SEAL CULL

.
A silent boat is sliding to the shore;
High above the buzzards wheel;
The scientists have come,
To crucify the seal.

Soon the pumping blood will pour,
And gush in rivers to the sea;
The brutal men who drip with gore,
Work with fierce relentless glee:

They boast they know the reasons why
Some should live and some should die.

The wind is freshening in the North,
Dark clouds drift across the bay,
Foaming breakers hurry forth,
Lightning starts to crash and play.

Oh. let them be,
The gentle children of the sea!

But more and more,
The bodies pile up on the shore,
And the tortured minds of terrible men
Plan where they will kill again.

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THE HERMIT

.
Slowly, slowly sinks the setting sun,
An orange disc of molten fire,
As if it were the funeral pyre
Of all his earthly hopes.

Yet in the enveloping dusk
The frail husk of his body glows,
Lit by the pale snows
Around him.

High at the summit of the world
His spirit soars above the icy peaks,
Even as his flesh decays
And intimates its final days
Are near.

Once he knew the warmth of love,
But when it failed
He sought a simple holy place,
To look for peace,
Alone.

He gazes with his aged eyes
At the jagged mountains carved below,
The silent stones,
That taught him truths he did not know
Before.

At last he rests,
And his faded eyes
Close for ever.

And then he sees
What he had not seen
With all the youthful power of his sight:
The love he sought
Was always there
Beside him.

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DREAM

.
Bright the valley, swift the stream
Tumbling over in my dream;
O bright the valley, O swift the stream
That tumbles over in my dream!

For I have worked in steaming cities,
And I have trod the gloomy streets
Of countless walls that choke and wither
All that moves;
Where young are old, and old are dead
Before they know that they were young.

But bright the valley, and swift the stream
That tumbles over in my dream.

For I have seen the blocks of flats,
Where human beings live in traps,
Built for them by lunatics.

But bright my valley, and O swift the stream!

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BBC NEWS PRESENTER

.
Well-heeled and smug,
He feeds on other people's misfortunes,
And luxuriates in their distress,
While pretending to be sad:

With solemn tone and gloomy look,
As if he reads a holy book,
He cunningly dissimulates
And makes believe he cares;

He has contempt for you and me,
And endlessly pontificates,
For he belongs to the sect
Called 'Politically Correct'.

Bereft of feeling,
Hypocritical and glib,
He is utterly bad.

________________________________

THE WARRIOR MAIDENS' CHALLENGE

.
The men sat waiting,
Wondering if they would come,
Their talk rising and falling
In a low dull murmuring hum.

Suddenly at the appointed hour,
As if from nowhere,
The maidens appeared
Over the brow of the hill,
And stood,
Statuesque and still,
Tall and slim,
Their firm bodies
Lit from within
By the flames of their exuberant vitality;
Radiant with power,
They looked at the men below:

Easily they raised their weapons high,
Silhouetted against the sky,
Bare limbs gleaming,
Yearning for the thrill of combat,
Their whole lives culminating in this hour.

Silent and motionless,
They seemed to the men
Even taller and stronger,
Their perfect bodies
Glowing in the sun.

And even as the men marvelled
At the maidens' strength and beauty
The girls began to dance,
Lithe, loose-limbed and free,
Whirling and stamping their feet,
Drumming the earth
With a vibrant hypnotic beat,
Disciplined and fierce;

Their taut bodies
Throbbed with energy,
Which surged through their being
And filled the men with fear:

The dancing slowed to a rhythmic swaying
From foot to foot and side to side,
And as they swayed they began a chant
Which resounded far and near,
Overwhelming the bewildered men,
Who had neither heard nor seen
Anything like this before.

All at once the maidens stopped
And were still,
Breathing deeply,
And with every breath
Gathering strength,
The infinite vigour of the universe
Flooding through them;

The men's minds groped to understand,
Tumultuous thoughts spinning inside their heads.

Abruptly the maidens started down the slope
And swept towards the men,
Leaping and swooping
Like falcons in flight,
Eager for the fight,
The flames of life burning ever brighter,
Certain of their invincibility.

The men quailed
And lost all hope,
Seeing that they would lose
And could only choose
To flee or die;

Overcome by dread
Their muttering ceased:
Dropping their weapons on to the ground
They turned and fled.

The maidens did not pursue them,
But stood and shouted in triumph,
And sang a new exultant refrain,
Which rose and fell
Echoing around the hills
And across the plain
And back again,
Swirling around the men as they ran:
The whole of life was the girls' domain.

Neither the men
Nor they
Would ever forget
This day.

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The poem above is based on an actual incident.

WATERLOO STATION

.
Below the many-sided clock
Flocks of pigeons strut and coo;
They dwell
In the stink and smell,
The filthy hell
That is Waterloo.

Coo, little pigeons, coo!
The clock is meaningless to you;
And the food is good
At Waterloo.

And there are others
Who flock to Waterloo:
Twice a day,
Worn and tense,
A huge migration gallops through;
For them the clock is God.

They have no time to strut and coo,
They're running round their frantic zoo;
There's nothing else that they can do,
Because they made it:
It has no other use.

Coo, little pigeons, coo!
We envy you.

-------------------------------------------

GRANDSON

.
There is a sunbeam in my life,
That shines all day
And shines all night
And scatters starlight in my heart,
And fills my striving soul with light.

The balm of heaven in his kiss,
Eternal beauty in his smile,
He has come from halls of bliss,
And in that love-filled paradise
His spirit lingers yet awhile.

He reaches up with trusting hand
For me to guide his shaky step;
Yet I it is who need his help
To lead me to the promised land.

He has a magic year or two,
Before his body traps his mind,
And binds it with demanding flesh,
And wraps it in the complex mesh
Of all the things men fill their lives with.

And I am near the end of the road
That leads to where he's come from;
And I needed to be reassured,
And shown the living love of God.

But when I see each joyous step
And the radiant beauty of his smile,
I know that God is with me yet,
And with me
To the end of time.

____________________________________

ELDERLY WOMAN

.
When I was young
I laughed and ran,
And danced and sang,
And revelled in my lusty body,
Exploding with vitality;

My lips were full,
Radiant like rosehips,
And all the men desired me,
Their longing gazes following
Wherever I went,
And yearning for my kisses.

Now I'm a hag,
My energy spent,
My body like a piece of scrag
The butcher gives away:

I cannot prance or dance;
Lurching as I walk,
Clutching at my stick,
I am like a badly treated nag;
My legs and knees are
Twisted instruments of pain.

My skin
Is withered and thin;
My lips are tight and dry
Like rusty paper clips.

Now little children
Look away
When they see me:
Instinctively they know
That nobody should be like this.

I had not known,
No-one had told me,
Until it was too late,
What I was doing to myself,
When years of needless selfishness and greed
And heedless petty deed
Unnoticed poisoned all the fabric of my body,
Stealthily turning it to dust.

If only I were young again,
And knew that living without giving
Is slow and painful suicide.

________________________________________________

MODERN POETRY

.
I read a so-called poem the other day:
I knew it was modern
Because it had nothing to say.
Nor did it scan or make sense;

It was bad prose,
Chopped into arbitrary rows
Of ugly inconsequential lines,
Without rhyme
Nor reason, nor plan
Nor anything I could understand:

A perversion of reality,
An assault on humanity,
A self-indulgent pretence.

But where are the real poets who,
Brimming with inspiration,
Could uplift the nation,
Just as the giants of yesteryear
Used to do?

They are swept aside or crushed
By the all-pervading mush,
Propagated by the sad and sorry souls,
Who now hold sway;

Deluded by their own stupidity,
They arrogantly inflict their gloomy instability
On all the rest
Of us;

And if Tennyson were writing his noble poems today,
These people would say:
"He is cra-
zy."

________________________________________________

THE WONDER OF LOVE

.
Year after year I wooed her,
Until I won her,
And reaped the wonder of her love,
Which so nourished and strengthened
My soul and my body,
That I grew
From a nonentity
Into a God.

___________________________________

For D.B.

LONELINESS

.
I spoke to the dentist
As I left his chair,
And to an old man,
Scurrying through the park;

I listened to the song
Of a fluttering skylark.

After that I went home,
And watched pretty girls
Dancing on TV.

Where, oh where
Is the pretty girl for me?


___________________________

A CHILD'S PUPPY

.
I could not love you more,
Funny little doggy on the floor,
Watching me with wondering eyes,
Without deceit, incapable of lies,
Innocent of all the sins
My mummy and my daddy most despise;
I know I'll love him till he dies.


___________________________________

CLEGG

.
His name is Nick Clegg:
He hasn't a leg
To stand on,
But he can beg any question
You mention,
And he's so good at patter,
It just doesn't matter;
He spouts mental bling,
Which doesn't mean anything.


_______________________________

A GORILLA SPEAKS

.
Hideous hairless men
Peer at us
Through their silly telescopes,
Or kill us:

They see us
As idiots
With gigantic strength
And feeble mentality.

They know nothing
Of how we think,
Or what we want from life.

Their thoughts are crazed distortions
Of reality:
They are living catastrophes,
Parasites on all the rest
Of creation,
A calamity.


______________________________________

MY PETS AND I

.
I have two pets,
A dog and a tree.

My dog loves me:
What does the tree think about,
Standing all day
Alone,
Except when I am there?

She does not talk,
Or take a walk,
Or fetch a ball,
Or come when I call:

Anchored to the ground,
She cannot bound,
Nor utter a sound.

But she knows I love her
Just the same.


___________________________