Departures

First to go was David,

hostage to father’s work.

No adult cared ’bout what they did

the precious bond they broke.

I stood and cried outside

the house where I had played,

but which to me was now denied.

He was gone, I know not where;

but always for him I shall care.

My bedmate’s end was then decreed:

“That duck must be undone!”

I do not know who did the deed;

but his frail fabric off was flayed:

soap and flannel of him was made.

Of resurrection hope there’s none.

Karl was dear, we hugged and held;

but off to Oz he went.

Long years until again we spoke

were separately spent.

Then tears of joy did whelm my eyes:

till he did vanish into cyberspace,

with no clue of why;

or what then I could do:

or even of an act or unkind word

which I should sorely rue.

Next my mother went to heaven,

slaughtered by a stroke.

To hold me fast God promised then,

but my heart almost broke.

David danced into my life,

then danced again away:

except one latter day,

when he remembered naught

of that strange play

when I did nearly go awry.

Deepest loved was Adrian.

He better far than I my love did ken;

but Pete then Julie had his heart,

and so from me he did depart.

I’ll not see him again!

Nick and Philip, Tom and John,

shared faith and college years;

but seasons came and now are gone

and they did me forsake;

save John, who kept troth ’gainst my fears,

until that bond I’d sadly brake

for fear of hurt I could not take.

An elven flautist ’tranced my soul.

With questing mind and hopeful heart,

striding into my life he came.

He glimpsed the part and saw the whole;

but even his name does now my mem’ry flee.

Derek was dear,

he taught me much,

I slighted him, I fear.

To southern land he went

and we lost touch;

but grace was sent:

so rather than my sin full drear

should bind me in the grave,

he lately me forgave.

My heart, Keith warmed,

but Wales his formed:

the rock from which his being was wrent,

so he took off with glee for Gwent.

Of Pauls let less be said

than floods right through my head.

One despoiled my soul,

one despised me whole

one pursued his goal

to teach the poor

of Africa;

then follow the spoor

of feminine lure

to America.

All are for me no more.

Henry burst into my world,

as poet’s muse and mad daemon;

he gave me life, but now he’s gone

and I am dead within.

Last, Philip loved and learned:

the son I never had;

but off he flew, to Orient far,

in search of wife,

renouncing faith, he left my life

and made me sad.

And so it goes: the eternal train

of broken faith and forgèd chain;

of given love and taken pain.

My only hope for my own gain:

of this frail life I’ll soon be free,

for all of these are lost to me.

All Hallows E'en

The clocks stand still.

Time awaits the presence of the dead;

for whom time is no more.

Up from their graves,

sad souls arise;

restless and forlorn,

gruesome and grim,

unshriven and bereft of hope.

One night of scarce half-life

in a year lost to their ken.

The clocks stand still.

Children laugh, unaware of danger.

For them Samhain is a frolic.

They dress as witch and warlock,

dance widdishins

and call on Old Nick,

reckless of all meaning;

for their lives have no meaning.

They know nothing

of the grave’s clammy embrace;

of death’s cruel finality.

Their schooling

has exorcised their thinking.

Incessant marketing babble

has dulled their loving,

and spinning political messages

have eroded their trusting.

Old folk cower behind curtains,

dreading the door knock,

the knell of the bell:

“Trick or treat – what’s it to be?”

No-one calls otherwise,

in this land without friendship:

where cities are anonymous

and harbour no neighbours,

just ghosts;

where fear and hate hold sway:

fear of paedophile and rapist,

suspicion of Paki and Yid,

hatred of asylum-seeker

and queer.

We the living

are more truly

the dead,

or will soon be zombies;

if we do not bestir ourselves

from our self-satisfied slumber.

Shadowlands

Before my eyes there leap and leer
appearences of sences five
they fill my mind, seduce my soul
and claim to be the truth.
Yet in my heart I hear the call
of spirit voices, far away,
that tell of objects far more real
and solid sound and permanent
than any things of which I think I know
or love or cherish or desire.

And so I turn, from dark cave’s wall
where on projected shaddows grey cavort;
I turn my back on life and seek out death:
not in despair and not as bane,
but as the portal to a life beyond
of so much being and subtlety
that it shall trump this petty world
of sense and sensibility
of joys and pleasures gay
of daliance and sweet delight
of pain and loss and suffering.

For in that place of gladsome light,
where Beauty’s seen direct,
(not in the images of fleeting things,
but in its ideal form sublime)
there is such joy and peace
that every soul enlightened
then can taste the Bread of Life
the provinder of Wisdom’s board.
They sit down full supplied
their friend is Immortality
thence they are well content.

Symposium

Socrates stands silent, without the house.

He sways to and fro;

though there is no breeze.

His daemon speaks,

in words of tantalising uncertainty;

warning of danger, urging on with cue.

Within, the revellers laugh,

intent to entertain

themselves with wine and song and jest.

They miss his presence,

await his profile at the door.

Hopeful of his words, yet fearful too.

The seer breaks his pose;

returning to this world of doubt.

Regaining his will and purpose,

he looks about.

He shrugs and enters into its flimsy reality.

It is most unsatisfactory,

but will have to do.

His eyes peer into shadows

which lie all about him.

They reveal their remote origins

to his mind

as they obscure their immediate

intentions from his eyes.

He knows at last his will,

with doubt he’s through.

He wishes to advance;

move forward in this place;

join his friends within;

enjoy their fellowship.

He wishes much more.

To pass beyond this place

to enter into a richness

which few subdue.

Socrates bows his head

and enters the festive hall.

His presence fills the room,

the party song falls silent.

Let us speak of love,

dear friends, he says.

Let us praise the source

of all life new.

Account is made of Eros, ancient of days;

wisest and most beneficent,

yet maddener of men;

neither spirit nor matter

– but interlocutor between –

carrying precious gifts

reconciliation to pursue.

Socrates is silent. Then he frowns

and shakes his head.

What truth was spoke

was not spoke true enough;

weighed down by quest for earthly ease.

Such phantasms, he knows,

he must eschew.

He recalls an aged seeress,

Diotima she was named.

She once instructed him in love;

when he was young

and brash and wilful

and fully self-assured.

She cut him down a peg:

her words he will review.

Love is desire for beauty

with good outcome;

life leading to life and on to eternity.

Beauty is next to Good,

and supplies the defect

of sight to restore

what wisdom once knew.

The end of love is fellowship of being;

union with the source of life and hope,

attainment of clear sight

and understanding

sure knowledge of beauty

and justice true.

All love and beauty

in this world is perilous;

an intimation of

what lies beyond the veil,

an incentive to kindness

and spur to courage

but also a nagging distraction

from these two.

Then in storms Alcibiades,

apple of the sage’s eye;

yet rotten to the core.

Traitor both to tutor and to State.

Sure of himself, overflowing with hubris,

ravishing in countenance and thew.

He berates his erstwhile lover,

speaking of deceit,

how he promised much, but gave nothing;

not tenderness, nor comfort of embrace,

but by cultured neglect all passion slew.

He accuses the silent Socrates

of inhumanity,

of spiritual conceit and direst pride

being impossible to live with or without:

his friendship he does most sorely rue!

A tear wells in the seer’s face;

but he turns away

from what he has loved,

and always will love,

in this world: knowing that the warning,

once heard, he can never misconstrue.

This spoiled man, he knows,

exemplifies full well

(but without spark of intent

or glimmer of awareness)

the power of love to pervert and corrupt,

when divorced from its object due.