The Endless Bar

All those before who fled,
What did they do to me?
They poured their troubles onward,
Red blood could part a sea;
Still, you’re in untended plots
In a quiet corner of Cheam.

How far I looked up to you,
A child at the endless bar,
We’d walk across midwinter tracks
When you couldn’t drive a car.
You tended donkeys with more care
Than family bruised and scarred.

Adults sometimes shed the skin
Their parents dressed them in,
But you glued your self to mine,
Inheriting your chin-chin.
Each evening when I’m drunk
With words, I think of you,

Hoping this is not the last drink;
Without words what can I do.

Inno Alla Bellezza

Se l’italiano è la lingua della poesia,
Patria di Petrarca nella sua corona a tre punte,
E il francese la lingua degli innamorati,
Patria di Hugo, Baudelaire e Francois Villon,
E il russo la lingua di neve e foreste
Dove è cresciuto l’abete rosso di Checkov, Pushkin e Lermontov,
Il cinese è la lingua dei fiumi che scorrono,
Dare alla luce Cao Xueqin e i tre grandi salici,
Dove emergono le parole della bellezza non posso andare.

Perdonami per le lingue nobili che non ho ancora incontrato,
Lingue spagnole, portoghesi e settentrionali,
Perdonami se le mie parole suonano
Come una corteccia stanca, sradicata e vuota,
Ho perso il conto dei dolori della mia patria,
Perché l’inglese si perde come il sangue
In una prosa sanguisuga.

Six Across

A crossword life, words unfilled,
The sound of bagpipes is a skirl,
Primrose curves and daffodil.

The clew between my fingers fell,
Dead-ends deathly, I knew well,
These limits of a four-lined shell.

I stood at junctions, 6 Across,
Wished for stars but kindling loss,
Lichen-hair and eyes of moss.

Everyone has a daily circuit,
Cryptic, Quick, Acrostic surfeit;
A Bannock Fluke is Scot for turbot.

The queen bought with a rationing token
Her wedding dress, all silks bespoken;
Twelve down ends with my heart broken.

Me Too

Why a world and his wife,
Why from a man’s rib made,
You call me trouble and strife,
So why by the male-god be saved.

Why have the woman-word devolved,
It only meant a man’s wife;
And bridegroom’s meaning men evolved
To nurture your longer life.

A prince lives in a photograph,
A film-maker eats jack-mack for tea,
Forensic professionals are understaffed,
I do not want these saints preserving me.

For parity, there are now no actresses,
Perpetuate the man-made myth;
The billionaire’s now using laxatives,
It’s the actors who should have been done away with.

A crowd could be a world and her husband,
Watch as we burn the words at the stake,
Written by femicidists who bludgeoned
From Santiago, to Sheffield, and Salt Lake.