Rain

An interruption

From the cold sweep of winter through the suburbs

Of disenchantment where it’s rough on the streets and inside.

Did they hear the rain there, that misty haze which descended on thought?

 

Here the rain

Brings a clarity after humid heat, with relief pattering down

Around the plants to a sprinkle of child’s tears and a cd spinning

With Philip Glass again round and round to a beat and wings which flutter

 

Contrasts and luck

To be here and not there, wherever there is for there is always a there

Where nothing will grow or take root. There you’re on your own or you’re

With your gang, but you’re not listening to that rain wetting you through, for you

 

Are cold.

There’s no plant-life from your rain, no sudden springing bounce for you’ve

Never gardened in the rain nor seen a plant stretch its leaves and breathe again.

My grandfather wandered miles and miles around a countryside stepping through fields

 

To make a living.

He slept in the open, heard strange rustlings in the undergrowth, a grass snake slithering away.

Luck: he was able to live. He wrote the rain, a milky way of stars,  rheumatic fever. He saw sun

Write cosmos into a veld which stretched to Ermelo and back. The sound of boots had marched

 

Through Europe

And he was far away. All the rootless people, shaken like stray cosmos into a way of dark

Making life or not. It’s the not that’s the burden there and there again round and round

Like a tightening knot of discontent. There, the rain of death, or not.

 

 

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when poetry departs, I turn to Glass

It leaves me berefit

Of words.         it’s an emptying out

Abandonment

A poetic slur.      an illusion appears

Opening a cave’s mirror

To a mind      furrowed

Burrowing in ideas

Glass ones.        then solid relief

Hera holds a lily

Afloat a mandolin, pure notes

Drop poems like fresh milk

In my robust tea

 

 

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Glass

Dance glass, I wish I could

Twelve parts and yet

Again a new harmonic

Of Philip’s philosophy.

I hear an extra beat

This time

Timing is everything

The score is apparently

Impossible.

I could listen all year

During which my writing

Would breakdance

 

 

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My Words Wait for Music

My words wait for music
To begin the sound
Of all that waits
Waiting simply for paper
The blankness of a sheet
Of white pleasure
Sheer space for notes. Look:
I can be in tune with
The melodies of life, it’s
Philip Glass again
Rhythm, beat, discordance
Chase the words to paper
Even if I have nothing
To say except
Listen, listen
Listen to the music
Of words as they roll and wrinkle around…
Oh you rambunctious, glutinous, glorious lot

 

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Pottering

If this were life, we would

Soar above the clouds

In a rhythm of eternal

Optimism bird-like,

Our view of time

Measured by

Plant, soil, worm, rain

Our seasons by secateur,

Water, bud and surely song

A sequitur; Einstein

In the garden, One, Two,

Three, Four, Five, Six

 

Semi-tones hidden

Between skylark and dactyl.

We would fill the spaces

With delight, pottering;

Twelve-part variations

To life then, salud

 

 

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