The Teacher
I wish I’d known him better.
But our respect for him was such
that you only spoke to him
when you needed to.
In a way, that was to know him truly.
You wouldn’t notice him, passing him
in a crowd; and yet, two paces on,
and you’d feel you had just passed
someone who walked in their own space
and left space itself quite unaffected.
To meet him, in the corridor, say,
early in the morning, was - what? -
awesome, refreshing, vitalising:
there was a sense that overnight,
he’d dived into some deep ocean
of sheer bliss; and emerged
like a morning seashore,
washed with freshness,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Emily Dickinson takes a poetry course
Dear Ms Dickinson: I’ve just received
your amusing little trifle,
'Faith is a fine invention'
as your first week's homework on this course..
and hope that as your designated docent
(you may of course request a change..)
we may establish a relationship
that’s full of ‘ mellow fruitfulness’ – as
John Keats (1795-1821) would put it..
First, may I say that it’s more interesting
for the reader, not to use the first line
of your poem –especially one so short –
as the title…something more intriguing perhaps?
such as – in this case, ‘Natural Science’?
I have a feeling that you have within you
much more to say on this theme
(already well covered by the poets, did you know?)
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Parsing of Senility
The names go first. That’s not
uncommon, and even among those who
are younger.. psychologists say
(how discomforted this couch, Professor Freud..)
it’s sheer selfishness; we don’t want our friends
to know our other friends..
The names go first. One learns the dodges –
‘You’ll all know each other, of course…’;
names, they’re nouns; so how far will it go?
how well can I live well, when without nouns?
Spirit lives in all things; the self exists in all;
perhaps I’ll manage with this thought.
Then, what will be next to go ? (The nurse sighs
as the impatient patient cries, ‘..want..THAT…’)
Ah, there’s the clue: pronouns simply stand for names;
first person, second, third, will merge
into one selfish self – ‘want.. that! .. hungry..! fetch!
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0011 How Rilke might have translated Bashó on poetry
Be solitary.
Love solitude, and don’t look for poetry;
don’t seek what former poets sought;
see what is still and changeless;
see also what is changing;
be filled with the true nature of things – mountains, rivers, trees, grasses, falling blossoms, the scattering leaves,
and, yes, humanity too, its true nature –
and the universe will become your companion.
So your solitude will be full of the universe;
and you will watch, unmoved, the reality
and the vacuity of the world.
Concentrate your thoughts, in solitude,
on an object, on each object;
in this concentration,
the space between oneself and the object will disappear,
and the essential nature of the object can be perceived.
Then be quick to express it, while it lives for you;
say quickly what is in your mind;
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0020 A loving sestina to Our Lady
1 In Europe, around the end of the 12th century, women
2 began to be regarded by men as more than a good lay
3 and mother to your children; but that contented sorta love
4 that even men feel afterward, could be seen as quite divine
5 and thus related however distantly to the Creator;
6 this gave rise to a type of poetry called the sestina.
6 a troubadour called Arnaut Daniel invented the sestina,
1 so it’s said, around 1190; and this new respect for women
5 as being, believe it or not, related distantly to their Creator
2 led to this, to us, rather absurd and complicated ‘lay’ -
4 that was the rather double-entendre name for the divine
3 love for mankind related to the act of physical love
3 which, though we make this a common metaphor for love
6 today, was new then, to unreconstructed men; the sestina
4 which plugs the same six end-words throughout, divine
1 and human, was supposed to underline that women,
2 exquisitely praised in the poetry of the troubadour’s lay,
5 were men’s path to loving, through them, his Creator;
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Shop until you surface
It’s the weekend – but
you’re feeling low – well, more than low…
time, perhaps, for retail therapy…
the girls, the boys, go about it differently:
with the girls, a sense of purpose:
phone your Best Shopping Friend, arrange to meet;
for the boys, it has to be covert, set up
as accidental, just a diversion
on the way to pub or café..
Your best friend senses that you’re low;
so gently teases you by dragging off the rail
the most inappropriate; that’s easy for the girls;
it’s all huge fun, around the serious stuff;
for boys, even with your best friend – or perhaps,
because he is – the inner world is hedged with image,
self-esteem or lack of it.. a trip made best alone?
A new verse, now, for The Big Metaphor:
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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New Balls Please... Yes It's Another Rant...
Big sports weekend…
in a coupla hours, Wimbledon,
or to local residents, Womble-din…
someone’s gointa win; someone’s
gointa lose. That’s life
for millionaire sportspersons;
love-all. New balls please, loser…
then those post-match, post-coital,
exquisitely embarrassing how-was-it-for-you,
high-thrive or detumescent interviews…
will the dreaded HOW virus strike again?
live-mike brings on rabbit-in-the-headlights syndrome –
at the end of the day, we know
the answer – that’s what it’s all about,
all credit to the other guys…
yes, there was pressure – that’s what it’s…
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Taking coffee 'with' Jean-Paul Sartre.
It was 1952. We had a limited travel currency.
In Paris, I went one morning to
the Dome Café. There
sat Jean-Paul Sartre, smoking
a large meerschaum pipe
such as Kierkegaard or Nietzsche might have smoked;
he had his morning coffee in front of him.
Simone had not yet joined him.
A circle of young admirers sat at a
discreet distance; most wore black
but the young women could not avoid
a certain Parisian chic in their sombreness,
their existential frown and turned-down lips
around bright eyes.
It was the chance of what we call
a lifetime. Dare I speak to him?
Nothing ventured, nothing gained:
a human being must live his words,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0265 Tongue
strange name for a pet yeah?
but that's what I call it
and it knows its name
so we get along OK
I keep it in its cage now
since it's a bit large and scary
for those who haven't met it
or know its owner
but I've given it all I can think of
to keep it amused in its cage
papers old books photos to keep its teeth sharp
we love each other to bits
but every now and again
I can 't resist opening up the cage
and letting it out to be itself
wild untamed sometimes vicious irresponsible
I used to say naughty Tongue
who's a naughty boy then
but I felt such a hypocrite
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0331 How to Wait Doggedly
I’ve never seen him just like this before.
Crouched at the entrance to the largest run,
the burrowed-out soil in front of it
ground to dust by many eager legs
hopping, skipping out of the dark warren -
he’s totally silent, totally still. It's awesome.
This isn’t the puppy who goes wild at rabbits
in a frenzy of excitement, wet nose intoxicated by
a thousand trails of scent, scattering
white tails into burrows, barking wildly
(are they friends or enemies, in this joy?)
at the sheer excitement of the chase,
puppy paradise; but now..
this is serious stuff.
at first sight, you could think he’s resting, he’s so still;
his back legs haunched down under him, looking
like the sphinx itself, immobile, waiting for the question
it’s waited for through thousands of wise years;
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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