Friday, 8 January 2016


The chances are that, if you have read my blog in the past, you will know how the Space Race fascinated me as a child. I have written a number of poems about it. They are scattered throughout the blog.
Here is the latest.


The composition of moon rock did not interest me. I was twelve.
Neil and Buzz were hopping about the lunar surface,
transported there in flimsy machinery, the earth a disc in their sky.

I was so taken with the idea, humans free in the universe.
Yes, I was thinking big, beyond the moon,
beyond Mars and out into the Big Black.

I am no longer twelve,
now the science intrigues,
to an extent.

I am no longer twenty four and see their compromises,
the propaganda trade offs, the political expediency
of using war criminals with their benevolent butchers smiles.

I am no longer forty eight
and know that out there in the stars,
we would have acted out our history.
Colonisation, exploitation, atrocity.
Listening to the news, this sopping Sunday morning,
all three seem hard wired into our brains.
One of my earliest memories was of Yuri Gagarin. I followed every mission without understanding the science. There was a romance to the whole endeavour that went far beyond the politics.
Speaking of romance...

just after you died, I wished that rather you had ran off with someone/anyone, left me with the kids, there would have been a chance I'd have seen you again,
I could, I thought, have taken comfort in the fact that you still walked the world, and smiled, and laughed, and lent to it the easy grace you always had in life
that moment has passed
I am here with our grown up children and memories
the night is dark, I light a candle
Nothing really to say about this poem. 
I've been listening to lots of Brizilian music this week. Here's Astrud Gilberto with Corcovado.

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