A Good Man in an Evil Time

This is the story I was told – I’ve omitted
the details which might identify
and narrow down the nation,
the place, the family, the man…

It was in his teens, at school,
when the national leader arose
to bring the nation to its future,
its fulfilment, its destiny; so, like
his fellows, he joined the youth corps,
their eyes shining with ideals.

When the war inevitably came,
the time to show the world,
he was conscripted as a soldier.
He was not easy with this; killing for any noble cause
was not in his beliefs; he sought advice
in every holy book of every faith,
and knew within himself that he was right:
life is in the gift of the gods, and not of men.

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0015 Aftermath of War

Within themselves, they hold
more than any man or woman should be asked to hold;
they are the unsung heroes of the peace
which clutches at the coat-tails of a war;
and we can never truly know them;
only offer them love, support, respect…

My first school had been an officers’ recuperation hospital
or final hospice for the wounded – in their body or their mind -
in the 1914-18 war; now
the dignified head doctor of few words
and his beautifully-mannered, voluptuous
ex-head-nurse wife
had made of it an ideal, loving school
for the new children of a new era after
‘the war to end all wars’…
The last resting place of warriors with screaming silent minds
who could not recuperate or
who found death so much more peaceful than their life
became, first the art room,

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0405 The Mountain of Truth

This bloody poetry writing - it's like rock-climbing -
who asked you to, anyway?
who needs it?
why can't you be just like everyone else -
admire the mountain from afar,
Olympus, Parnassus, whatever, what's in a name?
its cap of snow, the way you often can't see the top
for mist; like romance around truth.
Homer at the top saw gods - shall you?

But no -
it's a fine summer morning
and you get the urge to see the view from the top;
well fine, but that's not enough for you,
no going up the standard route for you, oh no,
you want to be the first to get to the top by
a new route never attempted before...

so there you are an hour or two later, at the grassy foot
safe in your skin and about to risk your life

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0218 Paradise Known

O God - or may I call you Lord? –
I remember when I was a child,
You were my best friend, one who knew me
better than I knew myself;
and so I talked to You all the time,
especially when I’d been naughty;
then later on, it was taught me
that I’m made in Your image – that feels good…

I know, just as all children do,
what Paradise is, and where:
when the sun is out,
it’s in that wood beyond the field,
where I feel most myself;
but not quite out of sight of home;
and lots of other places just like that;
then when the sun goes in, I go in too,
and Paradise is - when I’m tired and fed,
and then all nice and read to, tucked up in bed;
and Paradise is in my head.

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Hickory, dickory, deconstructed dock...

and the maker of the case
had given it rudimentary legs
with a little space between them and the floor
and though the case was of finest polished
hickory-wood, he’d not given much valued time
to the cheap wood of the interior shelf
below the shining weight swinging to and fro
on the pendulum..

you don’t often catch a mouse climbing;
but the philosophy of all scavengers large and small
is ‘you never know…’ – the floor is the first place, but
the table top may hold hidden treasure
on its fertile plain; and though this strange
upright monster of furniture didn’t seem
promising to a twitching whiskered nose,
you never know… Though the gentlemice
are the family’s scavengers in chief, the ladymouse
can be desperate with all those little mouths to feed…

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Christmas - a despatch from the battlefield of the heart

Christmas is a-comin’ – but
this goose is gettin’ thin…

why do I feel I’m in the dock
of some unauthorised court of moral judgment
with the prospect of spending New Year
in some condemned cell of
personal opinion remarkably similar to
a Dickensian prison now electrified in just one wing…?

Forget the whole giving-presents thing – that’s
relatively simple – it’s those bloody
Christmas cards. Sent yours yet?

I’m with the angels on this one –
peace on earth and goodwill to all, uh,
persons… I’m fully paid up on
this one – so – can we stick with that?
or do we have to prove it with
a ready-printed message once a year?

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Woman on the Underground

Nondescript – her clothes say nothing
except perhaps, ‘neatish’; hair – just there..
certainly quiet; not hiding behind a book
or newspaper; nice eyes, though;
she’s nearly your age; maybe more…
and yet – surely, you’ve seen that face
somewhere before?

What an incredible memory we have
for faces – like, the managing director
of some store firm which you’ve never used,
seen profiled once on the business pages
which you never usually read…

You stare discreetly at her, as if
you want her to reveal herself some way –
a sorta condensed silent biodata…

Then it all comes back. Her name?
No that still escapes you..

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Evening contentment: a meal, a temple

and as the thick heat of the day lifts off,
the city comes alive.

What is architecture without shadow?
At the wrong but necessary time,
midday in high summer, when
the overhead sun has stolen into siesta
all meaning, even beauty,
from the very temples themselves,
we had been clambering around the Acropolis,
which seemed to promise so much from afar,
an ideal world; now up close, we couldn’t find it,
trying perhaps too hard; that tiny temple by the entrance
offered more; the korae in the museum
smiled an understanding of all this;
knew all about us. This is what awe means.

Now, in the cooling air of evening, the tourists,
showered, in their fresh cottons,
meet and converge with their Athenian hosts

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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What The ****? !

All was quiet in the Garden of Eden
and not a fig-leaf stirred...

but after the Fall of Man
(usually forwards and enthusiastically, we note)
literature
required some word for what happens
when evening falls, the curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
lovers begin to nuzzle, friends
remember a prior engagement, journalists
try to bribe the night porter, and
some novelists, blushing, draw the curtain, while others
brighten and begin to enjoy their work; and filmmakers
need to decide between a darkling screen,
a symbolic firework display, or
box-office returns.

Egyptian hieroglyphics afford little clue (there's
a chance missed) : but jump-cutting now to Anglo-Saxon usage,
Chaucer, Father of the English Language so we're told,

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The life or death question

You could guess from the crowd
converging on the Memorial Hall
and on a Saturday night, that
the speaker must be world-famed in his field,
making his first visit to the college.

A French scientist of renown –
cognitive theory or some such –
turned Buddhist monk these thirty, forty years,
he carried the blessing and the curse,
the burden of responsibility not only of his vocation
but his fame. The hall was packed.

Serene – ‘together’ has to be the word –
he spoke for an hour; enthusiastic applause;
then question time.

There’s always that tense silence before
the first question…how will
the hall respond tonight? Will it hold the level

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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