Work in Progress

sonnet I, 12 September 2008

an unexpected letter, with a cheque
sends her sprinting past cats in sardine cans

she leaves behind landlord, utilities bills
to find her dealer in the marketplace of dreams

he's always late. she waits to score a half
idly growing graffiti in a grimy alley

where new age angels argue grammar, grip gerunds,
concealed weapons in a war of attrition

a sneaky guerilla movement sends her sprawling.
she wakes at dawn, in mountains, by a lake

where beams of light carefully fold mist blankets
back into the packing case of night

and wisps of words, for sheer delight, entwine
and clear. to be closer, first she must die

sonnet II

a path less travelled leads through leaves of grass
she follows prints through dust along the lake

to a promontary; weeping women place a corpse
into a boat. she shoulders roughly through the crowd

and boards before it floats towards
the island in the middle, fog-enshrouded

the mirror surface gleams in razored lines
she leans, breathes in more than her fair share

becomes the first to see the wet white arm
lift out and catch the sword, then disappear

as the boat grounds; she soars above
the castle stones, magician's prison cave

the elemental battle skirmish pause. horses
of the sun beat nearer. still she soars

sonnet III

fire roars, she melts, hesitates, tumbles
in fall, comes back to herself flat on a floor

one leg in the air, in the Musee des Beaux Arts
beneath a Breughels, unnoticed. tourists come and go

she stands, aware of a je ne sais quoi in the air
horse chestnuts spring in Paris, passion everywhere

pulling. in a blink she's at the zinc of the Deux Magots
drinking absinthe, measuring time by a pile of saucers

watches a pool-playing dwarf dance with poules
between shots; an artist draws the four card-players

at a nearby table. pictures are taken from walls
by a large woman with a wooden mask face

whose companion offers her a cookie; familiar taste
of underworld food. ravenous, she requests more

sonnet IV

the Moor, in desert robes, regards her quizzically
behind him, past the ruined face, sands stretch

towards eternity. she looks on, and despairs
of time and place, unearned grace, and mounts

his camel; they soon arrive at the soukh
of the Sheiks' camp, where dark-eyed houris

scatter poppy petals, pluck on dulcimers
murmuring words unheard but understood

the tinkle of the decorated gauzes blends
with goat bells as she bends towards

nargileh's mouthpiece, breathes in deep
enchantment into sleep, unchartered

on dark desert's blazing blanket sky; stars wander
at will, obeying ancient laws unwritten still

sonnet V

the carpet undulates under her, soon
flies smoothly through the desert air

two sisters sit and chatter, from their stories
build jewelled worlds on kernels of harsh truth

death pauses in his duties, allows beauty
to wing amongst the parliament of birds

dark velvet sky is sundered by explosions
as dawn releases sleep from Dardenelles

and the Bosphorus blows up. the carpet tumbles
down into the trenches of a hell supposed

to end all wars. she lands among the children
toys in a grown-up game, with them stands in line

recieves the sacrament daily dispensed
morphine, cocaine and rum for wine and bread

sonnet VI

dark here in the depths of trenches
where unafraid, rats gnaw on exposed bones

the layers show the sediment of war, provide
ghastly shelter for survivors who huddle alone

against the arms of comrades. death cuddles life
the only real enemy here. knife blades of time

slice many threads at once. disease comes with sun
as flies arrive, thrive on rats' leavings

she slips into sleep, undisturbed by heaving
earth as morning mortars land, her dreams

peopled by ghosts of enemies and friends
who rest together, bones entwined, building

a common dust. all living things must
come to this. red poppies grow from reddened soil

sonnet VII

the petals drop, their cycle done. she wakes to sun
and surf on a deserted shore. a sole footprint

in the sand points to a rough camp, where sit
in earnest conversation, sufi sage and castaway

so engrossed they don't notice her, construct
with words, worlds that may discover god, or not

where learning, knowledge, count for less
than close attention to the quest, the journey

that each steps alone and cannot know the end
the sage is calm, but her thoughts, dervish, spin

intoxicated by the glimpse through earthly veil of
some bright magnificence, the very drive of life

a vision of light, transmitted down through centuries.
she blinks. City Lights Bookshop. bell rings, she enters

sonnet VIII

where a poet in a poncho eats stew from a spoon
where another howls at the city, the world, hurls words

like weapons, where weathermen dare predict
change, where lava and ash from poetry eruptions

scatter in the fireplace, and a sweet hippy Zen
bongo defines silence, turned on, tuned in, cooled

the women are young and beautiful, dark eyes, long hair
like gypsies, elemental angels, erotic violinists, artists

men bristle anarchy and dreams, weave solutions
from LSD enlightenment, or jerk and sniff and scratch

retire to the cracked porcelain safety of nirvana
in the bathroom where the vortex is a maelstrom

incense, candles, sitar music, patchouli and musk
her kind of place. it's dusk. the lights come on

sonnet IX

she doesn't see much connection between poverty
and the refinement of poetry

in addition to material poverty
there's spiritual sterility, too

Tu Fu's straw hut was a big house
in a garden that takes minutes to walk across

he didn't starve to death
that was a sentimental invention

in the garbage bins of the wealthy
good food lies rotting as waste

beside them, the poor
lie frozen in death

hungry, she becomes like him
a flesh canoe, floating, adrift

sonnet X

and awoke in prairie meadow
sudden in an evening twilight

where the lilies and the mosses
grow beside the shining water

she can hear the river breathing
through the singing of the people

and the music seems to shimmer
with the pulsing of the starshine

words of wonder whisper pine trees
as the moon comes up in liquid

in the moonlight she is dancing
with the shadow of a hero

and the pipe of peace is passed on
but the peace remains there with them

sonnet XI

as if sleep-walking, she has risen
in the golden dawn and gone on

to another lake placed island
where peace drops slow. between

bean rows the drowsy bee-song soothes
and different birdsong decorates the glade

the small cabin beckons, she steps inside
into a pentagram before a banked fire

and feels the power of older gods, unchanged
through time, lap like lake water

through her, down deep to her heart's core
she pauses here regaining strength

until the purple haze of moon recalls her
to her search, and with regret she goes

sonnet XII

she is in a crowd on a platform
the train started, stopped, all is confusion

a woman screams, a stretcher passes
with a light burden. she recognises Anna

she is in a village store. the door bursts open
a man, mad with grief, screams 'Emma!'

she is by a stream, as if dreams
all were water. here, in peace, Ophelia

beside a river, watcing the sad woman
make sure of rocks, calls 'no, Virginia!'

too late, outside a London flat
to turn off gas. where is Sylvia?

in a silken bed beside a man
who loves her, reaches for his Desdemona

sonnet XIII

darkness clears, she sees again
she is on a beach. lovers, entwined

in primal harmony move as waves before her
she pauses in awe of this unexpected beauty

startled, they turn towards her, dark megaliths
more totem than person, their eyes are questions

for which she has no answer. from his chest
extends a giant phallus, potent, glistening

and in his lover's chest she sees, uncomprehending
a fitting hole, pulsating still; through it

glimpses of another world in throes of creation.
trespasser on sacred soil, she slinks away

under nightmare trees whose spirits mock
one who would seek yet be afraid to see

sonnet XIV

she hears mermaids sifting wind through their hair
on golden riverbank sands; with the sound of feathers beating

everything turns around. like a circling wind, evening
settles fast and dim, distilled into whispers

muzzein calls in numinous ritual on the moon.
darkness sits on the marketplace. a riddle leads her

spiralling down to the central well. all it holds
is moon. she plants secrets in silence.

will sorrow feed her? she is trapped behind glass
a photograph to stare at until dawn breaks

on tigers with diamond eyes who turn into
hard gods of chaos and thunder, smell of burning hair

wounding day with acts of venegance. pain is alien
to the dead, acrobats of violence hungry for transformation.

sonnet XV

she wakes alert in her childhood room
familiar creaks of parent's bed next door

now known as love song, followed by silence
padding footsteps move towards the toilet

a stream, a flush, feet pad again, a final creak
as bed resettles, low murmurs, slow sound of sleep

around her the house is full of sleeping family
her eyes fill with tears - how simple it all seems

and how she struggled to be free of this
not knowing what she had; spent decades

in vain attempt to recreate this easy state
of belonging, having an assured and welcome place

the bedroom door swings open; her first cat
leaps to his usual place beside her, settles, purrs