So much of my life now spent
& I see
the great Portuguese poets
of the past 100 years & more
all dying young
Pessoa, Cesario, Florbela
Should I be grateful for old age?
Everyone who loved me
- said they loved me
though if it were true
it was only in the moment -
They are all gone now, died
or with others
or disappeared from my life
Did this begin to happen
When, (without knowing it!)
My Faith left me
-or I abandoned it ....
Sometimes
the loneliness
is overpowering
I rent a flat in London
but don't like living there
cold climate, so many people,
a filthy city
few poets ever celebrated
except to wade
in praise of its darknesses
and lack of joie de vivre
And in America?
What is left there for me
Save further depression
Every day
Death on my mind
Well, a little holiday
in a pricey hotel
-seeing a few things here again-
after almost 15 years
dinners and a bit of time
with Anabela
damn this self-pity
& the nightmare el cheapo flight
back tomorrow
the crush at Immigration
the coach or train after
travelling by myself
after the heart attacks
the strangulated hernia
the deafness & tinnitus
old man shut up
your time is almost finished !
where is God?
I am obviously not Job
Everywhere here still
The Temptations of Saint Anthony!
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Monday, October 26, 2015
Homage To Cesario Verde
"....He was a simple compadre
who walked around the city as if lost in his own freedom"
-----Alberto Caeiro.
He loved a woman named Clarice
And lost her, and then his demise in 1886
Tubercular and gone at 31,
His brother and his sister
Also having succumbed
To the shadowy plague
Haunting the twilight streets of Lisboa
Disregarded in life
His friend Silva Pinto
Gathered up his poetry which Pessoa read
"Until my eyes began to bleed."
This great poet of love and melancholy
Who would not tie the knot in church
"La Nessa E Que Nao Caio!"
II
I saw a man in the streets of Saldanha
It might have been a woman -
Hard to tell, except from his girth and stride
Wrapped several times over
And on his head and feet
In layers of waterproof plastic
Black and thin
Completely covering him
Without even a visible carrying bag
Twice in several days I saw him
Not even begging, only slowly
Moving amidst the affluence of the square.
Catching his eye the second time
(Perhaps I was looking to give him a few Euro)
He turned quickly away
With such a hard jerk
That I thought he had somehow recognized me
From a time long gone,
Distant, when his fortunes
Still stretched out before him
I caught the pain in his eyes
as he yanked his face away
& kept on walking
III
(The Remembered Joy)
Ocean of Margate, New Jersey
feeling the salt water immersing the body
as you dive under a wave
or ride one in to shore
the oft-derided New Jersey shore
despoiled some now
by the greed of those
who porkbarreled to build the artificial dunes
where the people don't want them
changing the sand quality
protecting nothing the bulkheads cannot (*)
or of snorkeling
out by the reef
in a far away place I loved
IV
There is no charm in London
Not one poet who has resided here
Has written of enchantment
(Allen Fisher's Place comes closest)
Only its plagues and poverty
The dull grey cold and the chill
What a relief it would be
To leave this fouled "city of dreadful night"
Its cultural hype and celebrity wealth
The knives and gangs the literati seem to revel in!
"It's my sewer" poets here say.
"Piss off" people say to me on the street, we
Don't want you here.
Beggars and rough sleepers and "po-faced" shave-headed youth.
V
Cesario channels Camoes
holding aloft his manuscript Os Lusiadas
as he swims to shore after the shipwreck near Cambodia
and the death of she whom he loved
(*) The "dune project" - building artificial dunes on the beach, interfering with nature, lining the pockets of local and state officials, and the army core of engineers, was voted down in Margate, twice; yet, the bullying right-wing governor continues to viciously excoriate the people of Margate - one of only two barrier island towns to refuse the project. In recent storms, "sandy" and "jonas", flooding was bayside not beachside, and bulkheads protect from ocean's rages, but the megabuck corruption of the governor's obsession to line all New Jersey coastal towns with man-made dunes rather than to repair and raise the bulkheads continues. (Footnote added January 26th.)
who walked around the city as if lost in his own freedom"
-----Alberto Caeiro.
He loved a woman named Clarice
And lost her, and then his demise in 1886
Tubercular and gone at 31,
His brother and his sister
Also having succumbed
To the shadowy plague
Haunting the twilight streets of Lisboa
Disregarded in life
His friend Silva Pinto
Gathered up his poetry which Pessoa read
"Until my eyes began to bleed."
This great poet of love and melancholy
Who would not tie the knot in church
"La Nessa E Que Nao Caio!"
II
I saw a man in the streets of Saldanha
It might have been a woman -
Hard to tell, except from his girth and stride
Wrapped several times over
And on his head and feet
In layers of waterproof plastic
Black and thin
Completely covering him
Without even a visible carrying bag
Twice in several days I saw him
Not even begging, only slowly
Moving amidst the affluence of the square.
Catching his eye the second time
(Perhaps I was looking to give him a few Euro)
He turned quickly away
With such a hard jerk
That I thought he had somehow recognized me
From a time long gone,
Distant, when his fortunes
Still stretched out before him
I caught the pain in his eyes
as he yanked his face away
& kept on walking
III
(The Remembered Joy)
Ocean of Margate, New Jersey
feeling the salt water immersing the body
as you dive under a wave
or ride one in to shore
the oft-derided New Jersey shore
despoiled some now
by the greed of those
who porkbarreled to build the artificial dunes
where the people don't want them
changing the sand quality
protecting nothing the bulkheads cannot (*)
or of snorkeling
out by the reef
in a far away place I loved
IV
There is no charm in London
Not one poet who has resided here
Has written of enchantment
(Allen Fisher's Place comes closest)
Only its plagues and poverty
The dull grey cold and the chill
What a relief it would be
To leave this fouled "city of dreadful night"
Its cultural hype and celebrity wealth
The knives and gangs the literati seem to revel in!
"It's my sewer" poets here say.
"Piss off" people say to me on the street, we
Don't want you here.
Beggars and rough sleepers and "po-faced" shave-headed youth.
V
Cesario channels Camoes
holding aloft his manuscript Os Lusiadas
as he swims to shore after the shipwreck near Cambodia
and the death of she whom he loved
(*) The "dune project" - building artificial dunes on the beach, interfering with nature, lining the pockets of local and state officials, and the army core of engineers, was voted down in Margate, twice; yet, the bullying right-wing governor continues to viciously excoriate the people of Margate - one of only two barrier island towns to refuse the project. In recent storms, "sandy" and "jonas", flooding was bayside not beachside, and bulkheads protect from ocean's rages, but the megabuck corruption of the governor's obsession to line all New Jersey coastal towns with man-made dunes rather than to repair and raise the bulkheads continues. (Footnote added January 26th.)
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