A gaggle of poems this week.
THERE ARE NO FULL STOPS.
The big top is burning down.
Nearby we are erecting another tent
that will flame in its turn.
we all want to see the circus,
to somehow be part of the bacchanal
(secretly we fear the clowns).
Look! The clowns are marching.
Purposeful, oblivious of the smoke,
they blow crazy themes
on cracked circus instruments.
The tarnished saxophone breathes a solo
that cannot be resolved.
The parade passes us by.
The proud clowns discordant.
we want to walk in the procession,
to weave through a field
where tents outnumber the stars.
3. Haiku for winter sun
Now sun splashed red brick
The branches and birds casting
The magpies own the quad.
On the odd hot day, we may have use of it,
then they watch, half amused by our white flesh.
They will still be here when rain-lashed in winter,
we run for the shelter of concrete cloister
These last two are taken from a sequence I am writing about my old university and my recent interaction with the place. I am attempting to chart the differences thirty odd years have made.
Here is another one:
the first real day of spring
I shed my thick green coat
make small talk in the coffee queue
curse my forgotten travel cup
realise I am engaged with the now
rather than the chime of overlaid memories
perhaps I belong here
Have a good week.