WILLOUGHBY'S SECRET WILDERNESS

I didn’t know old Willoughby played golf -

It’s here in his obituary: “A keen amateur golfer,

Willoughby played off a very creditable handicap of eight.”

I don’t know what that means

And frankly, I don’t want to know.

We expect an obituary to confirm what we do know

And cast it in a favourable light - after all,

There’s nothing we (or Willoughby) can do about it now.

An obituary is no place for investigative journalism –

The unburied dead deserve a moment’s grace.

Everyone knew he beat his wife, of course –

He made no secret of that. Used to do it quite openly, in fact.

I often used to see him bashing dear old Daphne about.

It wouldn’t have occurred to him to deny it

And to his credit he never did.

And we knew where Willoughby’s money came from.

“Nobody ever became wealthy by stealing people’s money” –

That’s what he said; and Willoughby was wealthy.

“Do muggers knock you down and lend you money?”

A lot of people owed Willoughby money.

A moment when nothing is unforgivable

And the great two-handed engine pauses in mid-arc,

Nothing is decided, judgment is deferred,

Things hitherto unknown are left unsaid -

But I for one am glad the golfer’s dead.

Willoughby’s Secret Wilderness

I didn’t know old Willoughby played golf.

It’s here in his obituary: Keen amateur golfer... 

Very decent handicap of eight.

I don’t know golfing terminology 

And since the game disgusts me, never will.

An obituary should tell us what we know

And cast it in a favourable light.

There will be no more golf for Willoughby 

And as far as I'm concerned there never was.

The unburied dead deserve a moment’s grace.

You don’t get rich by stealing people’s money,

Said Willoughby – and Willoughby was rich.

Do muggers knock you down and lend you money?

He very rarely had to raise a hand

And lots of people were in debt to him.

But everybody knew he beat his wife.

It was something he preferred to do in public.

Dear old Daphne suffered dreadfully,

But this obituarist ignores her pain 

In favour of a stranger who played golf.

The great two-handed engine pauses in mid-arc, 

For a moment nothing’s unforgivable;

Nothing’s decided, judgment is deferred,

Things hitherto unknown are best unsaid.

I mourn my friend. I'm glad the golfer’s dead.

The Broken Heart

In great men’s houses you must thread your way
Through files of menials, who pass your name
Like a watchword, till the Man of Figure
Commits you finally to the Man of Fame. 

“ ...may be pieced up again.” Your breath
Was full of butterflies. The curtains closed again.
Behind you, nothing. An empty moment. Boast
That zero, boast your shadow left a stain—

You, scorched star, Blind Jane, my lady accomplice
Dazzling on the balcony. But you died: 
A live wire, a little heaven of rouge—
No, nothing was too much for my child bride.  

Time Travel Is A Discipline Without Redemption 2

Time travel is a discipline without redemption

And mercy is unknown. Most travellers through time

Were kidnapped as children and taught to devote their attention

To the cultivation of self-restraint and perfect rhyme.

Swordsmanship, music and astronomy

Prepare them to kill without conscience on their journeys

And bouts of violent, nonconsensual sodomy

Encourage murderous rage at their academic tourneys.

On Graduation Day at The Academy of Time,

The Principal performs The Ritual of Deadly Violence

And inflicts catastrophic damage on every graduand prime.

Reconstruction would exceed by far the competence

Of the greatest surgeons and exceed the promise of their art:

Severed limbs, bloody trenches too wide to suture, 

Organs hacked from their fatty beds, private parts

Torn off, eyes crushed. Students must seek surgeons in the future

To restore their physical integrity; they gather up as best

They can what they have lost and make for the back of the hall,

Where time machines stand ready to transport them. Each guest

Who steps aside to let them pass can recall,

Or imagine, his own first journey – not gliding across time,

But picking through broken meat, searching cold pools

Of blood for fragments of himself; the human stink, the grime,

The well-wishers on all sides, the smiles of ghouls.

It takes necessary years to recover from the violence

Of the ritual. Any student traveller who chooses

To return before he’s regained the cosmetic excellence

Required to graduate from The Academy of Time loses

His eyes. Good students remount their machines and set the dial

To return at the moment of their hideous departure.

The illusion of instant restoration makes the Principal smile;

His hapless guests stamp and blight the air with laughter.

This Used To Be The Bed Of A Vast Ocean

Out on the Old East Road, where errors undermine

The necessary journey, the Careful Reader pauses,

Determined not to let mere necessity define

His purpose, or compromise his independent clauses.

A system of coordinated piles, with trusses

Slung between, once supported meaning and intent

With such clarity and consistency of style that buses

Full of passengers who knew what each other meant

Raced along the causeway against the rising tide

Talking of use and usage and abuse, of that and which,

Of what should be accepted, what had to be denied;

The angry ghosts that poison, the bodies that enrich

Our native tongue. The Careful Reader sniffs out those who died

For an old ladder rotting in a muddy ditch.

Against Nature

My widowed mother introduced

My niece to Hodge, a swine –

A vicious wretch whose natural gifts

Were poor to those of mine.

His winter jacket caught my eye –

A Danish army fleece.

I’d recognise it anywhere –

I'd given it to my neice;

And she had given it to Hodge,

Or so he said. A fever

Overcame her, so he said.

I advised him to forget her:

"Leave her to heaven and to those thorns

That in her bosom lodge

To prick and sting her.” And he said,

“Our married name was Hodge.”

Wholeness At Whitsun (translated by Jarvis Belchard from the original Latvian)

 Up in the southern sky

The sun’s ablaze 

With the promise 

Of shorter nights!

Ay, and longer days.

Down all the country lanes

Young Nature screams

“I am alive!”

Ay, and so green!

This is the life of dreams.

The sea’s a silent cake;

So slick the knife.

“Cut me a slice!”

Give me a bite;

This is the dream of life.

Ladies love to swim;

They’re gasping for breath!

Seizures and cramps

Bask in the deep water.

This is a dream of death.

Sunset, with Brent geese;

Gussets and broken seams;

Children in the air,

Salt and long grass:

This is the death of dreams.

Up in the southern sky

The stars are bright

With the promise

Of eternal life!

Ay, and endless night.