Haiku

Algarvian rain
Falls mainly in opaque nights
When moggy kills mice

Haiku

On cold winter days
When sky is icy sapphire
Sun’s a jaded eye

Haiku

November still day
Peaceful chimney smoke shimmer
Fox spoors on new snow

Not an Idle Moment

A fly sits on top of the computer screen
washing its face when not watching me,
incredible it takes lift flies and lands on
the tip of my nose, close up it has
enormous eyes, so big I can see myself.
I hit it, but miss now I have nosebleed,
trickles down to my lips, tastes salty,
drips on my green shirt I’m so proud of.

I go to the bathroom, I’m a boxer, who
has won the match in round six, so what’s
a nosebleed? Take shirt off soaks it in
cold water, put a clean one on, it needs to
be ironed, so who cares a dank day when
even windows cry and the old roof leaks?

The dipterous sits on top of the screen
eyeing me contemptuously, pretend I’ve
forgotten something get up, in the kitchen
cupboard I find insecticide, storm in, spray
my room, the fly curls up and dies. Blank
screen I have forgotten what I was going
to write about.

The Hunter

The vale, a mini grand canyon, most of
the time, cloaked in the opaque fog of
obscurity, was clear today. The floor of
the dale is flat and scattered with large
boulders, crippled bushes, weedy, slimy
plants and an imponderable, stillness that
follows sins of wilful nonappearance.

Was here, with my dog Stella, to look
for and hunt rabbits, by a boulder I saw
a rabbit bigger then a red fox, I shot it
in the head with my 22 calibre rifle;
still convulsing when I came up to it,
kicked it to death with the rifle butt and
saw it was not a gregarious mammal.

Hundreds of them, hairy monster rats
looking at me from every boulder and
holes in the ground. I moved backwards
didn’t dare turn my back, but they came
closer I panicked and fled; Stella stood
her ground defending me till I could get
up on the road of cowardice yet again.

I shot into the melee of rats till I had no
bullets left, but I could not save my dog;
fine rain a foul smelling miasma filled
the ravine packed with phobias, odium
and fear of the indefinite; one day I will
be back hunt and kill nightmares, clear
the valley and built a temple to purity.

There are Fairy tales
Written in the stars
That speak of dragon scales
And bright yellow cars
There is a silly song
That mum will sing
About bells that dong
And flowers that ding
So when the sunshine says “Goodnight”
Come rest your head and close eyes, tight
For the tick tock clock has bedtime chimed
It’s time to sing the sleep sweet rhyme

Samantha Braum

To Adrian Henri
When in 67 we travelled back on that Ribble bus,
Smug sometimes, arrogant, belly humorous poet,
You were jovial, and graciously evaded the impertinent approval of the lines I felt I could proffer back to you.
You, chuffed with the few bob from the reading, were set on getting back to “Ye Cracke” before closing.
And I continued, until I left the bus, and patronised, With the serene security of ‘yet another’ sixth former, Your part in establishing the Ginsberg acclaimed World Centre: Our City’s scene.

I had too quickly recovered from your earlier, opening annnouncement: The death of John Coltrane.
Few, if any, in that youthful
Crosby audience, had heard of your revered Sax-man. Your angel to whom you dedicated our evening celebration of
Liverpool, The present and future of verse, And always our City of the moment.
The words you used to describe the notes he’d planted in your brain chilled more than the verses we shared.

Not many weeks later, I responded to the unnecessary invitation I sought. I took my place to read, from the floor at O’Connor’s.
I was not displeased to have to turn and glower smugly.
You distracting, chatting, when those girls and you ignored the evening’s proclaimed point.
It was an incident I knew I could and would booze out on:
Boldly having shown up a proselytiser of poetry. Concerned with recognition’s not writing’s fruits.

Thirty plus year later,
The collapse of your beer battered life, The insulting stroke, The perished liver, All were unknown to me, When I shook at the news of your death.

Lost to me are a hero, an era and chances sweet people had made.

Freeman:
Painter:
Poet:
Your glorious topicality warmed, Much more than the gentle words, That shared the howls of a saxophone,
And precipitated young ladies Towards your beery belly.

The Flowering Shrub

The rhododendron, planted years ago
is now leaning over weighing down
the shed, it looks healthy and lovely,
knocks on the kitchen window I keep
closed or it will enter strangle me,
the cooker and the fridge

Crimson as fluid blood, its flowers,
when it rains ruby drops drip as war
wounds on battle ground, and people
come from a far just to take pictures;
yet no birds sits on its branches and
cats keep disappearing;

Killed by the red foxes in the woods?
I have suspicions, cannot voice them
unless people think I’m mad. Bought
a chain-saw, and when no one looks,
the good-looking but murderous killer
will be aromatic winter wood.

The Great World War.

It is long ago, when I saw this painting, on
the wall in a house that had belonged to
man just dead, long trenches- in a flat
landscape- killed by shells, leaf- less trees
denuded and defiled by an orgy of bullets.

The soldiers in the trenches wore long blue
coats, the painting too had a bluish shine
telling us of a world where the sun refused
to come and be a part of this horror show.
No heroes here, just soldiers waiting to die

I don’t know if the painting was a work of
art, I had wanted to take it home, but a child
in an adults’ world has no right, the picture
was filthy and had a crude frame, they said;
it was thrown on the skip and forgotten.

An Ordinary Painting

A bland painting on our wall, a tied up rowing boat,
a boat house, fjord salt sea that didn’t look inviting,
and grass that looked artificial, a cold sun and a hazy
in two boys in the row boat and a girl with tanned legs
sat on a stone, slum children happy to be on holiday.
The sun looked warmer now and the haze had gone
and the sea was teaming with marine life. Pleased
I decided to add more things next day, but when new
day came and I looked at the painting again it was as
empty as before I began adding life to it.

But wait, the boat had sunk and just below the surface
of the shimmering sea, the boys floated- eyes lifeless
and open- inside the boat house I could just make out
the girl hanging from a beam. The painting exuded
coldness, the sea whitened to ice so intense that it
cracked and the whole picture fell into a deep abyss.
A piece of cardboard, enclosed by a gilded frame,
on its empty surface I painted galloping white horses,
flaring nostrils and flying mane, a standard painting
of the type decorating the walls of homes, and it was
still there next day and the days thereafter.

The Lost President

Poor George, the president, deserted by foe and
friends, roaming the corridor of his big white
house like a ghost of yesterday. Cry he does and
says to his wife: Why, have they forsaken me?
she cradles him in her arms and says: “there, there
George don’t mind them, you kept the braying
enemy away for eight years, and in time a street
will bear your name, you can be sure of that”
Reassured George get on his bike and cycles from
eight to nine, but since the morning news doesn’t
mention his name and there is talk of a Moslem
called Obama he frets again, till a flunky tells him
he is still the president.

The Tarn of Life.

There many couples in the glade, the men
had shaving blades with which they cut
stripes on their women’s back, not deep
but enough for blood to trickle down and
make a pattern that spelt love.

I tried, but my blade was blunt, couldn’t
make her bleed, miserable she left me as
I was not able to let her suffer for love;
a failure in the ritual of married life and
shamed I walked away from the dell.

In a forest where trees were grey and had
lost all leaves I came upon an empty lake
and, saw at the bottom, the bleached, soft
bones of an embryo, it had blue eyes and
looked unblinkingly up at me.

It began raining, and the lake was filled
with pure, clear water, in it I bathed.
When looking up trees were green again;
by the shore my unborn daughter sat, she
smiled at me and I knew I was forgiven.

Can we blame the moth?

So drawn to the wonder of a naked flame, they cease their existence for one moment in its warmth and beauty. As I stand below the moonlit sky, I find I myself am no better than the fluttering shadow of the night. I would throw my life away just to live in the magic of the stars, if only for a second.

thimbles of ancient obscurity
overfilled chalice
losing faith over its rim
as you walk around the crater
which way
go down in a collapsing
dance sequence underfoot
these crystaline eyes emit square tears
like sugar cubes spat out by a dispenser
the shock value of secretaries
wasted on the military
imprisoned by weath and influence
he had to wear a hat in the sunlight
it burnt yellow rings into his skin

he spent the afternoon arguing
about the state of the prisoners
they walked with a broken gait
dragging their feet through the yard
knees bent and sad
lifted by boney fingers
the ritual of the lost
the jarring words of a matriarch
working you back to the straight and narrow
working you with an eye to the nothing
with an eye to the end

The Rat Catcher

When summer heat has lulled Faro into a stupor,

rats that live in its old sewers come up to enjoy

the sea breeze, but for the hiss, they are as a low

flying heat cloud towards the dock, while eating

half consumed hamburger and chips.

They are so fleeting and shimmering that if you

not especially look for them they are not there,

except for the odour of sewers that lazily drifts

in the air, before dawn when the street cleaning

wagon comes rumbling along they retreat.

To their dens while listening for my steps they

know that I can hear them they also know that

I’m aware of their plan to occupy the town by

attacking sleeping people eating their eyes and

let them helpless stumble into the sea.

I know all this as I walk around in the night

keeping vigil, I’m the inhabitants, saviour,

they shrug at my warnings think I’m mad, that

makes rats laugh in their bunkers, yet they

shake with fear when hearing my Harvey walk.

Deserted houses invoke a fascination,
The mind in love with the inexplicable,
Seek out rooms for ingenious exploration
Of the contours of delegated extroversion.

Removing the cloak hiding the inside,
Find the old clock hung on the gray wall
Time over and arms stuck of old age
Antiquated furniture burnished in the psyche.

Obsolete thoughts of the ordinary
Going up staircase holding the archaic
Banisters supporting fragile men and women
Paintings of who adorn the walls of introversion.

The old newspapers stacked like a pillar of Times
The tattered books on shelves of derangement
And the dining table helping no food for thought
The fireplaces burning desires, sighing and moaning

No room for any more surmises, the languid mind
Fall in to a deep slumber in one of the bedrooms
On a well laid out bed of red roses still fragrant.

Still Life.

Mother used to have on the wall, a picture
of a dead boy in his coffin, surrounded by
flowers, candles and silence.

I often stared hard at the picture, willing
the boy to open his eyes, he never obliged
me, but came alive in my dreams.

The name of the boy’s mother was Olga she
used to visit us till mother and her fell out,
mother thought it rude to remove the picture.

Years went by, my brother died and mother
took the picture down, but it was still there,
a square less faded than the rest of the wall.

The sun rose above our heads
giving me moments to absorb its ointment
and notice your gentle breath coaxing teasing
and tugging the wandering flock of clouds now
distant as the tremble under your eyelid
settles me
to a peace
unknown in my war-torn dream-life
away from
home

- Nicholas Alexander
- 19 June 1992

A Cigarette

Dawn, yes and the mist, what else do you
expect on lake Martin early and summer?
Swamp cypress dripping with Spanish moss.
I have stopped rowing, water swirling around
Oar blades, the silence is absolute I dare not
Inhale, a bird shrieks, the lake shudders
An evil thought has entered Paradise, I hear
The faint noise of outboard motors,
The moment of ethereal stillness has gone,
I lit a cigarette inhale deeply, exhale and blow
Rings a pure delight into morning air.

Nazism and the Belgian Chef

In Belgium, I read, a TV chef has been fired and
The program axed. He cooked dishes famous people
through history liked. All went well, till he cooked
Herr. Hitler’s favourite dish, fried trout with sour
cream. People protested, this was to humanize Hitler
and our chef was fired for having bad taste (pun?)
It is quite naïve to believe that by not mentioning
Hitler, the towering inferno of the twentieth century,
they can somehow wish him away by making him
into a monster without human feelings and emotions.
Alas, he was so very human and real, there are many
as him walking around and giving half the chance
will behave just as Herr. Hitler did.

The Lady and the Tramp

I took the bus from Ellesmere Port to Birkenhead,

from there the underground to Liverpool, walked

to Hanover Street; took a rickety lift up four floors

to a studio where Miss Summers tried to teach me

to speak posh English. A hopeless task my Norse

accent refused to be relegated clung to my throat

like phlegm, the size of a jelly fish, and anyway,

when Miss Summer said my own voice was sexy

I decided to take acting lessons with her instead.

Alas this didn’t last; the doctor said I was fit to go

back to sea and I was sent to join a ship in Aruba.

I loved Miss Summers used to meet her secretly in ´

Southport on her days off, impressed me with her

noble manners it was like making love to a duchess.

The problem with being a seafarer is that when he

returns, life ashore has moved on. My teacher lady

had an acting job, when I rang her voice was arctic

and, yes, she had also gone and married a doctor.

Never Look Back

The track I walk on, to the top of the hill
where I can see the sea, is falling into
neglect, overgrown, dry weeds crinkle
underfoot, made smooth and slippery by
the unforgiven August sun.

The sea afar is blue with glitter on, just
as a postcard: “come sail on me,” it says.
I did once, long time ago. I used to stand
on iron deck, look towards shore, dream
of mountains, streams and lakes.

Clouds sail across the sky, sea darkens
gets restless frothy waves, are gored by
dagger sharp cliffs; endless war the sea
will win. Farewell, I shall walk on this
path again, the bygone is another dream.

Last night I tried to shoot the moon.

I missed.

Instead of vanquishing darkness I left a big gaping hole in the sky, but at night you can’t see it anyway.

A bird fell out of the sky that same night. Now it is lying dead on my lawn.

I wish it would move, I need to cut the grass.

The Girl Who Loved Me.

At a house that posed as a posh bar I saw her,
very tall, thin and gangling she smiled shyly
and the young men in the throng thought her
weird, so I befriended her, she was grateful;
yes, for I too know how it is to be neglected.

Afterward we went out for meal she insisted
I must meet her parents, who were proud of
her. And life was sweet for a few days till
I had to leave, she cried, I promised to write
and callously didn’t.

When the moon shone on the Caribbean Sea
and I stood on a hot iron deck alone I regretted
my self-serving empathy, playing on other
people’s emotion, just to tie another knot on
the hangman’s noose .

The Notion

A thought, a beautiful bird, sat on a tree
tried to grab it, but it flew away and was
liquefied, now I can’t even remember its
colour.

The thought is a river, as I put my hands
into it to stop its flow, it turns into a useless
seam of gold.

Gold diggers came, rich now they will
be interviewed, say weighty thing to
newspapers, we will nod in accord, surely
they must sages, as surely as I must find
another stream

I wait for a new thought to drift along,
without great fanfare, one that will change
itself into a beautiful bird that, in time,
will transform into a poem

Haiku

Lucid is the sky
Cool and translucent is day
Wonderful is fall

Haiku

Unambiguous
Is the cold northerly wind
The master of frost

Haiku

It was a short fall
The sun shone and it was warm
Indian summer

Haiku

Morning’s snow crystals
Downed on lawns too early
Sun is still in charge.

Haiku

Aquatic time
Relentless rain harshly fall
Time to read a book.

Haiku

Rain on the mountain
River runs with fiercely rage
To meet its maker.