0168Letter to a Troubled Youngster
you come from a family that –
well, I’ve known better and,
I’ve certainly known worse..
but all you want right now
is to get right away from them,
live your own life, make
your own mistakes.. and
half of you is looking forward to
doing just that, and
half of you’s not sure..
OK so far? I’m trying to be fair…
now here are some sketches of
what life may hold:
there’s the random, no-plan plan –
life happens; no plan, no control;
or there’s the existentialist view:
I make my own life, I’m in control,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Synecdoche
Darling, we need to talk...
no not here and now; in private..
it's about synecdoche...
yes, I know you thought that it's just
one of those things that poets worry about...
but not any more...
it's like eating of the fruit of
the tree of knowledge - now we can't forget
that it's like it is, now, no longer like it was then..
synecdoche means, taking the part for the whole...
like in poetry, 'living by the sword'
when you mean, throwing a whole army into
removing one tyrant, when in the old days
you just sent in hired assassins, got on with life...
anyway the point is, I've been getting far too many e-mails
about.. well.. 'satisfying' you... implying that
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Dark Cloud of Depression
The dark cloud.
It sits around your head
or inside it, more like.
Around your mind,
or inside it.
Around your heart,
or inside it.
Does it reach your knees?
Seems like it, some days.
Your toenails perhaps?
If you let it, it has a voice.
Please don’t listen to it;
that’s really dangerous;
it makes general statements
as if it knows you better than you know yourself
like, ‘your…’ - no, it claims to BE you -
so, it’s ‘MY life is pointless..’
Have you noticed, it’s
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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This Poem..
This poem
was about to speak to you
assuming that there is a you right there and now
but
hesitated, a little unsure of itself
this poem
though all ready to be
a bouncy, Tiggerish, extravert sort of poem
is going instead to take a quiet moment for
introspection
this poem
remembers that computers are essentially
binary – built up of millions of yes-no choices
so
this poem
is above all,
yes;
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Aunt Jess
Our 'Aunt' Jess died just days ago; her partner phoned last night;
the funeral was private, perhaps for reasons which
we now might guess; a village can be peaceful,
but that's no guarantee they'll be accepted -
those too full of life to be discreet.
So, rest in peace, we say and mean;
most of us, thank God, not knowing un-peace in
its most extreme;
and now we'll never know the story which she only partly told
and which I could not bear to probe,
that night when she and I, then younger, talked about
that topic which some tiptoe gingerly around,
some leave unsaid. And why, I asked,
did someone tell me that she'd changed her name
eight times when still a child?
Some live lives so livid red
that perhaps they're best not told; or if they are,
then carefully. In '44, towards the end of 'Hitler's war',
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0201 Two skins, one thick, one thin
No, don’t open that door. Don’t try.
It’s locked anyway. Or should be. Some people say
it’s worse than seeing their first dead body
half dead half alive, they never quite forget it.
Me I’m used to them. Them? Well OK,
I shan’t let you look but I’ll tell you.
It’s my two body suits.
Thin skin, thick skin.
When I go out in the thin skin
life’s more exciting but god it’s tiring.
A trip on public transport and I come back finished.
I see things, feel things rather, that are scary.
I see people’s next lives they’re creating for themselves.
There’s this blind school round the corner;
I saw them all on the station platform once and I could see
those who were going to see properly, next time,
those who were making themselves blinder…
then next day I saw an ordinary ‘seeing’ man talking to a friend
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Hair Raising
The fun thing about being dead
is the haunting. Revenge. It's Payback Time Whoo Hoo.
I'm updating my Visiting Book,
adding some, crossing off a few
in case my memory's not immortal.
It's quite a long list, though I try to be
as fair as one can inhumanly be:
I've always been the target of con-men
of all ages and oh yes con-dames too.
It took me a while to get wise:
they all think they're smarter than they are...
though by then it's usually too late.
Moving on to those who've bullied me;
who assumed (and alas, oh so did I)
that I was cut out to be a victim;
and all those who I let push me around
for their own promotion, empire, glory, satisfaction...
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Minutes of a day's work on the Bible
Around 1608; a pleasant day in Cambridge;
eight men sit round a table. Originally there were nine:
Dr Lively who presided at their speedy start
is now departed their distinguished company;
gave his lively life to this great enterprise, some say.
Among them still, the greatest of divines and
Hebrew scholars of their day.
This, the seventh version of the Bible
through its history; ‘seven times purified’
as the Bible says itself,
through Hebrew, Aramaic, Greek, Latin,
and English versions over centuries…
Since 1604, they’ve worked upon their
allotted section of the Bible; one sixth;
now they’re on the 'Canticles'; today
it’s Psalm 46: God is our hope and strength,
a very present help in trouble…
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Restaurant
Restaurant; trattoria; tapas-bar;
weinstuben; sushi; cafeteria; eaterie; drive-by; gastro-pub…
what’s in a name? A meal by any other name
would smell as good…
In 1765, M. Boulanger (well named) , a humble
soup-vendor, opened an establishment,
whose soups and broths he rightly called
‘restaurant’, for they were restorative…
Watch this old French film: its very flickering
and jerking seems to give it life: waiters
in their long aprons, whisk in and out
to serve these terrace tables which we’re watching
as that accordeon wheezes, or
the barrel-organ evocatively, endlessly,
rolls out its sentiments..
black berets; scarves; thoughtful Gauloise smoke;
the girls, neat hair; that simple chic
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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God and Michelangelo paint a ceiling
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen,
above you – ladies, it’s easier with
the mirror from your purse…
Monsieur, Signor, Mein Herr…
we’ve come to
The Big Moment…’
the moment for which
tourists gather; temples fill;
saints and monks fall to their knees;
contemplatives fall silent;
even angels hold their breath;
all Creation for a moment, still;
look around, the beauty of it all:
the earth so warm and fresh
under the morning sun;
rivers sparkle among greenest trees
full of breeze and birdsong;
does this perfection lack?
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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