Haiku #696

696.

If I might walk then
Sometimes tentatively, see,
Your eggshells beneath.

Future Reminiscence

We reminisced
Like indistinctly
Separated lovers,
Carefully unwrapping
Other people’s memories,
Other people’s bliss.
Remember when our hair
Fashioned in newly shared
Romantic styles
With kanzashi propping
We would later forgive,
Shoppers made from glass
Reflecting the market
Would stare, open-mouthed
If to be so avant-garde
Lately had we dared.

Before we earned
Our contrasting directions
We understood much less,
There was no compendium
For the sentience
Of stones at the summit
Of mountains dressed
In red, and unexposed
To prejudice like silt’s
Accumulations
In gall bladders
And appendices,
Or the forty wars
They ordered, keeping
Us occupied long after
The conflicts and
Armaments
Had disappeared,
Parboiling three or
Four pandemics,
Six or seven daughters;
They mansplained
Impossible are
Any further losses,
Like fathers returning from
The Boer only to see
Their sons conscripted
In 1914. The reason
Stages are loved by
Adventists, confutators
And politicians,
The pamphleteers
And the musicians,
Teachers and priests,
Is there the congregations
Hear messages as though
Not for the masses
But for individuals
Directly injected,
A form of ancient
Alchemy. You always
Said tread carefully
Through the verbosity
Of men on podiums.
I did not know then
All that you meant,
But now, I understand
Suffering and love.

You honky-tonked
Your way through the blues
While we flirted through
Millennia, where
Unfulfilled
Prophesies
Of computer-generated
Apocalypses
Seem somehow preferable
To the hardships
Of being kept apart
From you. We endured
Obscene tortures
On our screens,
Aeroplanes burning,
Dossiers deserving
Nobel Prizes
For turning what existed
Into what did not,
Rainforests made way
For shampoo and
Doughnuts sprinkled
With hundreds
And thousands of years;
Forget-me-nots lost,
We tied a bonding knot
Where we might meet
And reminisce again,
Holding hands across
Our thoughts and the
Continuums
Of space and time,
Appalled by the myths
Brewing the next
Holocaust,
Fusing and feeding
The next apocalypse.

Ninth Sonnet

Less the requirement for tablet or shed,
Poetry’s gardens are seeds in your head;
Daily distractions will chatter and chase,
All their dull efforts, one rhyme will replace.
Minutiae delights, heaven’s your ceiling,
Don’t hide from your self, hardships revealing;
You don’t need a war for a war poetess,
Injustice and conflict sow your success.
Your heroes don’t live in scripts or a screen,
Your heroes prevail inside you unseen;
Don’t over-bake, or burn with keen edits,
Don’t wait for their praise, the obverse discredits.
More words you’ll intuit, let the free world fight,
Follow terms for your self, and freely write!

The Anorectic’s Contest

From scalp to soles, all muscles atrophied,
She courts water flavoured with aniseed
For an emetic. It’s seven days now
Since signing her sisterhood’s wasted vow.

Her chest’s like mine, her bones are clean,
Servery patients crowned her queen;
We meet without eating, only talk about food,
She tires quickly, and quick to brood.

Tattoos shrunk, teeth turn black,
A single cordon keeps death back
In exchange for her youth, an appetiser;
May a long later life be one tranquilizer.

 

N.B This poem is written in remembrance of a member of my family’s experience, and as a response to Wisława Szymborska’s Bodybuilders’ Contest

The Song Of The Moon

I used to live in a forest
Where all the world was dark,
But now I live in a clearing
Where at last I see the stars.

I used to live in a strata
With amethysts purple and blue,
But I could not touch their colours
Until worlds were opened by you.

I used to live in a town without words,
As silent as the night-sea;
But now I reside in the poem
And I gather the oceans in me.

I used to live in an aperture
And watch the lights flash by,
But now I remember the camera
And let the memories lie.

I used to live in a forest
Where all the world was dark,
But now I can see the trees and the berries,
The song of the moon, the heart of the stars.