew a special place
and told them things about this world
this funny funny funny world
which made them laugh sometimes
he made them laugh oh yes he did
he did he did he did he did
oh how he made them roll
then the funny man who made them laugh
sometimes he did
revealed to them his special plan
his very special funny plan
knowing they would understand
and maybe laugh sometimes
he made them laugh
oh yes he did
he did he did he did he did
their eyes grew wide beneath there lids
and how he made them roll
i first learned the facts from a lunatic
in a dark and quiet room that smelled of stale time and space
there are no people
nothing at all like that
the human phenomenon is but the sum of densely coiled layers of illusion
each of which winds itself upon the supreme insanity
but there are persons of any kind
when all that can be is mindless mirrors
laughing and screaming as they parade about
in an endless dream
but when i asked the lunatic what it was
it swore itself within these mirrors
as they marched endlessly in stale time and space
he only looked and smiled
then he laughed and screamed
and in his black and empty eyes
i saw for a moment as in a mirror
a form the shade of divinity
in flight from its stale infinity
oftime and space and the worst of all
of this world dreams
my special plan for the laughter
and the screams
we went to see some little show
that was staged in an old shed
past the edge of town
and in its beginnings all seemed well
the miniature curtain stage glowed in the darkness
while those dolls bounced along on their strings before our eyes
and in its beginnings all seemed well
but then there came a subtle turning point which some had noticed
and i was one
who quietly left the show
no i did not
because i could see where things were going
as the antics of those dolls grew strange
and the fragile strings grew taut
with their tiny pullings, tiny limbs
the others around me became appalled
and turned away and abandoned the show
that was staged in an old shed
past the edge of town
but i wanted to witness what could never be
i wanted to see what could not be seen
the moment of consummate disaster
when puppets turned to face the puppet master
it was twilight and i stood in a grayish haze of the vast empty building
when the silence was enriched by a reverberant voice
all the things of this world it said
are of but one essence
for which there are no words
this is the greater part which has no beginning or end
and the one essence of this world for which there can be no words
is that all the things of this world
this is the lesser part which had a beginning and shall have an end
and for which words were conceived solely to speak of
the tiny broken beings of this world it said
the beginnings and endings of this world it said
for which words were conceived solely to speak of
now remove these words and what remains it asks me
as i stood in the twilight of that vast empty building
but i did not answer
the question echoed over and over
but i remained silent until the echoes died
and as twilight passed into the evening i felt my
special plan for which there are no words
moving towards a greater darkness
there are some who have no voices
or none that will ever speak
because of the things they know about this world
and the things they feel about this world
because the thoughts that fill a brain
that is a damaged brain
because the pain that fills a body
that is a damaged body
exists in other worlds
countless other worlds
each of which stands alone in an infinite empty blackness
for which no words are being conceived
and where no voices are able to speak
when a brain is filled only with damaged thoughts
when a damaged body is filled only with pain
and stands alone in a world surrounded by infinite empty blackness
and exists in a world for which there is no special plan
when everyone you have ever loved is finally gone
when everything you have ever wanted is finally done with
when all of your nightmares are for a time obscured
as by a shining brainless beacon
or a blinding eclipse of the many terrible shapes of this world
when you are calm and joyful
and finally entirely alone
then in a great new darkness
you will finally execute your special plan
Posted by daen at 03:57 PM | Comments (0)
August 20, 2009
The Secret in the Cat
I took my cat apart
to see what made him purr.
Like an electric clock
or like the snore
of a warming kettle,
something fizzed and sizzled in him.
Was he a soft car,
the engine bubbling sound?
Was there a wire beneath his fur,
or humming throttle?
I undid his throat
Within was no stir.
I opened up his chest
as though it were a door:
no whisk or rattle there.
I lifted off his skull:
No hiss or murmur.
I halved his little belly
but found no gear,
no cause for static.
So I replaced his lid,
laced up his little gut.
His heart into his little vest I slid
and buttoned up his throat.
His tail rose to a rod
and beckoned to the air.
Some voltage made him vibrate
warmer than before.
Whiskers and a tail:
perhaps they caught
some radar code
emitted as a pip, a dot-and-dash
of woolen sound.
My cat a kind of tuning fork?--
amplifier?--telegraph?--
doing secret signal work?
His eyes elliptic tubes:
there's a message in his stare.
I stroke him
but cannot find the dial.
-- May Swenson
Posted by daen at 05:14 PM | Comments (0)
January 02, 2009
Happy New Year: An Honest Poem
In the cradle of the day
Squalling, bloody, weak and cold.
Weaned on error and dismay
New Year born of dying old.
People shout and scream with hope.
Pain-bright rockets burst up high.
Am I such a misanthrope
That all this seems a pointless lie?
It's better just to drink and dance,
and dance, and drink, and dance once more
Than it is to stop and think
Knowing you've been here before.
The promises you meant to keep.
Good deeds you said that you would do.
But at year's end you have to weep.
You failed. You failed. You failed. Who knew?
I tell myself it could be real,
that gestures might have meaning when
Used correctly. But here's MY deal:
I promise to do better in 2010.
Posted by daen at 04:58 AM | Comments (0)
August 25, 2007
Missing pigeons: verse catharsis
I holidayed in sunny Spain
Dodging Denmark's summer rain
After two weeks I came home again
To a pigeon nesting on my balcony
As I stepped out to my surprise
I was regarded by bright orange eyes
Overcome with suspicion she took to the skies
That pigeon nesting on my balcony
She left behind a nest, quite rough
Round in shape made of twigs and stuff
Still representing a labour of love
Of the pigeon nesting on my balcony
And in the middle of this strange sight
A small egg sat, pure bluey white
Perfectly ovoid, reflecting the light
Laid by the pigeon nesting on my balcony
The days passed by, and I watered my flowers
Pigeon sat on that egg for hours and hours
Safe from any predator that devours
Pigeons nesting on balconies
And then not long after, I watered the plants
Looked in the nest and did a small dance
There was a sight to thrill and entrance
A baby pigeon in the nest on my balcony
Pink and wrinkled, small and yellow
An ugly unprepossessing fellow
Among the broken eggshell though
The pride of the pigeon nesting on my balcony
The chick's eyes opened and he grew, and grew
And filled the nest; feathers came through
If you got too close he would try and peck you
That guard pigeon in the nest on my balcony
I woke up, scratching and yawning
And stepped outside into the morning
And they both had gone without warning
The pigeon and her chick on my balcony
I count it as a mystery
The mother, obviously, flew away
But the chick had vanished into the day
No pigeon nesting on my balcony
Posted by daen at 02:50 PM | Comments (1)
March 16, 2006
Essex Spring
In north-east Essex, when it's spring The schedule doesn't mean a thing At least not to the stubborn wind By which the season's underpinned The sun is strong, the blackthorn snows The dirty evening darkness goes But still the east wind slices throats Mocking scarves and cutting coats Pinching, clenching, killjoy crone Tacking inland up the Colne Flinging insults at the sun And ruining the tourists' fun She comes to visit, Easter Day And often lingers all of May
Writes Martin Newell in his pome "Shipshape Part II", and ne'er a truer word said. "Spring", as in "spring surprise" (where the Easterly wind pops out unexpectedly and pierces both cheeks and both eyeballs, before ripping your ears off for a finale).
Posted by daen at 01:30 PM
February 03, 2006
Caviar
"Where does caviar come from and why is it so expensive"?
Real caviar comes from the virgin sturgeon Virgin sturgeon needs no urgin' Virgin sturgeon are a very rare fish That's why caviar's such a pricey dish
Thanks to Michael Crabb (musical director for Southend-on-Sea Borough Council and MBE now, apparently), my ex-music teacher, for this snippet of wisdom.
Posted by daen at 12:17 PM
September 20, 2005
Baker Tony's Pizza
Baker Tony baked a pizza
very round and thin
He said he added olives
but he never put them in
The stuff that he had grated
and sprinkled on to please
was only yellow sawdust
although he called it cheese
the rich tomato topping
was nothing more than dye
so Baker Tony’s pizza made all the children cry
Angela Martin, aged 57
Posted by daen at 05:05 PM
July 25, 2005
Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions : Meditations XVII
Nunc lento sonitu dicunt, morieris.
Now this bell tolling softly for another, says to me, Thou must die.
No man is an island, entire of itself ;
Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were,
As well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were.
Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls ;
It tolls for thee.
-- John Donne (1573-1631)
Posted by daen at 03:59 AM
June 01, 2005
Poem for the aged
Warning
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we’ve no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I’m tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people’s gardens...
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
-- Jenny Joseph
Posted by daen at 11:21 AM