Nathan’s ‘New Year’ Escapade in the Gazebo
[A sample chapter from my book “Reluctant Angels”]
Homesick snores and the scent of starched, overclean sheets invaded Nathan’s senses every night. It was like a cacophony of lost little piglets restlessly seeking their mummies across the dark, so they could suckle and receive comfort in the wilderness. The dormitory was entirely dark except for a dully lit sign over a door in one corner saying “FIRE EXIT” (though the door was always locked). The bulb behind the “F” had never worked for as long as Nathan could remember; so, in fact, it said “IRE EXIT”, which he found most amusing, in view of all the combative and often bullying behaviour he witnessed every day throughout the establishment, whether from teachers, pupils or other staff — but not from the gardener, Mister Jasper, as he was called (for all non-teaching staff, like servants in colonial times, were known only by their first names, preceded by “Mister” or “Miss”. His full name, in fact, was Jasper Burrows). Nathan had a special and formative relationship with Mister Jasper [as will be revealed in greater detail in a later chapter], whom everyone thought to be “simple” but who Nathan recognised as a fountain of quiet genius. On one occasion, as his father was driving him back to the school after a weekend away, Nathan had pointed out to him Mister Jasper, who was working among the rhododendron bushes at one side of the entry drive.
“Look! There he is! That’s Mister Jasper!” said the boy excitedly.
Reflections on the Changing of the Year
There is absolutely no reason anyone would want to read this dreamy little rhymey New Year timely train of thought of mine! It comes as a stream of consciousness outpouring torrent from a tiny speck of dust (called “me”) in a thermodynamically-doomed imperfect universe [one could say “DeathStar” too, you see, though that must be understood aright, and not be confused with flights of fancy from a moving film]. That speck of dust is always bursting into flames, has nothing left to lose (or gain), has wept more than a stream will know (for, as the poem goes, “I’m never far from tears”), has conquered fears — its fuel has peaked at overflow and laughing all the way to fullness through the tank. But that speck of dust cannot help but move its mind and write; and if some eyes (just two or none will do) should happen to alight upon this written page (some eyes, that is, which gave up living in a cage [or long to do]), that speck of dust will take delight in meeting minds {I hope it will be you!}.
More than Less [poem]
the morer that I know
the more I realise
I do not know
though
better still to say
the morer that I know
the more I see just
how much more is
through the door
for bigsmall me
to grow
From Iraq to Syria (via Libya)
The Use of “Atrocity Propaganda” by the Western Powers
A kind of madness has overtaken the world. It is not a new sort of madness; but it is one which has increased hugely in intensity during the past fifteen years since the events of September 11th 2001 in the USA. This madness had occasionally surfaced temporarily prior to those events (most notably in the public response to the death of Lady Diana Spencer). The madness I am speaking about is far more dangerous and bizarre even than what one would ordinarily call “madness”. For this one is contagious — striking anyone of any social class, political wing, level of intelligence or sophistication. The madness of which I am speaking is completely irrational, making people believe things which are patently and provably untrue, especially those which come through visual and written media channels and which seem to send them into a frenzy of unfettered emotionalism. This is the madness of mass gullibility.
Resistance in Roussillon
Karelija Comes of Age
Karelija Šviečiantys regularly braided her long, mousey-brown hair. It was a meditation ritual. She braided it in a spiral shape — closely resembling the archetypal pattern of DNA — but with a personal extra-dimensional twist every time. This should not be a surprise, for she came into this world not only with revolution built into her DNA but she defied all standard genetic encoding in her life and comportment.
The Petalled Path of Light [poem]
A rrested by the forces of raw unlaw & rank disorder
L eaves its mark upon the soul as if defiled; and then
M olested by misunderstanding fickle fingers full
O f dead men’s digit-bones and barnacles born in
S ecret by some accident of misbirth, I search for
T etracycline substitutes to cleanse my aching soul.
The Call of the Wild [poem]
Never mind the thorns or prickles!
To hell with every spine or thistle!
Screw the bristles, points or prongs,
needles, barbs and aculeus, spicules!
Nothing never ever comes for free;
and least of all in matters which,
collectively, are known as “love”
to people such as you and me.
Healing the Shadow-World [double-sonnet]
“So how am I to deal with this”, he said.
“With love”, said I. “It is the only way”.
That wasn’t where his feet were primed to tread.
He wanted his revenge, I heard him say.
And then another one looked in my eyes,
eschewing men and living as a nun.
The bruises on her soul were no surprise
(her father’s fists the love in her did stun).
The Secret of Small Things
AFTER I ARRIVED IN TENERIFE LAST WEEK, I bumped into someone who I’d met briefly a couple of times before in the past and who knew I had just been in Stockholm for some time making a new CD album. The first thing she said to me was this: “So… did you make lots of money then?” She wasn’t the first person to make that kind of statement. (It’s what I call “an old aeon blurt”; and you’ll see why below). This little piece here is my “official” reply to her.
My Crumpled Coat [poem]
When on that hill, I hurled my worn-out body, broken,
to the floor, I heard a hollow sound of absent love
which mimicked curlews singing mournful over
moorland as they soared above me
tangentially jaggéd to my gaze
and I — alone as always
in my crumpled coat
(a strangled regent
dangling by a wire
wrapped around
my throat) —
will always smile,
break out my joy, for I have had those scars
since I was just a boy (and am still now,
today, though now with stubble on my face I chase
the dreams I harboured then) and wonder when
that curlew sound will cease (I long for peace).
The Naked Troubadour 