This is an old/new post. You've seen the poem before, but here is the video I've just completed.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Each evening, on the red and shifting sands,
they gather silently and wait,
for a boy to cup the sun in his hands.
They watch as the orb of fire shrinks,
paralysed, as it slowly sinks
towards a hungry, churning sea.
The boy’s master stands at his side.
Before the crisis comes, he threads
swiftly through the swaying throng,
collecting from each a fee,
in inverse proportion to their means.
To each he grants the right to witness, once,
the triumph of the night.
When, at last, the boy stretches out,
the silence thickens,
breath stops, the pulse quickens.
He takes it, drags it down
and before their very eyes
he makes it drown.
No voice is raised against his act.
As one, they turn and leave
the stone faced master to his counting,
the boy on his knees, wiping his tears on his sleeve.
I'm still here. The left wing poet didn't get me!
Thursday, January 04, 2007
I met him at Hyde Park Corner,
leaning on a placard,
his black t-shirt ironed smooth,
each letter pristine, red
‘Not in my name’
is what the slogan said.
His beard was neatly trimmed.
The slight bulge above his belt
betrayed he’d recently slimmed.
He was deep in conversation
with a dark haired, dark eyed girl,
recounting his month on a kibbutz.
She, for her part, stifled a yawn,
fiddled with a stray curl,
watched the helicopters circle overhead.
‘It was socialism in the raw
and what is more, sexual
revolution in its purest form.’
He wafted a greeting in my direction,
without his eyes ever leaving
the swell of her breast,
without his losing the flow
Later, he gave a private reading,
as he’d always planned,
to a select group in the snug
of the Pindar of Wakefield,
wine glass in one hand,
slim volume in the other,
keffiyah arranged, artful
round his broad shoulders.
Happy New Year! Beware of false prophets! P.S. the poets on the poster are not my target!