Underworld by Don DeLillo is long but worth a read

Don DeLillos's Underworld is as relevant and valid today as it was at time of publication some ten years ago. In that time so much has happened and yet precious little has changed.

I acquired Underworld by Don DeLillo over 10 years ago as a result of having studied and enjoyed the author's book White Noise at university. I desperately wanted to read more work of this person who seemed to have his fingers on the pulse of our era as well as a good grasp of the past events, both small and sizeable, that helped to form the present. He also seemed to dislay an almost uncanny insight into the future.

DeLillo has the magical ability to present the varying strands of our current ethos, culture, lifestyles and ideologies in succinct form without foregoing any of the vital minutiae of daily life that make up these things. One minute his characters are discussing, quite seriously, the merits of wearing sunscreen in the desert, for example, and in the very same sentence or paragraph we realise that they are also commenting on the atomisation of society at large. The author manages to do this without any of the usual jarring gaps in flow and avoids any sense of disconnect. The books - all those I've had the good fortune to read - flow like understated but crucially zeitgeist movies - think American Dream and perhaps sometimes Donny Darko.

Reading DeLillo's work (I can't bring myself to use the words 'novel' or 'story' as they seem too trite descriptions for works so intrinsically linked to real life) is like watching a perfect mix of documentary and fictionalized drama that blends so well it is almost impossible to tell what is 'real' and what isn't. In this way his work is simply a mirror on our lives. If you cannot find yourself, or at least a part of yourself in his work, perhaps your existence is questionably.

Back to Underworld, which I wanted to read and attempted to at least hit the 100 page mark before giving up (as advised by one of my English tutors at school) several times over the last ten years. The size of the book overwhelmed me however and in conjunction with the highly americanised subject of the first chapters - baseball - which I felt no desire to even try to relate to, meant that I quit after only a few pages several times over. Size (and sport) are not everything however and honestly, I think I was just not ready for Underworld. Not yet ready to understand its simple complexities and appreciate the subject matter from a well balanced distance matched with the closeness of experience.

Until late last year. Now I am finally ready to devour this book in a way I could not have done ten years ago. I have just passed the half way mark (in page terms) and am as excited about it as I was at the start. The characters are familiarly intriguing, their personalities forming, dissolving, adapting before my eyes as DeLillo takes his readers backwards and forwards in time. The events of over 50 years played and replayed from different angles with clues and signs dished out here and there. I feel as though I've been given special privilege to wallow through restricted archives on vast micro-fiche, piles of newspapers, audio and film reels and diaries.

The specifics of Underworld's era, from Cold War fever, J Edgar Hoover's paranoia through 70's alternative counter-culture, consumerist ignorance and the shameful wastefulness of post war periods right through to the present, are as relevant today, if not more so, than they were in the late 90s. I would highly recommend this book as both fascinating fiction and documentary research of why we are where we are today.

First Female Poet Laureate

From: Alison Flood, Guardian, 1May09

"Four hundred years of male domination came to an end today with the election of Carol Ann Duffy as poet laureate. Duffy, the widely-tipped favourite for the post, only agreed to accept the post ahead of poets Simon Armitage and Roger McGough because "they hadn't had a woman".

Speaking on Woman's Hour this morning on Radio 4, she revealed that she had thought "long and hard" about accepting the offer.
"The decision was purely because they hadn't had a woman," she said. "I look on it as recognition of the great women poets we now have writing, like Alice Oswald.""

Full article here

Who Is Running The Show?

No individual species is 'in control' of the planet. We are all part of the same ecosystem. Each species plays its part and is as vital as the next.

The sooner we, as human beings, realise that we are simply part of the planet and all the species, resources and elements contained therein rather than 'lords' over all else, the better. Better for the planet and for all the life it sustains, including us.

The only hierarchy is a false one. It is sustained by those who hope that controlling others will lead to personal evolution or enlightenment. The truth is quite opposite. It is the meek, not the powerful, who will inherit the earth.

Here's Where The Story Ends

The Sundays: Here's Where The Story Ends

People I know, places I go, make me feel tongue-tied.
I can see how people look down, they're on the inside.
Here's where the story ends.

People I see, weary of me, showing my good side.
I can see how people look down, I'm on the outside.
Here's where the story ends.
Here's where the story ends.

It's that little souvenir of a terrible year
Which makes my eyes feel sore.
Oh I never should have said, the books that you read
Were all I loved you for.

It's that little souvenir of a terrible year
Which makes me wonder why;
And it's the memories of your shed, that make me turn red
Surprise, surprise, surprise!

Crazy I know, places I go, make me feel so tired.
I can see how, people look down, I'm on the outside.
Here's where the story ends.
Here's where the story ends.

It's that little souvenir of a terrible year
Which makes my eyes feel sore.
And who ever would've thought the books that you brought
Were all I loved you for.

Oh the devil in me said, go down to the shed,
I know where I belong;
But the only thing I ever really wanted to say
Was wrong, was wrong, was wrong!

It's that little souvenir of a colourful year
Which makes me smile inside;
So I cynically, cynically say, well it's that way
Surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise!
Here's where the story ends.
Here's where the story ends.

My favorite room...

My favourite room is the cosy, self contained room that lies within the realms of my over active imagination. It is like a tardis inside, or more accurately, I suppose, like Wonderland.

One minute there is just enough room for me contently curled up warm and snug on the world's comfiest bean bag, reading endless books and munching my way through delicious food that handily keeps appearing from nowhere.

The next, I suddenly feel alone, surrounded by deepest green water. A brood of baby sharks are playfully piercing holes in my barely floating beanbag. Oh, bugger! I'm falling into the ocean and I can't swim - agh!

My favourite room is also my most feared...

If you paid me enough, I might sing this song at a karaoke bar

That Day by Natalie Imbruglia

I would embarrass (is that really how it's spelt?) myself with this song because, like much of Ms Imbruglia's work it is beautiful but also a challenge to sing and breathe at the same time - plus my partner (DFH) loves to hear me sing it trying to remember the lyrics and who am I to disappoint... hmmmm...

And so it goes: "Well, that day, that day, what a mess, what a marvel. I walked into that cloud again and I lost myself. And I'm sad, sad, sad, small, alone and scared, craving purity and a fragile mind and a gentle spirit. That day, that day, what a marvelous mess. Well this is all that I can do. I'm done to be me - sad, scared, small, alone and beautiful. It's supposed to like this. I accept everything. It's supposed to be like this..."

Natalie's lyrics are dynamite. In this potent epic poem of a song, she describes perfectly that sense of desperately trying to fight the often overwhelming negative thoughts and feelings of despair that life will sometimes insist on throwing our way. Do you recognise the feeling? You find yourself suddenly swallowed up by an ocean of emptiness, pulled deep down under the dark pounding waves of loneliness and futility, utterly alone and more miserable than a weekful of Mondays.

As you begin to sink under the weight of all the world's sadness however, a minor life-saving miracle takes place and you suddenly remember how to swim. With each stroke you repeat your mantras - I AM beautiful. EVERYTHING happens for a reason. It's SUPPOSED to be like this - breathing in the sweet air of instant comfort that they bring.

Cliched phrases these mantras may be, but those powerful words not only offer a life line, they force it into your hands. You cling for dear life as another wave blows over your head knowing that if you can just hold on, sooner or later you WILL find yourself on the beach once more. Exhausted and bewhildered perhaps, but on solid ground none-the-less.

Complete lyrics (how I hear them):
"Well that day, that day, what a mess, what a marvel.
I walked into that cloud again and I lost myself.
And I'm sad, sad, sad, small, alone and scared,
Craving purity and a fragile mind and a gentle spirit.

That day, that day, what a marvelous mess.
Well this is all that I can do. I'm done to be me.
Sad, scared, small, alone and beautiful. It's supposed to like this.
I accept everything. It's supposed to be like this.

That day, that day I lay down beside myself
In this feeling of pain and sad and scared and small
And find me crawling towards the light and it's all that I see
And I'm tired and I'm right and I'm wrong and it's beautiful.

That day, that day, what a mess, what a marvel,
We're all the same but no-one thinks so.
And it's okay and I'm small and I'm divine
And it's beautiful and it's coming and it's already here and it's absolutely perfect.

Well that day, that day when everything was a mess
When everything was in place and it's too much hurt
Sad and small and scared, alone
And everyone's a cynic and it's hard and it's sweet but it's supposed to be like this.

Well that day, that day when I sat in the sun
And I thought and I cried cos I'm sad, scared, small, alone, strong
And I'm nothing and I'm true.
Only a great man can break through. And it's all okay. Yeah, it's okay.

That day, that day when I lay down beside myself
In this feeling of pain and sad and scared and small
And find me crawling towards the light and it's all that I see
And I'm tired and I'm right and I'm wrong and it's beautiful

That day, that day, what a mess, what a marvelous mess.
We're all the same but no-one thinks so.
And it's okay and I'm small and I'm divine
And it's beautiful and it's coming and it's already here and it's absolutely perfect.

So sweet, can you feel it?
Are you here? Are you with me?
I can feel it? And it's beautiful."

by Natalie Imbruglia
on White Lilies Island
Watch That Day on YouTube

Scenes In Shadow

Underneath the shadows
Where the moonlight cannot reach
So softly she is creeping
Forgetting oft to breath.

Far beneath the cloudless sky
Where nighttime shadows play
She steals a path unfettered
Her one and only way.

As the night unfolds it's pillow
Against a grainy sky
She wallows in the sorrow
But she will never cry.

Pale morning finally beckons
And moonlight fades away
She will be here no longer
Tho' in my heart she'll always stay.

Originally written: April 2007

Cheer Up! It Might Never Happen

(Memoirs Of A Miserable Childhood)
Advice To The Under 30s

If anyone tries to tell you that school days are the happiest time of your life, not only are they lying to you but they probably deserve your deepest sympathy.

Imagine being at your happiest at school, which is roughly from 5 to 17 years of age - twelve years at most of your whole life, wallowing in bliss only to spend the next 53 or so years (assuming it'll all end around 70) being miserable and wishing you were still at school! Sad, or what!

Let's put this foolish notion into perspective. Yes, at school you do not have to drag your sorry self into an over air-conditioned office to give the impression of doing a job that you hate almost every single day for the rest of your sorry life. You do not have to appear respectful and answer to the meanest most pig-headed, self absorbed, self-appointed, uneducated manager in the world. This is true.

But on the other hand you have to go to school almost every single day, learn pointless things like algebra and the names of some dead and long buried King's seventy-two wives. You have to show respect to that pig-headed, self absorbed, self appointed, uneducated teacher who makes you sit still in class when you'd rather be chasing girls/boys in the playground and generously showers you with impossible amounts of homework and constant public criticism to boot.

It's true that as a school kid, you do not have the responsibility of earning a living and chances are someone out there is probably providing you with a roof over your head and hopefully at least a couple meals a day. But the chances are also high that through most of these heady school days you cannot stand the sight of this all-giving person (or persons) because they just don't understand you and will insist on shouting at you several times every torturously long day, expecting you to do the dreariest most unimportant tasks immediately when the last thing you want is to be disturbed from the vitally important business of navel-gazing.

"Come down NOW! Your dinner is on the table!"
"Turn off the TV NOW and get on with your homework!"

There is no doubt these persons are getting a kick from deliberately making your life miserable.

"No! You can't go to Charlie's party - someone has to look after your sister/brother!"
"Have you tidied your bedroom yet?"
"What are you doing in there?" and so on and on and on.

Plus, you mainly have to eat what you're given and there is little sympathy for your delicate and ever changing palette even when you experience a spiritual epiphany whilst watching TV secretly one day in your blacked out bedroom and become unable to stomach meat and dairy for almost a whole month! Agh, it's so unfair!

My advice, dear youthful reader, is to stop striving in agonising vain to make your school days the fabled 'best days of your life'. Just get through them as best as you can and hope that there are better times to come. If handled correctly, school days can see you in good stead for the real fun part of your life - adulthood but they will amount to the steepest learning curve you will ever experience.

This will not seem like good news (because it isn't) but whether you feel as though you are courageously climbing up or constantly slipping down the curve of essential learning, there will be no poles capable of sustaining you satisfactorily. You will fall. You will break a limb or two. Hopefully you'll break a heart or two, including your own. Life will be generally difficult and fraught with all kinds of danger.

But, and this is your only salvation, so grab a hold and hold fast: the pain of being young will end, eventually. Though it may take an inordinately long time full of tears, tantrums and traumas, you will finally reach a plateau, approximately somewhere between 18 and 25 years, when you can look back at your school days and think

"Well, thank God they're over and I'm still alive!"

If your school days are long past but you insist on harbouring feelings of failure for not having had the most super splendid time at school or think that you must be the only one of your friends/peer group that did not excel at being a carefree, positive-experience-absorbing, negative-experience-shrugger-offer of a child, put those thoughts and painful memories behind you and move on. You made it to here didn't you? The future is now and the past my friend, is just that.

With a huge portion of patience, foresight, tolerance, good observational skills and the regular company of those who actually do know better (rather than the majority who simply think they know better), it may be possible to get through childhood relatively unscathed. However, if you can collect at least a few scars along the way, you'll know that it has been worth it and you will have something to look back on in admiration for making it through to the wonderful world of being 20 something and almost grown-up.

Then there is simply the matter of your pre-30 days to get through, attempting to put all you've learned into practice, re-learning the algebra and history you didn't pay attention to at school, discovering that there's so much more useful stuff that can only be learned through experience, finding your own way and carving your own space in the world. But don't worry about these years, if you've put in the hard graft already, compared to being at school, they'll be a breeze, trust me!

Birthday

Reading, writing, rhythm sticks
We bang the drum so hollow.
Walking, talking, drinking whilst
Red river keeps on flowing.

Upside, downside, inside out
The aching soul revealing.
one step, two step, leave the floor
I think it may start raining.

Slowly, surely, creeping on
Warm distant sun is fading.
Wake up, wake up, see the moon
Beyond the pale cloud hiding.

Lisping, tripping over words
From glossy lips come falling.
Whisper, stutter, what's the thing
I try to say, so telling.

Upstairs, downstairs on the bus
Bright streets go by all blurring
To one undistinguishable mass
Of light aglow all burning.

Quietly, quickly, in the house
Upstairs now, go softly.
Hot tea, PC, check the 'phone
Radiation greetings.

Slowly, softly, under covers
feel the rhythm breathing.
Intake, outake, deep and low
Dissolving into dreaming.

Morning

Aoishka! I yawn aloud
Pulling cobwebs away
Rubbing sleep from aching eyes
Not yet ready for new day

Hot tired eyelids fall,
And rise, and fall again
Wrapping mind in auburn glow
For just another moment, again.

Has a decade passed me by
Or was it merely a second?
Dreams rescind and thoughts descend.
No place for sleep in crowded den.

But, still, lying here, I am
Held under covers, warm,
Glimpse To-Do lists and memories
Wash over, and under and... now they're gone.

Back to the safe snug place
So warm, so cosy, so serene
Where daily demands can be ignored
And life is nowt but a dream.

Still, there is no true escape
As day-light grabs it's vivid hold
Wrenches body from reverie
Demanding I make a move, bold.

Sitting upright in musty bed
Covers thrown aside
Now I'm awake and ready to face
Whatever awaits outside.

Another morning has been broken
Another day dared to unfurl
Another chance to scatter seeds
'Cross bright and wondrous world.

Playing God

Maybe when we die, we all get a chance to 'play God'.

When we meet God and s/he asks us why we did or didn't do this and that, we will come up with excuses about how hard life was. And God, in her infinite wisdom will say:

'What would you do differently then?'

And s/he will give us a day, week, month, year, century or second to try being her.

Maybe every second, minute or day we experience here on earth is under the influence of another 'God' - someone else, who used to be like us - having a go at being in charge of the universe to see if they can do better than the original God.

Maybe.

What would I do differently then? What will I do when it's my turn?

Dear Neighbours

Dear Neighbours,
We were kept awake again
Last night until half two am
Due to noise that seemed to emanate
From your walled garden near.

Dear Neighbours,
We live in close proximity
Thus any noise between our homes
Travels too easily and reverberates
Off brick, through window to collective ear.

Dear Neighbours,
We would be grateful if
Out of kind consideration and respect
You would please ensure that all of your
Late gatherings are strictly kept indoors.

Dear Neighbours,
Perhaps after midnight during weeks
And weekends after one am
You might consider keeping quiet
To permit your weary neighbours sleep?

Dear Neighbours,
This is not the first time
We have had to most politely request
That the constant noise levels are reduced.
We really really need our rest.

Dear Neighbours,
Can you have failed to notice
Hot summer requires windows left ajar
Thus we can hear all the noise you make
Whilst attempting futile dormir.

Dear Neighbours,
We are truly tired
And quite fed up of losing sleep
We will consider calling enforcements
If your noisiness does not soon cease.

Turtle Dream

It was the turtle that did it
Last night (just now) in my dream
He was wandering nonchalantly, or so it seemed,
Along a country road, with huge cars whizzing by
Somehow managing to miss his sturdy little body
As they sped on their way over him.

I sat and watched in amazement, until
- What am I doing, lying here in the hot sun
Sketching drawings, watching the turtle
Waiting for surely imminent death by squashing?

I got up and 'rescued' the turtle
Picked it up off the road
And brought it back to my workspace
Placed it down amidst the notebooks and pens
Watched it find its feet in the new environment.
I photographed it with my camera
Snap after snap of wrinkly turtle head
Eyes staring back at me, expectant?
Or annoyed? Perhaps I'd moved him
From an essential journey. His life's journey.
Perhaps he was on the road he was meant to travel.

Not any more, or, infact, yes, still on the road
Just a different view, different surrounds, philosophy
Different experiences from the one he'd gotten used to
Over, however long he'd been travelling on the road.

I put the photographed steps together
In a row. I sketched them. Fragments
of a life; a being; a moment;
Each one on its own, yet joined to the next
By an invisible thread.

It was the turtle that did that.

The Rescue

Did I rescue the turtle or did it rescue me?

I lay nonchalantly watching until woken from my stupor.
By what?

By the realisation that I had more meaningful purpose in life than lying in the sun making drawings?
By realising that if I didn't help the turtle escape death, perhaps no-one would?

If not me, then who?
If not now, then when?

It was my duty to rescue the other life.
From what?

From cessation of life?
It was my duty to preserve life.

In so doing, I changed lives.
The turtle's life was changed.
My life was changed. I now 'had' a turtle to protect, to nurture, to find a home for, to release.

Your life has changed. You now know about the turtle because you're reading these words.
These words tell you how the turtle changed my life and I changed the turtle's.

I am the turtle.
And the road.
And the cars whizzing by.

I am the sunlight burning my skin
I am my skin.

I am the page on which I write.
I am the pen with which I sketch.
The camera lens that peers and captures and stores.

I am the turtle.
And I am me.
And so are you.

Bank Station, Monday

Peace in the city
Small haven amidst metropolis traffic.
A bus driver angrily beeps his horn.
Street cleaners ferociously spray
Unnamed liquid at chewing gum marks
On the pavement.

City workers amble by
Ascending from, descending into
Bank underground station.

JH Greathead stands tall to my left
Perusing his plans.
Chief Engineer of City & South London Railway,
Inventor of the travelling shield
Enabling deep level tube
By tunnel cutting.

Wellington sits yonder
On horseback.
A memorial still and grandiose.

Pretty girl in cap and skirts
Talks effusively on mobile phone
Drawing attention from the street cleaners
And other nearby men.

The girls glance up and smile knowingly
To each other. Pride or jealousy?
Mere observation?

Two police officers stroll past
Playing with their radios.
The sun beats down
Upon hot denim clad knees.

Two flags wave listless in bored breeze.
Buses thunder by.
People sitting near like me
Leaning against ancient stone
Chatter or in solitude
Never alone in our city.

The ghosts of London past
London present, London future,
Hover, amble, lie and lean
Rush past, sit quietly, watching,
Always watching as time floats round.

Everyone's Shopping

Everyone's shopping
What are they shopping for?
Looking for happiness
Behind clean glass windows
Of shops with labels
Selling a lifestyle unsurpassed
To those who can afford?

Louis Vitton, Marni, Anya et al
What do they have to offer me?
How can they fulfil my desire?

Liberty of London
With its heraldic shield
Models lounge listless on pillars and plastic plants
Security stands inside the doorway
Peering out at passers by.
Will you come in? No, you! Not you!

You are not smart enough for us
But you with your unstylish
Unthoughtful look
Copied from catalogues
Of very high class.

You with your striped rugby top
You with your leather jacket and heels
You may enter our prestigious walls
And shop to your credit's content.

Morbid Thoughts For A Thursday Night

In the dead of night
I turn to hear you breath
One small step closer
To where I ought to be.

As pale moon draws nearer
I feel your body stir
And float with you gently
To place unknown before.

When morning comes, I know
You will awake to find
I am here beside you
Still, where I belong.

Late Afternoon

In the soft dull light of afternoon
she sits, quietly waiting for the sun to fade.
Yellowed book upon tired lap,
she sighs and turns back a page.


The storyline is long forgotten,
she knows not who the characters are
nor how intangible lives connect
entangled each one with the other.

Her heavy eyelids slick with sorrow
lift slowly up toward the sky,
sees the blackbird fly away
and wonders whether he will come

Tonight perhaps? Maybe tomorrow?
And what tales will he bring to her?
Will he stroke her hair or kiss
her first? She feels a passion rise.

Her belly filled with such excitement
Long fingers twitch upon the page.
A smile starts forming on the edges
Of her tired and sallow face.

As eyes close softly in protection
of the fragile dream she dreams,
sunlight flickers through the window
gently caresses greying hair.

All too soon the dream is over.
From inside dormant truth awakes -
He will not come tonight, tomorrow;
she will never see his eyes again.

The sickness grows like falling fog
straggling her morbid thoughts.
Desperately holding stale breath in
she gives herself to evening.

The Beach

Across the black and shiny sand
so soft beneath our feet,
we walk together, hesitating
at the stream which crosses our path.

Our shoes are taken off,
nervous toes dipped
into the water, so cold,
so refreshing to the soul.

Across the path of water
we step carefully on stones
slippery and hard underfoot.
Your hand reaches for mine;

I jump the final step
with my hand in yours
and feel a sense of pure joy
as we land on the other side.

Onwards, past the sand dunes

we head towards the sea
shining brightly in the sunlight
glistening like a thousand jewels.

The rock looms from the east
of the bay with a brotherly arm
protecting the sea, sheltering
all that venture forth.

Pools of water stream past
under the dark rock
where the crustaceans live
and the starfish cling for dear life.


The sand is harder now
as we near the sea
and I watch it crack deliciously
underneath my ecstatic feet;

It shimmers at each step
like a million rainbows
plasmating in time
to the roaring sound of the tide.

Now, the sea is here
at our feet, washing toes
in sunkissed lather
filling my heart with aqua love .

We stand at the shore
watching the waves flow on
over and under and on again
forever and ever and on again.

Sand slips away suddenly
from under my feet
making me dizzy
as the world spins past my eyes.


I hold my breath
wait for the calm
and wallow in
glorious trepidation.

Sunday Evening

In the twilight of Sunday
With sun fading fast
I sit and I contemplate
The things I have done

Too quickly, I'm finished
And thoughts have moved on
To consider the endless list
Of things not yet done

Not called my poor father
Nor written to friends
Not e-mailed my mother
Or completed work errands

Not uploaded new photos
Or rearranged old
Nor from this past month
Have I filed away post

I've not purchased the gifts
To be given at yuletide
Or shopped for the food
To be eaten this week

In short I have spent
All my time on the net
Playing games, hearing music
And writing to you

Dear Reader, you are
Most entirely to blame
For my constant inaction
And sorrowful state.

The Storm

A storm is brewing.
I hear the thunder coming
In the distance, approaching
Rapidly stretching across
The tempestuous sky, chasing
The sudden rain, pouring
It’s saturated way
Out of the heavens.

I yearn to be out there
Under the sky, drinking
Each drop of rain, tasting
Every last splash, feeling
The moisture close, seeping
Into my pores, filling
My hot heart, quenching
Each arid plane.

The Sleeper

And so he sleeps
Sprawled out on the bed

And I watch his breath enter
And I watch his breath leave

Nakedly braving the elements
Silently whispering dreams

I watch his breath enter
I watch his breath leave

His skin dewy in lamplight
His hair tousled on pillow

And I watch his breath enter
And I watch his breath leave

And I know that every second
Is precious

Portait Of A Lady

“- And so the conversation slips
Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
Through attenuated tones of violins
Mingled with remote cornets
And begins.
‘You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
(For indeed I do not love it…you knew? You are not blind!
How keen you are!)
To find a friend who has these qualities,
Who has, and gives
Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
How much it means that I say this to you –
Without these friendships – life, what cauchemar!’”

Excerpt from Portrait of a Lady, T S Eliot, 1917

The Friend

He arrived and sat slumped at his desk
And wondered how he’d made this mess.
How old friendship once unsurpassed
Now seems transformed to obsequiousness.

Shadows and ghosts from times before
Appear at his shoulder whispering lore
Of how these incidents repeat until
His life is one long endless chore.

Is he really so incomprehensible
And his presence entirely terrible
That no one can come close to him
Without attempt to make him fall?

If he cannot see into his soul
How can he know where lies his goal?
And to whom can he run this time?
Whose arms remain to him enfold?

He tries to make the situation right
But with his blinkered failing sight
The simple lines meant to appease
End up threatening a fight.

The friend, perplexed suggests discussion
Later, when matters are less confusing.
But instead of accepting amiably
His reply smacks of self-obsession.

Wanting only to take flight
He throws the friend sadistic bite.
With defensiveness his only weapon
It’s not a battle he’s equipped to fight.

London Is Blooming

Today brings sunshine
To the weary and
Hope of summer to the faithless.
London is blooming.
Blossom lies on every bough.
The fresh fragrance of spring wafts around my patio.
The day holds promises of being lengthy
And whispers that it may stretch on till forever,
Or tomorrow,
Whichever comes soonest.

The Truth

Okay, enough of that literaryness….
The truth is this:

Having recently extinguished my last cigarette
Nigh on 7 weeks ago – yes, yes, oh yeah!
I find myself in desperate need
Of replacement addiction;
Hence, my friend, you find me here
At the start of my venture into the wonderfully curious world of blog.

Currently absent from mundane obligations
I have spent much of this past fortnight
Doing very little, and have enjoyed it immensely!
I do feel a little guilt, but not enough to cause regret.
It would appear that my need
To achieve
Tasks of any value
Is measured in simple dimensions!

Able to feel pleasure
At such small achievements;
The first of these delights was obtained
In the breaking of most evil habit
(Perhaps as evil as that of tobacco smoking?)
The habit of exercise avoidance.
After a few sessions of yogic stretching
I feel healthier than before
Which was not at all!

The second was found
In at last changing my credit supplier
To one who charges no interest
For a whole nine glorious months – joy!
And I think, how dumb I have been,
Paying interest when there was NO Need!!

Additionally, I have not spent
Too far above my means this month
Which is a rare and beautiful situation
For one such as I to find myself in.

Less rare and more exquisite
Were the lovely hours spent
With my object of my deepest adoration;
The one who lights up my day.

One day we entertained our wanderlust
After lunching in Stockwell at homely pub,
Followed by meanderings
Round flowery Vauxhall Park
Where children played with parents in tow.

Over the river we skipped, taking
Photos of fish and candelabra;
Towards the Old Tate, where we entered
In A Gadda Da Vida and feasted our eyes
Upon chaotic paradise perfectly demonstrated
By Damien Hurst’s butterfly effects
And the fishes who came to see who was knocking
On the glass window of their world;

Sarah Lucas gave pause for thought
With cigarette crucifixion and hosiery,
And Angus Fairhurst delighted us
With his gorillas and forest ‘scapes.

We wandered around Pimlico
Searching in vain, for a red brick school
Where I once worked. Continuing
Past Victoria, reversed through Pimlico toward Chelsea Bridge
And back over the great river, where
We caught the bus home.

I love my unreal City
London – beautiful city, seen
Singularly and all at once
In kaleidoscopic technicolour
Of immense satisfaction.

Friday saw us dancing at Farringdon in Turnmills.
For the first time
In too long.
Sadly some of our group
Departed early
And the music
Was
Too
Progressive
Until we were blessed
By Sister Bliss and
Eddie Halliwell –
Almost Heaven.

Martha

And how shall we start?
Perhaps a little poetry?
Here is something penned some 10 year gone
Which, I have recently recovered.

Martha
Underneath the living room in my sister’s house,
There’s a room as big as the universe,
But the only creatures living there
Are Martha and her mouse.

At night time when the moon is high
I sometimes see them play
At being dead and silent,
Waiting for the day.

Once I tried to join them -
I crept down there last week;
But when Martha and her mouse saw me
They let out such a shriek!

It gave me quite a turn
And I ran back up the stairs.
I haven’t seen them since but
I refuse to waste my tears.