| Humanity You're in a cell. A stay has been denied. You know the place, the date and time you'll be put down. They'll say that you were fairly tried. You may be innocent. The penalty, however, stands. Tough shit. You will have said your last goodbyes to all your family. Your final meal is ordered. You'll be fed. You're guilty? Then be happy. You won't face the extra anguish. Time. You will be led onto the chair, let's say. The blood will race through all your veins. The meal will boil inside. Your muscles will contract as if to brace for impact. People will cry out: "(S)He's fried!", not knowing what, but only who has died. |
| SONNETS |
 |
| Janus The silent hall. His chosen playing ground. A row of Dinky Toys against the wall. The Pickford van drove on the carpet mall and moved his dreaming mind along. He found an ornament that served him as a round- about. He circled twice. A sudden fall of darkness. From the antique clock the call of three and then a distant, rumbling sound. My back against the door I stand outside. With every flash it is as if the light of day returns. I'm losing track of time. I feel an instant urge to take a ride. As my new Opel heads into the night it's three. The radio transmits the chime. |
| ===================================== |
| ===================================== |
| The sun shines on the pond so I can see its sandy bottom. This was the domain of an old, giant pike. Time and again I saw him in the shadow of a tree where, using just his fins, he would maintain a preying hover. Did his eyes catch me? Today I come to look for him. A chain of strolling people makes me look in vain. Besides, do pike live half a century? How strange it is this place now looks so small! Perhaps, as decade upon decade grows, my vantage-point draws ever back, till all evaporates. A boy sits down and throws his line out. Dreamfish, they are pretty tall. |
| ===================================== |
| ===================================== |
| Carp fishing The trees have lost their shades of brown and green: Dark ghosts against a city-lighted sky. I catch a glimpse of bats zigzagging by And hear mosquitoes buzzing past unseen. The pond is quiet, like a blackened screen. Above my line hovers a dragonfly. Guided by a silent seeking sonar cry A flashing shadow grabs it from the scene. A string of bubbles surfaces, quite near The bait. A late train passes by. I hear Its distant thunder running through the glade, When, like a whale, the carp performs a flip And beats the water with its tail fin whip, Falls back - a splash and then the ripples fade. (4/2/00) |
| The sun is burning from a cloudless sky. The flowering azalea's bouquet intoxicates. A drone sounds far away. A baby wakes up and begins to cry. The breeze excites the leaves of trees nearby and feathers touch my skin. Some children play: Their laughs and shouts ring out in hot midday. My eyes won't open even though they try... I hear -awakened by the sudden chill- the sound-waves of a drum-roll, distant still. Black heads of cloud approach and block the sun. The cover cracks. A ray of evening-light tries to resist, in vain. The clouds shut tight, the storm takes over. Rain pours down. I run. (20/5/00) |
| ===================================== |
| The Art of Fugue The rising fifth d-a and down f-d Begin the subject with simplicity. A climb again, a brief rest on the third To reach the fifth: a built-in harmony. The possibilities of fugues then heard, As one by one to Bach's mind they occurred, Convey not merely formal mastery: Vitality sounds as his final word. One key, form, theme with use of variation, -Like mirroring, inversion, rhythmic change- Build up this epitaph in counterpoint. A fugue, four subjects, one his name - conjoint Crown on the carefree work- was out of range, Having as coda ... (14/2/00, revised 11/7/01) |
 |
 |
| The Art of Fugue (BWV 1080) can be listened to as well as downloaded at this website. |
| One hand clapping Some spikes of water-mint shake suddenly. A water-snail perhaps? No, they're too slow. The king-cup's berries almost burst. They grow all round the edge. A buzzy bumblebee explores the place, the first of them I see this year. Forsythia puts on a show of yellow blooms. The whirligig's paws row among reflected branches of a tree. A dead leaf stirs. My shadow comes too near the spot. A wriggle. This alerts the cat. She stalks up to the pond. Through the veneer of plants some roots light up against the mud. No wind. The surface of the water's flat. I hear how silence slowly starts to bud. (4/4/02) |
| ===================================== |