Haiku for Mendeleev #005 — Boron

the orbital splits
three-leggèd hatchling seeks bond
heat-defying grip

Haiku for Mendeleev #004 — Beryllium

peacock eye of jinn
in the eternal city
no more deadly dust

Haiku for Mendeleev #003 — Lithium

a lightness of stone
small cells powering machines
firstborn of metals

Haiku for Mendeleev #002 — Helium

two of everything
alpha in the burning sun
lightness all alone

Haiku for Mendeleev #001 — Hydrogen

in the darkness, light
on the face of the water
the spirit of god

Chorus from a Little Red Dot

They slash, they burn
They farm the peat
And then repeat
The cycle turns
Over the days
They make a haze

What have we learnt across the centuries?
That prosperity can be poison
Distilled by exploitation?

No, that is not what we have come to know:
Our forefathers worked by sweat and toil,
But we by unconfessed guile.

How do city-states fatten in their years?
Gold comes from ash and blood and tears.

They slash, they burn
They farm the peat
And then repeat
The cycle turns
Over the days
They make a haze

Here in Atlantis the crying and blame
Have begun—perverse incense—to rise,
As once did in Tyre's skies.

We claim we are poor because we seek wealth.
But we are not farming barren soil,
Do not need to sweat at all.

Why do city-states anger at their kings?
We vote for them to give us things.

They slash, they burn
They farm the peat
And then repeat
The cycle turns
Over the days
They make a haze

=====

With apologies to il miglior fabbro, for this comes from a rock that is waste land.

Going Gentle

It is right that things should fade
That oxygen should draw its electronic debt
In every cell and line of age

It is left to me to say
That I have always loved my different cats
Despite outliving all of them

Memo to the interior designer:
Let the parquet stain grow pale
Grow old along with me
My falling hair will then be less visible

Memo to the exterior designer:
I've come to appreciate
This maturing pain
The sense of loss balanced by forgetfulness

If the guitar were less hollow
The sound would be less sweet
If the sound were less hollow
I would listen harder to my beat

And so my trousers they are rolled
By rhyme to remind me I am old

God, This Is Mr Cat

I recently came across Prayers from the Ark, a collection of poems by Carmen Bernos de Gastold, originally in French, and translated by Rumer Godden. They include this gem:

The Prayer of the Cat

Lord, I am the cat.
It is not exactly
  that I have something to ask of You.
No — I ask nothing of anyone —
  but, if You have by some chance,
  in some celestial barn,
  a little white mouse or a saucer of milk,
  I know someone who would relish them.
Wouldn't You like, someday,
  to put a curse on the whole race of dogs?
If so I should say
Amen.

Janissary

Janissary cruellest month, leading
Students out of holidays, feeding
Memories of desire, breeding
Dull Jacks with much work.

Jillian kept us warm, blanketing
Us with regretful nos, bleeding
Our little life with her rhubarb.

And so we were all surprised when Janissary
Came thundering over the hills
And Jill and Jacks fell through the downs
Wasted by pale coffee and flowers
Wondering where the waters and the carpeter
Went to kindergarten together.

For of course without a good carpeter,
You would have to train your own grey matter
To weave a tapestry of knowledge
From the waste land.

Doubled

There is a rainbow above me
And the ground beneath me.
There is the sky of stars my roof,
And the trees that guard me.
There is cloud against the sun's heat
And the sunlight in day;
There is wind across the moon's glow
And the cold dew at night.

Here with my cat I sit and wait;
Here with my love I drink and dine.
When fifty years are gone
My memories are dust.

Agriculture

I have sown no wild oats,
Have tilled no black earth;
No mystery of Gaia
Surrenders to me.

The vine, date, and olive,
Oak and ash and thorn —
These mysteries are hidden,
I have lost them all.

But I have the black sauce,
And the seed of heat;
The noodle is summoned,
The dumpling is stewed.

I sit in the hot world.
The steam is rising,
The mineral rain falls
Into the sunlight.

The Glove Song of J Eugene Stiglitz

In the world the tankers come and go
Talking of Michelangelo...

No longer apes and peacocks and brazen locks,
No longer ivory and resin, amber and socks...

Surely is underdevelopment the bane
Say the prophets of the ticker
We should pump it up, inflate the pain.
I am no prophet — and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the garment of my mattress flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

No! I am no development framework, nor was meant to aid;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two;
Avulse the print and other media tools,
Deferential to the internet,
Politic, cautious, meticulous,
Incapable of sentence-making yet,
Most times indeed ridiculous,
Though from the best of schools.

But South America still lies stagnantly
Like seaweed floating in the listless sea.
I have heard the mermaids singing each to each
Their apocalyptic future on the beach.

Jerusalem by the Merlion

And was that ship in ancient times
Docked at this city's pirate port,
And did the lone wolf's mighty spawn
Hunt fin and scale and fluke for sport?

And did his burning eye see true
The vision of commerce and trade
And was the Venice of the East
Indeed the slave of Mammon made?

Bring them the paper of their chains
Bring them the numbers of their bonds
Bring them the season of the rains
That fills the trading-road with ponds!

They shall not cease from mental fight
Nor shall they sleep but toil all night
Till they have learnt what is not learnt
And saved what has not yet been burnt.

=====

I too have seen the opposable bamboo and gazed upon his works. And so, bad poetry, mixed metaphors and a total vomitus of angst. Yes, results are out tomorrow.

Homer's Coffee

Sit, traveller. Learn.

milk-blunted darkness
bitterness stolen
cassandra silent

will i now insult
by pouring honey
thin sweet suffering

where the beauty now
a thousand ships sunk
fire licking ash shore

drink now, odysseus
wanderer grandson
get of the lone wolf

forget what cannot
release what remains
wine-dark brazilian

Gaming Life

It is afternoon, or perhaps half time.
I do not know how long my day is, or the state of the match.
But when the night falls, I hope it is sudden.
And when the whistle goes, I hope I am ahead.

It is tournament, or perhaps shower.
I do not know how long the match is, or how much water's left.
But when the games end, I hope I have plus-scored.
And when the tank's empty, I hope I am all clean.

It is tiring to think
Yet harder not to think.
But life is not a game, it is many games.
And the pleasure of games is to play well.

Lunchtime

In the rushing of the noonday hour
A fly descends
In hot oil and busy elegance
A meal is served

Hear one moment of silence
Between wingbeat and heartbeat

The sacrament of food
Consumes the moment
Lays it out to later
Autopsy of words

The smoke pours out
The heat returns
The daylight's messy business
Heads to evening's dusty doom

Feathered Glass

Why is the glass feathered?

Am I seeing the light layered
light upon light
like the essence of the pearl?

Or is there tracery of line
like laughter's faint
footprints on a distant face?

I think hawk, but see mist.

The unicorn blinks knowingly
life upon life
in the corner of my eye.

This moment an airplane summer
exhausted clean,
shivered timbers, back to work.

=====

Note: I spent last night reading a whole year's entries in somebody else's blog all over again to capture the essence, but it eluded me. This is all I have for now. The rest is filtering through and I expect to collect more residuals, for which poetry may barely be sufficient, and my skill not at all.

Lemming Pentametric

Quite like a furry lemming to the sea
Is this the mythling that we learn to be,
Not real destruction nor unreal decay,
Just acting out somebody else's play?

Is education meant to be a crutch
Or might we see it more than this by much?
Break down the walls and let the tide sweep clean
The stables of the Augean Cattle Scene.

A mything link, a weakness in the soul,
The artificial lacking of a goal,
Thank God, for this new man at work; we see
A better age: the best is yet to be!

Poetic

Prose and poetry are not opposites. Poetry, the art of the maker, is all there is — Greek or Latin, poesis is what is made, it is.

Prose is one kind, it is straight like plucking a strand of hair and pulling it taut. Prose is poetry without the verse or meter, or at least, without the conscious framework of such. Some people say, "O your prose is so poetic!" and I thank them and I think they miss the point, for all prose is poetry, just pulled straight.

Remember that poetry is making, prose is just poetry sans ornamentation and artifice. We are all poets, and we sleep and dream, we rise and speak and write, and all things we make new.

Palaeography

across a table
what did the gryphon’s daughter
give the wyvern’s son?