THIS COULD BE THE LAST TIME…

So, not many readers of my venture into blog-space and I may call the whole thing off. Egocentricity meant I hoped there would be more interest in a little mix of poems and anecdotes, but it seems that (without having a social media “presence”)  I’m unlikely to grab the attention of a larger audience.  It’s been fun, and I’m really grateful to Phil  who’s set up and administered my account, and to Mel who encouraged me to start: it’s been worth it just tobecome friends with such lovely people. And other loyal friends have been very supportive: my thanks to them.

So, it’s nearly Christmas … and I never know how much I’ll give in to the sentimentality, or how angry I’ll get with the extravagance and waste, or how homicidal I’ll feel when I’m put on hold and force-fed Christmas muzak.  So, being the type of modern person who has to start every sentence with “so”, I’ll give you 2 poems.  One is frankly silly and rude; the other ismore concerned with the horrific poverty experienced by millions – the bleakmidwinter with no joy or jingle-bells within earshot.  The idea for the second piece arose manyyears ago when I visited Haiti on the anniversary of Papa Doc’s death, saw suchsqualor and brutality that I’ve never been able to forget, and which I’vefinally managed to pin down in a poem.  Ithink.

So, possibly the final blog, and warm wishes for yule-tide.

Derek

ALTERNATIVE CAROL

The Heavenly Hosts are rending the sky
with their anthems and praises like thunder,
while the Holy Ghost wakes from a very deep sleep
(a divinely post-coital slumber).

                       (Refrain –
                       here and after final stanza should be more than enough!) 

 It’s Christmas again,
Hear the bells ring
for all who are wholly
living in sin.

The Virgin Mary is saying her prayers
as she sits in the stable in the stable, desultory. 
Joseph is angry, tearing his hair –
he says she’s committed adultery.

 The cattle are lowing, the asses all bray, 
and the smell from the straw is appalling.
The shepherds yell out from the field down the way
“For Christ’s sake stop that kid bawling!

It’s hard enough trying to get some more sleep
with that heavenly host up there screaming.
Now the ewes are awake, the lambs start to play,
and the old ram’s begun his wet-dreaming.”

The Magi arrive, shivering with cold,
and looking tremendously intense,
with some gifts of myrrh, and some made of gold,
and a chap off the streets called Frank Incense.

They gaze at the stable, then up at the star,
and turn to the hovel incredulously.
Said one to the others, “We’ve travelled so far,
andfollowed that star very sedulously.

We must have gone wrong and strayed off the road.  
Let’s jump on the camels, get back in the tents …”
“Hear hear,” they replied, “forget myrrh and gold,
we’ll tossup for who humps Frank Incense.”

                        (Refrain, if you can bear it!)

WINTERBIRTH,  Port-au-Prince

No sunlight dapples the damp-patched walls
or flecks with colour                                                                                                the crazed crude-structured shack.               

No moonlight romance, no whitening wash                                                  smoothing over the cracks.                                                                                    There is no cover to hide                                                                                        the paper-back hovel, no shelter from squalls                                                  which over the rivers of stagnating streets                                                        scatter the sordid                                                                                                    detritus, the trash                                                                                                      of the city. Across the vacant lot floats                                                                the bar’s noise and lights which flash                                                                  in the darkness, the dead                                                                                        of the night. 
                                                                 

                         In the ebb of the year, emptiness greets                                    the birth of the child. The mother’s tears and her labour                              are over.  Only                                                                                                          a vague pain remains.

Only an ache in the distance is left                                                                                          of the passion, reminds
her of love.  Lonely
and empty.  Then, to the rustling of rats, the saviour
of her sanity adds a cry, a thin wail 
of anger, a scream
of despair at the cruelty
that created him, forced him into the world,
a cry of futility.

                                            Torn from the dream
of the womb, already he feels the pain of the nails,
the despair of the Garden, already his father forsakes
him, his mother remembers her madness.  Even now
she can see them, the animals bending in wonder,
the shepherds, the kings with their presents, who bow
to the child, the light in the sky, the angels who thunder                            their praises…                                                                                                                                                             …but the visions are fading.                                  With the dawn light                                                                                                she sees even clearer                                                                                                the world that her baby has entered.  She laughs.                                                                                                                                                                                  He has nothing to fear.                                                                                            Only night,                                                                                                                  and the rats in the straw, and the death that is waiting.