I Write of Those Who Give Me Gold

“The destiny and history of nations -
Corroding, compromising
Raided, deranged, derailed;
The machines have churned out
Great two dimensional heroes.
The poet stands alone.”

Through blood he wades
Towards the crown
Dead and gone
Vanity of human wishes
Of silken cloth
Of laced up boots
Leading on doom
Unloved, unmissed, unremembered
No graves, no wood to burn
No vultures either

“Privileged, you want to live?
Project, what?
God – he dead;”
Epitaph –
‘Here lies a poet’

Accepting commitment,
Reasonable pride is motivation enough
That impetus is now gone
Clinging to dedications
Growing, revolving
Shrieking in the wilderness
No voice, no words

“Progress, then?
What about the land?
Did it sprout gold?
Elucidate -
Duly justified in terms of human content.”

Analysts, economists
They don’t know
The poet stands still
Talking about all you know and more
No break, no disjunction

“I do not write of the poet
Disillusioned, embittered, lost
I write of those who give me gold.”


Three Blind Mice

To S, M and A
Not necessarily in that order


One of them
Resolved to live with it
Because the roads in ‘Lore
Are unlike the Capital’s.
And now he’d rather shut up,
Unless interrogated.
He knows not what he looks for
Knows not what to do
He does know this –
That he is not to be known.

The other, meanwhile,
Puffed in cancer
Breathing out fear
Of failing to meet up
His preset paradigm
With the kid dead
And mother unaware
What yarn could he spin,
So Consciousness would let him live
Both his and William’s

The third, in the meantime,
Is living in his own sweet bubble
Speaking a language
He doesn’t understand.
The ghost of days gone by
Haunts him still;
So he just travels
From mountains to deserts
Lighting candles
Wherever he goes.