The Idiot

Don’t ask the scholar for advice,

rather give him an answer about the swallows

you saw in Spain over bone dry fields,

and the old carps’ milky eyes

in an antique pond, and the wind-swept horses

in Brittany – right out there

on the furthest leaf of grass

above the sea.

Take notes, carefully word by word,

punctuate. Go to classes,

keep cool. To hell with it!

All because the idiot remembers butterflies!

His dreamland beds float before him!

He hears the murmur of the salted family!

His beetles devour each other’s legs!

So you may after all ask the scholar

whether he ever watched the migration of the eel at close quarters.

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If My Son Knows How

I possess things.

I take them out and look at them.

They are good things: watches, cups,

a Chinese vase, music by Mozart,

shoe laces, a glass of marinated herring

that will keep for three months.

After that I don’t possess them any more

unless I eat them.

Which I do.

I possess shoes.

I take them out to look at them.

Some are brown,

some black

for dancing, others

for walking,

well greased

for my feet’s sake.

There is the TV,

unfortunately just black and white.

I am not colour-blind.

I own the money I’ve got.

I take it out and look at it.

I possess a butterfly

which I killed as a boy,

and I’ve made a wooden box

for the butterfly. It is decorating

my wall, illuminating

childhood memories. A peacock butterfly.

I have no others.

I was taught dancing steps

as a boy, and I have black

dancing shoes, well polished,

ready if chance would have it.

I have books about sorrow, plants

and religious philosophy. The latter

in two volumes. I have read them.

So I possess a bit of religious philosophy.

I don’t possess a wife. I borrow.

I keep dancing going

at home. I eat

marinated herring. I grease my boots

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for my feet’s sake.

I have aches and pains,

nothing serious. I don’t possess

the places where it aches.

I dance. I see. I do. I see

my peacock butterfly.

I really do.

I don’t possess a son.

I eat marinated herring

before their sell-by date,

and what if I die!

They are quite tasty.

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Next time I’ll buy those in madeira.

I grease my boots.

I listen to Mozart.

I drop my Chinese vase,

and I glue my Chinese vase together.

Perhaps I have borrowed son

who will come home to me.

Then I shall possess my son.

We’ll eat herring in madeira. We’ll look

at his butterflies. We shall dance

if my son knows how.

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Winter Rhapsody

After snow, once again drizzle and moments when I believe that I live. Once more

drizzle, slush, I live in glimpses of sun, in drizzle, sunshine and moments that I

don’t have time to see, in fine rain.

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I am waiting. Jesus lands. I don’t wait. I make coffee, peel an orange. I am waiting.

I am not waiting. I float out through the window to music by Mozart, on to a

graveyard, and on a grave I make a bonfire out of old crosses.

*

The cat and I stretch on the floor in a ray of sunlight. I kill the cat in the night and

burn it on a bonfire in the yard. Its eyes glow like real stars.

*

The stillness gathers stars.

*

I smash my Chinese vase, glue it together again, smash it. I hold the bits close to

my eyes. The glue is acrid and full of music. It is raining.

*

It had to be one, so it became me.

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I am dancing in my trainers, Friday. Light frost, and no one at home. Suddenly

deep stillness like angels stroking silk.

*

Saturday, I watch black and white TV, paint the screen with the remains of the

cat’s tail dipped in several colours. I have no telephone, but windows, huge

windows. I scream at the top of my voice. I smoke. I scream, Saturday, dance with

the dead, scream.

*

I keep God confined in a little box. It glows. Mozart helps, the cat helps. The

nurse is an angel. We dance. I glue my Chinese vase together.

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