are beautiful,

green above the sheen of a clear stream

they’re swaying,

soaring zephyr-stirred

on a background of azure purity.

The unmovable: it’s evident,

in the smooth movement of the stream;

rolling, splish splash

in grass banks.

Up above: a glide of vapour;

white cloud benignly

shifts as sun

(God’s sun)

beams down,

his light bathing bathers.

Droplets depart mother river

splashed upwards they

glint before glistening

on skin.

They rinse clean skins of bodies,

that, once apart,

melt one-wards and meld

becoming boundless,

as boundaries disappear

so that together, here,

all are One.

And in this nature

this wildness of blue, brown, green

in the life-filled

brilliance of sparkling water’s sheen

all is one,

undivided,

The Unmovable

in motion –

One in the Oneness;

Nirvana.

This is a rewriting of a poem I wrote a few years ago after a spiritual experience I had after a rave in the Welsh mountains. The rave was a pretty dodgy techno party, frequented by the usual deadbeats and misfits of society that these events attract. Fun nevertheless, and located in a beautiful spot called Forest Coalpit in the Brecon Beacons. We stayed at the party until about 9am, by which time the sun was really scorching, and then drove a mile further up the track to a spot by a beautiful stream where we got out and had a dip. While there I had a very powerful sense of spiritual elation, brought on in part by a book I had been reading about religion and spiritualism (The Perennial Philosophy by Aldous Huxley – amazing book). The references to the ‘unmovable’, and ‘one in the oneness’ and ‘nirvana’ come from the theological writings I discovered through this book. Looking back, to suggest I attained nirvana is a bit pretentious – if I came anywhere near it it didn’t last, although I still remember the feeling I had.

This is the second rewriting of this poem, the first is on this blog and entitled ‘After the Party’, and is less high-flown.

in an elemental sort of way –

I was convinced you were unhurtable – like a hill,

or a weathered oak – all the stronger for being old.

And it’s true; Granny said you never were ill,

never even a cold (until the end of course

but I’ll get to that soon – everyone will.)

At five foot four – five five before, but you shrank -

you were never small,

though we, your grandsons (you called us “my boys”)

towered above you by a foot.

Nothing for yourself, no fuss,

you’d do anything for anyone

and eat anything near enough.

Standing outside Tesco on a freezing winter morning

rattling collection tins for charity,

or driving packs of housebound old biddies in the Lions Club

bus – to get them out the house, give them some company

and lunch.

You did that for years – till eventually you outdated half the stick-wielding

bunch.

You had all the skills I’ll never learn:

with a garage full of dusty iron tools,

time and again you came and bodged jobs for us,

till eventually dad said to mum: “Whatever you do, don’t tell your dad it’s broken.”

You’d fix anything – or try at least.

You knew washing machines and cars,

Cameras, aquariums,

trees plants grass,

woodwork and electrics,

plumbing and Scalextric.

Hey – aged 80 you even figured out the internet.

A child of 1919  – your youth was strict

no toys but a rabbit’s skin – not even a hoop and stick.

That’s why you collected those model cars,

I realised that late – after you’d gone I think.

And you always had a toy for us,

no miserable ‘I never had that in my youth’ words.

But when naughty brattishness took hold of us we feared

your silent glower  over the lunchtime tabletop all the same.

I remember it all so well.

And I remember the ending too.

Your second war.

And you fought it without complaint,

fought the cancer in the piss- and chemical-smelling hospitals of Essex

Just like you’d fought the Japanese

in the damp fever-filled jungles,

of Burma, sixty years before.

You were solid, stoic, as ever,

never a cry for sympathy. Never.

And battling hard you showed titan strength

As your piss flowed back to yellow,

From red.

And the cancer died.

For a time, anyway.

And then it came back, years later, in your head,

growing in grey matter, under white skull,

pink skin, and grey hair – hair tha had always been thick whether

dark or white,

up to age eighty-six anyway, when the cancer made it begin to shed.

Of course a tumour in the head will change a person –

Somehow, so strangely, you mellowed.

No more glowers; you were softer –

strangely happy – I think more open,

perhaps at the end of a life lived well one feels that way.

You’d read about illegal raves in the local paper:

“Were my boys at that one?”

You’d ask Mum, curiously, uncondemning.

Sometimes you were confused, that’s true,

and it wasn’t easy. Well, you were dying.

But as your body and mind weakened

Your soul never could.

Holding your hand as the nurse bustled, your grip was iron strong,

And I knew you were gripping onto life,

gripping so hard, to stop the falling in your head.

It didn’t take you that night – you held tight to life –

but shortly after.

You left a family, and memories,

heaps of tools, toy cars – a nice half-page obituary

to a community figure –

and I hope a little part

of your deep strength and invincible heart

somewhere woven inside of mine.

I see the cold beams from my basement ,

barred from street level footsteps, passing cars.

And as the pale clear light dwindles,

yellow lamp glow takes over, warms the cold room.

Foot steps tap in the flat above,

The washing machine sloshes and hums.

And I sit, passing Sunday hours.

And humdrum days too

as the clear cold light

of life

ever-dims to darkness.

Overflow, spilling out of all containment.

A surging mass of dark brown-to-pale pink

they spewed toxicity

covered greenness with grey

went forth and multiplied

like algae

until, algae-like again, solicited their own demise,

by drowning,

in eutrophication of their own

wanton making.

Freedom is there for the taking

now

see the world’s new

future in the making,

now,

by the powerfull

you will only be forsaken,

and so

you must take up your weapons

and take your own world

take it quick

take it now

and make a whole from parts

now riven.

And remember this

that life is the gift

by a mother but no other

ever given.

And so you must take.

I wrote this quickly and quite spontaneously, so I will edit it further to make it flow better, as the metre needs sorting out. I feel it was good to write something topical about events in the world, especially given the full brutality and horror of what is going on in Libya right now. Listening to BBC’s World Service radio station (the only BBC I can get where I live) reporting on the development of the revolution taking place there, I felt strong anger and outrage at the lengths a megalomaniac dictator would go to to keep himself in power. Gaddaffi was using his military aircraft to bomb protest gatherings, and had drafted in mobs of foreign mercenaries to do the killing that many Libyan soldiers had refused to do. There were even fears he could unleash gas and even biological weapons on his own people to quash their rebellion.

I sincerely hope that the people fighting for their freedom in Libya are able to overthrow Gaddaffi as quickly and as cleanly as possible, and this bit of poetical armchair rebellion is my spiritual contribution. It was partly inspired by the writings of Frantz Fanon, a Caribbean Frenchman who joined the Algerian freedom fighters in their struggle against French colonial forces earlier this century. He believed oppressed people should not wait for the powers that be to hand them their freedom, but that they should take their own freedom through violent action. I feel that for Libyan people themselves to destroy the dictatorship would be far better than having to rely on outside forces like America to give them their freedom.

She asked again 2 minutes later.
An hour. To an airport. For a girl who lived in Manchester.
“No. I can’t.”
.
Her bus came,
she waved sadly and went.
.
Riding home I realised that this was the wrong bus.
.
.
.

something good

I can’t deny.

You are sweet without

sickly – true sweetness.

Your name means

“Forever Beautiful”.

(I almost cry to think)

No, beautiful,

what we have is beautiful,

you are beautiful

forever, in essence,

and what we have is

beautiful.

Beautifully sad too

because

beauty is not forever.

we have something

something good

something beautiful,

and sad,

because something is for now

and beauty is for now

you and I

we are for now.

But Nothing is.

Forever.

wind outside the door….no, wait

did I leave the dog…?

.

of flattened brown feet,
and faces at ease.
People on stools
hands resting on their knees.

And the ragged dogs loll
zzzzzzzzzzily

pant

ing

un

der

the

h…. h… heat.

Coolness is a luxury

sold in cold drink cans,
a momentary iciness
of mouth and throat.

I doubt anyone here even owns a coat.

I found the hair,

(I am sure it was yours)

in the footwell of my car

as I rummaged for sandwiches at lunchtime.

It must have been there for months.

Drawing it forth slowly; long, black,

a slight reddishness –

your Irish quarter, you once joked -

I stared at it a minute or two.

Pausing.

Lapsing into a sudden daydream –

and you were there,

with me in the car

as if real.

I reached out and put an arm around your waist

(in my mind of course)

as I looked into your face

a moment or two.

And then I awoke

to reality and drab peanut butter sandwiches.

But I left the hair in a rear footwell,

Ready to be discovered again, sometime.