Through a narrow street

Through oceans wide and deep
through space and time and sleep
through apathy and inertia
the loneliness that hugs a paper
on the deserted street

through pain and insult and memory loss
morning coffee, in a tin pot
you can stay here if you work here
and keep the throat from going moist
and Brighton, with lights on

that's where you saw the sea
for the first, and last time

through doubts, self-harm,
the doctor's anti-depressants
"that'll help you, my dear,
plus it saves me from having to listen
as I shuffle uncomfortably, I'm not your shrink!
and this shoulder's not for crying on"

that's when you trusted the NHS
for the first, and last time

through your food, your clothes,
your hair, your skin
each bit you loathe
I came to say I love them all
and most of all
I love you

You could do worse..

I had a lovely time in England, my friend Andrew had just been ordained as deacon in York minster. What a lovely service! I travelled quite a bit by train during my short stay, since I also went to see Andrew's first sermon as deacon in Cottingham the same day.

You could do worse

than get on a train,
take aimless aim
and go coast to coast
in England,

watching her sun
rise and set, rise and set
at each station
a new thought kept, new thought kept

and see purple dots
appear here and there
among green fields
lulling you to sleep...

then, stirred by majestic human outcrops
cast votes on which houses are best--
grey-smoked stone by black country
or the thatched rooves of Wessex

or the regional dialect --
as your ticket inspector chimes
"cheers, sweetheart!" in Yorkshire
but, further south, you become sir

it's hard to go a few miles
without spotting some canals
and marvel at a narrowboat
that passes through a lock

and as the coach gently stops,
waiting for the oncoming train
to rush past, and perhaps sound a horn
you realise why you

left home,
took aimless aim
and went coast to coast
in England.

Better

I just met one of my neighbours, who is a little feared for his outbursts. However, talking to him, he's just this shy, awkward person (even more awkward than me). I didn't feel better than him, just felt sorry because I saw myself in him. But often, this is not the case, often I do size people up, and the poem below is a sort of public confession, my version of the traditional confession ritual.

Look at that teen

puffing away, like some James Dean --

you're better than him

or that homeless person

sorting through trash

why, he could build roads

and earn some proper cash

and that girl over there,

waiting for the bus

you eyed her up,

you've got the one up

and that person staring at you

who does he think he is?

better than you?

no, you're the better one

that bank teller, babbling away

you switch off, you're on a higher level

or even your colleague at work

you know what's up, he hasn't a clue

your wife, your parents

they don't stand a chance

they don't know what

you've got in your mind

... so goes the poisonous voice

who just told everyone

the little things that make you

stupid, ugly, hateful -- put simply:

worse.

Come to think of it, maybe the greatest danger in this whole affair is reducing someone to some animated puppet. The alternative (perhaps) is to start seeing someone as intriguing, as someone who cannot be quickly assessed but behind whom there is an interesting story that you will never fully learn. I remember Alister McGrath saying that Christianity is different from other religions because it's not about ideology, it's about a personal relationship. So you never reach a dead-end, because you keep discovering. This claim may be refuted, extended to other religions, etc. etc. but nevertheless the thought behind it is interesting.

Happy

Happy is (s)he
who sees the leaves
of a gently swaying tree

Root

As I rooted, once, for you
to not miss a single step
in life, as in a game of chess

As I pondered, shall I let you
fall for your mistakes
or correct them, before they're made

So shall you root for me
as I approach
the twilight of my years

But each step the more painful
each opponent greater
and you'd often look away, yes look away

Were you not my son
were you not my son
yes, you'd rather look away

Than see your Sun, your strong Sun
fall down.

Squeaky clean brains

Listen up, now!
It's time to switch your brain off
And let your life be guided
By an advisor, by a dictator -- or both

How sweet it is
To not have to think for yourself
And if that nagging voice
Should ever dare raise itself

Then call it the devil, or worse

But sweet becomes sickly
And as the chickenfeed loses its taste
You will yearn for something more
For worlds whose doors you've once closed

To open like before

For as you stop the flow of senses
The flow that held back your recesses
Whole worlds, whole people, whole pain
Will rush back in

And though your leader or newsreader
Tries to narrow down your mind
If you switch your laptop off
Before your brain wanders off

Then you may see, even live, life in full

Man's best friend

"D'you like the baby?"
The dog barked.
And as the boy smiled,

A hundred elders whizzed past.
Warriors, mothers, thinkers --
and some tinkerers.

The dog barked again.
And shuddered
At the thought of them.