The Place As It Was:

The city domes and spires

Palaces, many-moated

Lying in the sunlight,

Pigeons fluttering skyward

As one strolls across

The Piazza San Marco.

Music, much music, light and

Waltzes all around the cafes,

And people, so many!

Loud and colourful Italians,

Brash, camera bestrewn

Americans, who’d “Just love

To take it home to Alabama.”

Hard faced Germans

And busy little Japanese

Who look so serious,

So incongruous,

In a city of love and laughter.

Sit, as I have oft times,

And watch the world

Bustle and stroll by,

Bustlers with bags and

A grim sense of purpose

Etched on their bustly faces

And lovers strolling

Arm in arm,

There but not there.

Sit drinking wine that warms

In the glorious sun;

Sit and watch the

Gondolas, launches

Water buses and

All sorts of eccentric craft

Buzzing round the canals,

Amazingly never seeming

To crash, only touch

At times with much

Cursing and gesticulating

From crew and passengers.

Walk gently, looking for shade,

And gaze long, with bewilderment

At the beauty of the work

Of the silversmiths;

And when it gets cooler cross

The bridges, pass through

The multi-smelling markets

And enter places hot as hell,

Where beauty, vastly fragile

Beauty, is blown from long

Pipes pulled from the fires

And take on shapes, some

Unimaginable, in glass.

Churches, cafes, bridges and

More bridges, then a sudden

Quiet piazza with but a single

Old, old lady sitting

Enjoying a place of shade,

Reliving memories and

Remembering dreams in

The city of dreams.

Venice, beautiful beyond imagining,

Glorious, bizarre, a dream within

A dream, within a dream.

Venice the enchanter

I have always loved

And though I never

See her again

She remains deep

In my heart.

Alternative Schizophrenia:

It seems absurd, somehow, that we,

Being, each and every one of us,

Incredibly complex, multi-layered,

Multi-personalities,

All the bloody time

Can't do things better!

Why can’t we clone, somehow, one part

To stay at home and do the dutiful bit,

The other part off and away, living life

To the full, journeying to the stars

And then returning, rejoining, being one

Again but ready too, to be two or three,

Ready to be loyal and true, responsible

And sensible and also

Ready to live life like there is no tomorrow,

Which, of course, could just be true.

But maybe, in other lives, we do.

Magic:

There is magic in the air

And I feel it within me

Bubbling like a stream

And each bubble is a bubble

Of wild, exultant laughter

That life should be so full,

So good for living, so fine,

That it asks, it demands

For the wings of the soul

To take flight and reach

For the beckoning stars.

And one other thing,

You who are sceptical.

Magic doesn’t go away

If you pretend it isn’t there,

You just miss it! 

Growing Up / Growing Apart:

Why should anybody want to change you?

I suppose if you chew your toe nails

And spit them out in bed

One would try to encourage

Less antisocial habits,

Or at least brush the bed out

Before one retires.

But to change you as a person?

To change the basic you?

To try to turn you

Into somebody else?

In the end, respecting the right

Of the individual

If you don’t like the way

Somebody is, or has become,

If you go off them,

Leave them to be what they want to be

And find somebody else

Who suits you better.

Or, if that option lacks appeal,

Respect their individuality

And change yourself.

I was looking through some old poetry I’d written yonks ago, late 80’s, early 90’s perhaps with the idea of sifting it and putting some on this, my FB page and my nascent blog, and it threw me back, somewhat randomly which I tend to find the case, down memory lane.

Life times ago, it seems, I was a bule, yep, a bule (pronounced “bu-lay” and used when Indonesians referred privately to white people – as albinos or ghosts.) living in Indonesia, Jakarta actually in an area known a Permata Hijau, which if my memory serves means Green Diamond, and green it was, lush, beautiful, worthy of the word burgeoning. I loved it there.

Early in the morning after Ikam had made me curry, chilli or, especially, Nasi Goreng for breakfast – yes, I know it’s not meant to be for breakfast but Ikam’s was for any time of day you could get your stomach round it – Sugono, he of the impeccable manners and dignity, my driver and head of the household in the way a butler is in the UK, would drive me to school which was a place of truly joyous wonder.

On my first day there I tested four 125cc motorcycles which we bought for our messengers. We used these because the phones were often down and the traffic was so appalling you could get grid-locked for days – well, many hours! (It was a great and unquestioned excuse even if one was just late, or even very late!) Then from my office balcony I picked my first bananas. They grow pointing up you know? Well, you might but I didn’t! That was a lovely office – beautiful view, ensuite with shower and bath, which you needed if the AC went off in one of the frequent ‘brown outs’. I’d sometimes change shirts twice and occasionally 3 times a day and would tend to get suits dry-cleaned in the summer after a couple of days of wearing. I don’t like heat but I loved Jakarta, that school and that life and never thought I’d return to the UK, God’s own Country Ireland, or indeed Europe. That’s another story, however, too long and dull for the telling here.

My job was serious and very satisfying and I had huge freedom and support to move what was good to something more like outstanding. The Governors were a terrific bunch of highly skilled and helpful people who wanted the school to do well because their kids attended. The staff there were mostly Brits and open to learning, caring passionately for the children in their care. One or two, of course, were not quite so open to change so they didn’t get a renewed contract at the end of the year but were told they’d get a halfway reasonable reference if they worked conscientiously right up to the day they left. If they didn’t, they didn’t! It was a lot easier and more civilised than in the UK where because somebody is not competent you’re obliged to break them on the wrack of personnel procedures before you can move them out, though I did find a quiet, off the record with no witnesses chat also did the trick from time to time. (Don’t get me wrong, I hate firing people but if one can’t help them get it right, the kids have to come first.)

The school also had its lighter side. Though a British School, Australians attended and I felt obliged to learn the rules of Aussie Rules Football so I could offer those kids a more relevant ‘Club’. I never quite got the hang of it, I think, but it was one of the first, if not the very first, unisex club for a sport of that type. We all had a pretty good time and I got to know some Aussies.

It was actually the first occasion I’d really spent time with Aussies. They were, without exception, wonderful and we ended up employing some. The Aussie Ambassador was a good bloke, also, and if there was an Australian Naval ship in port he’d let us know so we could take some of the kids to look round. The British Ambassador, by contrast, did nothing of the sort and we had to rely on other contacts in the Embassy to get us news. (He went ‘native’ and wore a formal batik shirt to Embassy do’s and the Indonesians loathed him for it! I’m afraid the first time I met him at one such I only glanced at him and took him for a waiter. Fortunately he didn’t last long.)

There was also a terrific Aussie restaurant which did the best swordfish stakes I’ve ever had and, amongst the most convivial imaginable company one ate and washed it down with Bintang (Star) beer which was full of formaldehyde, it was said, and certainly wrecked you the next day, but was like ambrosia at the time of drinking. Everything good comes with a price!

Part of the ‘package’ with the job was a house, utilities paid, servants, also paid for, R&R for me to Bali, BUPA international cover and, of course a car which came with a driver (Other staff had minibuses because they were much cheaper. Tax on cars was prohibitive to try to cut down their use and ease congestion, the idea being that a minibus would carry more people. As a result each one of our staff had a driver and themselves in a minibus!)

When I first arrived the accommodation I was offered was the ex-Mayor’s house and had something like 8 bedrooms, a vast entrance hall with balconies of the next floor in a semi-circle around it. It included, of course, servants quarters and generally had a bit of the feel of a modern Gormenghast. Cosy it was not! In the end I got a lovely house in Permata Hijau with, maybe 4 or 5 bedrooms, not sure, but it had really nice rooms and courtyards, one of which had a fountain and another a waterfall about 3 metres high which came on down a rocky wall at the flick of a switch! Delightful insanity and wonderful to watch after a few Bintangs, or compulsory G&Ts to keep malaria at bay. There was also a lawn which the day jaga (gardener / security guy) used to cut with shears (!) and satpam (night security) used to often fall asleep on!

Jakarta is – maybe was, I don’t know now – a great city. Many expats I knew wanted to get a contract in Singapore but though it was good for a visit it didn’t draw me like Jakarta did and Indonesia generally. There was once though – it was a different time – when at 12.00 on new-years eve I took Rex out into the Palm Court at Raffles wearing his pjs, a rather nifty pink dressing gown and, if recall, blue slippers plus the ever present ‘dogny’ and nobody raised an eyebrow. Different days, in truth.

Anyway, back to Jakarta. It was noisy, smelly, polluted, diverse, colourful, full of surprises and the most wonderful people. When you were waiting for the rainy season it was also stifling and oppressive. I rented a house up in the mountains, near the Puncak Pass which in those days had a great, ex-Dutch colonial hotel and bar only 5 minutes from the house. The house was on split levels, with a spiral staircase which fascinated Rex, had delightful terraced gardens and was always cool, blessedly cool. There was no need for AC, just big, lazy fans that on a smaller scale have become popular in the ‘West’ these days.

As with the house in Jakarta, I employed a married couple with a child to be servants and this not only gave Rex playmates wherever we were staying but also had the wonderful effect of making him pretty much colour blind in later years. Rex and their lad and sometimes Ikam’s lad, Yuyun would come out and fly kites over the tea plantations and see who could stay in a hammock longest with the other two pushing it. Personally I loathed the things but recognise many don’t.

Sometimes for a long weekend we’d go to a beach a couple of hours away and stay in a sort of a glorified hut. I would get up in the morning and run in the rubber plantations or along the beach which tended to be empty. If I ran a couple of clicks one way I’d round a bend to a fishing village and watch the guys bringing in their melange catch. If I ran the other way I could get to the rather faded glory of the ex-Dutch colonial Krakatoa Beach Hotel and sit, usually alone on the veranda and look across at was left of Krakatoa – not a lot, as it happens.

They were good times, but I have been most fortunate in life that it’s always been good times. Interestingly I’ve rather enjoyed writing about them and will probably do some more. I’m not nostalgic, just enjoying those memories and if it’s written maybe Rex, Matty and Stevie, but especially Rex who was there, will be interested when I’m dead.

 

Father:

He stands, solid,

Four-square to the world,

An immovable object,

A babe in his arms,

Arwen by name,

Bestowed by her parents,

Made manifest by water

And the touch, prayer

And blessing of a priest,

The seed planted for

A noble maiden

Her unassuming innocence,

Her silent vulnerability,

Shining, beacon-like,

Lighting the church,

God affirming,

Life affirming.

He, her father,

Unyielding protector,

With total and selfless love,

Knows with obdurate certainty

That he will stand firm,

A shield against

Any tortuous tempest,

Slashing the dark,

That dares try to assail her

God-given light,

And he will prevail!

Look Ye Not:

Look ye not to the past,

But learn from it.

Look ye now to the future

And yearn for it.

For the past lies in dust,

Lost it time,

But the future is a country,

Yours to find.

And there it lies for you,

Sets of paths you can choose,

Some as winner, some you will lose.

Some may kill you,

Some may not,

But a path untaken

Can ne’er be forgot.

Choose freely and boldly –

The choice will pass fast -

And regrets of a plenty

Are a burden that lasts.

This Land Is My Land:

As he heard his last rattling breaths leave his tortured lungs and the slowing slug of his heart,

He closed his eyes and looked within.  There before him, on a post, was an owl.

White as snow it was, with a beak sharp as a witches tongue and eyes which pulled

The light into their darkness as would a black hole.  It hooted a soft welcome and blinked slowly.

They stared at each other in hazy recognition and then the owl flew to his shoulder.

He felt the razor talons dig in gently, reassuring, familiar as they looked up and stared in awe

At the twin moons which raced in the dusk, dancing in the cold dark, kissing them both

With their hasty shadows.  And yet still the sun lay a warm blanket across the land.

The owl placed its head against his and snored gently as dragons flew

Purposefully to who knew where.  This could not be, for he was dead, but it was.

The music started, so quiet at first he thought it but an echo of a memory gone astray

And then came a sound, almost a cry he had always known but never heard.

His soul vibrated, the tones joining the harmony of this new old interconnected world,

And as it built, twined and danced, the colours came, pale but there and slowly bathing

This old new environment gloriously, as an innocent child colours a picture book.

And a distant bell tolled, tolled for him and he laughed aloud, joyous and uncaring.

A unicorn passed a little further down the valley, a small black cat lying across its back,

Stretching its wings elegantly.  The beast stopped, lowering its shimmering horn as it drank from 
The Crystal-clean stream.  As he wept at it's beauty and was lost to its enchantment he heard a

Distant voice say, “He's gone. there's nothing more we can do.”  His heart leapt with joy.

The owl woke and took to the wing, leading him on past sighing trees and sun-kissed glades   
Where redolent flowers sang in welcome.  He ran on by a tangled knot of otters

Playing by the stream, waving laconic paws of recognition as his soul completed its

Soft surcease from his old world.  He was one of them, here in this place, free.

And so he wandered, following the owl, through a land of enchantment, wrapped in

Its sure embrace.  A dragon standing by a large blue dog laughed at his pleasure and blew

A smoke ring which hovered over his head and burst with the smell of roses.  The owl landed

On the dragons head and the dog wagged its tail.  Suddenly he knew.  He was home.

   

I Watched A Beetle Decompose:

I watched a beetle, somewhat lachrymose,

For several days just decompose,

And I wondered if Kafka considered,

When Gregor’s metamorphosed body died,

That unlike with human ways,

He would have slowly rotted,

Commencing from the inside.

And his soul, did he still have his soul,

(And bright angels weep at the bells toll)

As all beings need, to become whole?

And this matters? To me it does.

So I considered, too, the beetle

I so sadly watched. Had he a soul?

Perhaps he nurtured one small morsel

Which with a thousand others made whole,

A spiritual gestalt, searching

In their scuttling way for life’s meaning

And a beetlesque but lucid goal.

And then I pondered on;

Is life but attending school,

A complex place of learning,

Where souls strive to learn some rule,

Where we pursue our yearning

To discover a path, at least,

Which we can, searching, hopeful take,

(Ignoring blandishments of the snake)

And through both joy and wailing strife

Find some purpose and sense in life?

And do people die because

They, too early or too late,

Understand the course of life

And thus that purpose negate?

I wondered then on dreams;

How by day or night,

When our mind takes flight,

We soar, we reach out,

Laying aside our fear and doubt,

Inspired beyond measure,

In our search for the pleasure

Of touching the face of God,

Or some such wonder -

Possibly somewhat flawed,

Sitting through eternity,

Perhaps unsurprisingly,

A little bored …

And does she yawn?

I puzzled, too, to think;

That we are a continuation,

From what an amoeba first began.

Newcomers, our brash race of man,

An eye’s blink from our species birth

In endless time, of unproven worth.

And if of worth, then where stood

Our souls, before we could

Take up our place as champions,

The chosen of the species pantheons?

Did oft maligned killing machine,

Tyrannosaurus Rex, have within

An immortal soul? Was his spirit mean

Or riddled with guilt as his teeth ripped,

And tender flesh from bone was stripped?

Was he a loser in Father Time’s

Long lost world, destroyed at last,

Soul unsuited to new paradigms,

When birds passed the self-same test,

And, bird-brained, tweeting spanned

The eons with such great success,

Leaving us humans in this ‘holy’ mess

As but a fragment of recent dross

In an ever judging universe?

And then I returned to;

Has a dog, a bird, an immortal soul,

An intangible something which makes it whole,

A mystery feature which will, time and again,

Return to learn through pleasure and pain?

(Think of Jonathan Livingstone Seagull)

And if they have, is it superior, because older,

Or do humans have one, better and bolder;

The supercharged, all singing,

All dancing model, when God,

(Or some such wondrous marvel)

Made a breakthrough, though mighty odd,

In the building of souls most artful?

The puzzle then becomes convoluted,

(Not something to which many ‘faithful’ are suited)

Of semantics, linguistics and forms philosophical

Around the term ‘immortal soul’

And all its existence, in theory, makes possible,

And without which we may not be whole.

Defined by most as living forever;

Never dying, and here is the clincher,

The spiritual part of all us beings

Is connected to God who is all seeing.

Omnipresent and omnipotent,

Creator of all; (it really is heaven sent!)

So if our soul has no aging,

No death, then how did it begin?

And are some new, for instance ours?

The birds much older, like the stars?

The Bhagavad-gita, old in man’s thought,

And others like it, so we’ve been taught,

Says not. No birth and no death of the soul.

Our body decays, our spirit stays whole.

So, where were we then, how is our story told,

When it all began and our star first boiled?

Where stood our souls when a strained Ying and Yang

Conspired together to make the ‘Big Bang’?

Indeed where were seven billion human souls to be found

When only hundreds and thousands had feet on the ground?

And when we have rotted,

From outside to within,

It seems we then come back again?

And if we do, then do we choose

The kind of life we’re going to abuse?

(And once again most assuredly loose!)

Or is it just random, down to chance,

Or God, or some such omnipotent being,

Doing what she considers is best,

Or merely playing the music and singing

At our eternal souls ill-informed request,

To which we choose to gyre and prance,

Our life-loving souls in an inelegant dance?

It’s easier, by far, to just believe,

We live this life and then we will leave

An empty corpse, a useless shell,

And after that our deeds will tell

Of what we were, what we became,

Though in the end, we’re all the same,

Here today and gone tomorrow,

A pinch of fun, a peck of sorrow,

From dust we came and so return;

There’s nothing else, no other turn,

And no ‘blessed’ thing we have to learn!

But, I don’t. 

Deprogramming Virus:

The aging frame showed signs of wear.

Indeed, in truth, it had for years,

But still it took in the data,

Learning, adapting, developing

Sub-routine after sub-routine

To deal with new experiences.

It had been reliable for more years

Than most people could remember,

Responding to challenges with ease,

Known for its rather quirky accuracy

And ever-eccentric reasoning.

Now, though, it was becoming obsolete,

Superseded by newer, sleeker models.

Each line of programming,

One by one, was being deleted.

Sub-routines were no longer

Expanding, learning and applying

The knowledge for those who asked.

It creaked somewhat, while operating

And became clumsy with the data,

And physically frustratingly slow.

People turned elsewhere,

Saddened and embarrassed as

Line after line,

Sub-routine after sub-routine,

Were corrupted and deleted.

And yet it shambled on.

It watched itself,

Fearful and desperate.

The virus checkers could

No longer hold back the attacks

On its aging systems,

And thus it slowed, faltered,

Became uncertain, unreliable,

Randomly running searches

And self-checking,

But to no good purpose.

Numbed it watched the increasing pace

Of the corruptions and deletions,

Line by hard learned line,

Humiliated, unable to perform

The simplest tasks

When once it did so with alacrity.

At the last it wished, in occasional

Moments of lucidity,

It could pull the plug,

But was unable, in the ultimate

Tragedy, to control

With dignity his destiny,

Unable even to comprehend

For whom the bell tolled,

No longer recalling

The person who died,

Line by glorious line,

The death of a thousand cuts,

When the dementia stole his soul.

In Praise Of Long Trousers (As promised):

If you’ve studied dress history

It’s somewhat of a mystery

When trousers were thought,

Whether long or quite short,

To be the best way

For men’s legs to display.

But thus it became,

Most chaps looked the same,

And then ladies too

Thought, “Ah, that’ll do!”

And followed the trend,

Though initially condemned.

It became de rigueur,

For him and for her

Trousers short and long

(And for the brave a small thong)

To be worn with panache

At all kinds of bash.

Then when the cold came,

Though considered a shame,

They put away their stained shorts

And turned their backs on such thoughts

As barbies, beer and laughter

With hangovers thereafter.

But winter would go,

Taking rain, hail and snow,

And spring creeps to summer

Making all folks less glummer! 

And minds turn to shorts

And sunny resorts,

Forgetting for chaps

That trousers perhaps,

Are best worn by us

Because there’s no fuss

When we go for a piss,

Even though we might miss.

For in shorts we may suffer

And look a complete duffer.

‘Cause trousers, you see,

Will soak up the wee

But shorts show legs splattered

Our street cred all tattered.

Unless we are stern

And from ladies learn

To sit on the bog,

Like an old crouching frog,

And wee as we sit

Same as having a sh – poo.

So, long trousers be praised

For concealing the sprayed

As they come back to the bar

Smelling slightly bizarre,

Sneering aloofly at those

With their wet legs exposed.

The Huntsman:

It was a time of sad submission,

When only the wings of restless ravens

Ruffled the dark and acrid night air,

And plaintive owls hooted their melancholy,

Sitting in solitude, contemplating the planet’s doom.

Dawn began to slink slowly across the ravaged forest,

Showing the slashing wounds which now lacerated the land.

A not too distant horn sounded, accompanied by the howling of wolves,

Marking the start of another fine day’s sport for the Huntsman.

A malevolent, baleful light clawed its route higher, blinking slightly as it flared,

Moving implacably ever deathward, and with this dreadful dawn

More lasers lashed down on the area from high above, and once more fires raged. 

Animals screamed and ran in terror as did those remaining

Sons and daughters of Adam, they who had blindly chosen to remain

Looking inward, returning to some mythical simple life,

When most fled the tearing radiation pouring from their deadly sun,

Reaching for the stars, settling colonies throughout the system.

Thus it was that those who remained, huntsmen of yore were now the hunted.

The wolves came into view, their master astride a great metal steed.

Halting, he tapped in coordinates on his compad and more sharp fingers from his ship

Poked forth, new infernos limiting still further the possible escape of the hunted.

He nodded in satisfaction and moved on, his metallic companions loping beside him.

Suddenly a bubble appeared. He scowled at this intrusion on his licensed hunt

And reigned in his steed.  A portal opened and a uniformed figure appeared.

“You must cease the hunt immediately, quit the planet and leave this system. 

It is now quarantined.  An intelligent life form has been identified,

We are even now in contact and learning from their philosophy.”

The Huntsman’s scowl was replaced by a look of horror. 

“I was assured there was no intelligent species on this planet!”

His tentacles flew once more to his compad and another bubble appeared,

Opening to allow the Huntsman and his hounds to enter.

As he did so he paused and looked back at the Messenger who asked,

“Since you were incorrectly advised, have you seen any signs

Which might point to intelligent species?”  The Huntsman pondered briefly,

Shook his heads, turned and entered his bubble.  Seconds later he was gone.

At his departure the Messenger returned to his craft, highly excited

At the prospect of learning more from the mighty cetaceans who roamed the sea.

What is sentience?

I throw an old log or bottle in the fire

Covered with microbes and creatures which only exist

On old bottles or logs

And they suffer the trauma of death in the inferno.

How much difference to a huge, multidimensional being

Will our deaths be when Earth is cleaned

Away from the corner of its

Multidimensional room?

A speck of offensive dust beneath its

Tidying broom.

Kerlanguet:

I am to bed,

With a bourbon and a book,

As is my wont.

Afore I go I shall though

Share my sublime celebration,

Unabating and stronger each day,

As now we have lived in Kerlanguet

Near three perfect years.

I exalt in this house as no other.

I know, truly, that it was waiting,

Through the mists of time

And centuries of wonders.

And it fits around me

And within me,

In my extraordinary,

And unexpected,

Additional, God gifted years

In a truly wondrous way,

Like a most precious,

Unimaginable but oh so prized,

Metaphorical glove.

No matter the weather,

Each morning my eyes fly

To the seductive window,

And I feel again a bliss

That flares within my heart.

Every brick, blemish and answering

Rush of boundless beauty,

Every yearning tree,

Blossom and searing blade of grass,

Fits my world perfectly.

I want no change!

Kerlanguet holds me,

Reaching deep within.

It is part of me now,

As I am part of it.

I am truly blessed,

And thank God for

This new embrace that

Has waited and here

And now enfolds my soul. :)