Body and Soul
A redaction of W.H. Auden, 'No, Plato, No' (1973)
I can't imagine anything
on Earth I'd less like to be
than a disincarnate spirit -
with nothing to do but sing
the song of the stars eternally,
with only the Lord to hear it.
How tragic not to do human stuff
like chew or sip, or salivate
over a girl in a magazine
at the dentist's. It's tough
not being able to guess the weight
of a cake and win a soup-tureen
or gramophone at the summer
fete, or gleefully waddle around
in the park with a tireless dog
or great-nephew. What a bummer!
Little things too make my heart bound
with joy, my senses all agog:
smells of mint and musk and dung,
my grandpa's grave alive with moss,
the silence of a mended tap,
the hopeful muddles of the young,
that marvellous feeling when you toss
small change into a busker's cap.
God placed me exactly here -
give me one more decade please!
This sub-lunar world is a riot -
the clubs, the farms, the biosphere.
We drink, we snooze, play bridge, keep bees;
we write to keep our demons quiet.
Meanwhile, my organs slave away
without complaint, twenty-four/seven,
doing my will as the Lord designed.
It's a miracle - for I have to say,
I haven't a clue how in Heaven
they work. Can they read my mind?
Might they dream of another dimension,
released from the great 'I Am'?
Will they dance when my loved ones scatter
my ashes and cancel my pension?
Will they smile when Hamlet's just ham
and they're irresponsible matter?
Four Feather Falls
An encounter with a feather-lined overcoat
The prime minister visits schools, and dinner ladies,
his overcoat too limp and lean to feed us:
we don't expect compassion from our leaders.
In the cloakroom, the ghost of a snowy owl,
a skeleton humoured at the draper's ball,
a coward's Christmas: white feathers for all.
A sweet girl, draped backwards on a prefect's chair,
reflecting on the Establishment's allure,
has been passed over for the prefecture.
One feather would not be missed, and nor would
two,
save those with spots, like ermine possibly,
the ones you'd count, like diamonds in your tea,
tinkling and sweating in the members' lounge,
knees winking, neckline plumping for the plunge,
her blush pinched up to meet the vampire's lunge.
Each fling's a fledgling for the empty nester
whose cuckoo's duty is her loveless big bad sister.
Two feathers too many ostracize the twister,
a gladiator-artist flinging his net
to catch a generation, talentless and tight -
the pool so splashy in the summer night.
Autumn Leaves
Leaves, gold, yellow and brown,
sit on swirls of gravel - floating worries,
dead butterflies nobody misses,
the adjective shower behind the frown,
strewn wrappings of ancestral stories,
widowy husks of chrysalises.
And now I think back to my one lost
love, enduring, immovable stone
island weathered by wind and rain,
and as I weaken and reckon the cost,
I embrace the consolation: no one
will ever have her that young again.
After a minute or two I fetch the rake
with the long bamboo handle, settle
it in my hands, and swinging it out to graze
the gravel lightly, for the gravel's sake
catch a few leaves in its tines and haul
them in, like a netful of heedless days.
A.M., P.M.
Good morning! The dare's well breakfasted on trust.
Your fingers wave goodbye to last night's fist,
unclenching to scribble your number, chance a tryst.
We meet as innocents, the slate wiped clean
before school starts, track record ours alone,
with miles of thanks for every classless clone.
Clear air, as racing drivers say, is what we taste,
fresh every morning, history's sins confessed,
revision done and dusted as we flunk the test
of the turning day, floundering between all or none
among social nuances, setting of a precious stone
whose workshop's dubious and whose worth's
unknown.
Would cake adore a fork or die for a spoon?
Welcome to teatime, klutz. Good afternoon.