1
I know we will not live long enough
to witness the worst that, without a miracle,
will befall our children
and that women must be loved
on one’s knees, which I cannot, and supine,
and standing, which I cannot, or on one’s side,
with all five senses, and the vital three
(brain, heart and penis).
What else? That I am Prospero,
Caliban and, in love with Miranda,
that in my tenuous pantheon are Moses,
Jesus, Mahomet and the Buddha,
Shakespeare, Auden, Beethoven, Bach
and many minor gods, also
the Goddess who rules them:
that faces are pulled at our backs,
children learn to boo in unison,
welcome small accidents with hearty laughter
and thumb their nose at giants
Is chiefly her fault, Dame Kind’s
wayward daughter.
2
Marx and Freud flayed the body politic
something drained and something died
verity relaxed and we came out of hiding
infants know more than we did.
*
But what are you?
Damaged goods
and steep the way
and my love
In a customs shed
I have not declared
my veniality
*
Joys of imagined fleshs
scented, in close embrace
speaking to chemicals
fixate intelligence
*
The fish on the hook
stares you in the eye
the hen on the block
does not want to die
Caliban is back.
*
Father falters by the shed
Grandmother’s already dead
there’s so much to consider
and the blonde in Baby’s bed
what does that mean?
*
Who’s rooting for the strawberry
O enlightened one?
That when our backs are turned faces, are pulled,
that children learn to boo in unison,
welcome small accidents with hearty laughter
and are prepared to thumb their nose at giants
Is chiefly her fault, Dame Kind’s wayward daughter,
her lessons in mockery, eggings on
and unequivocal contempt for humbug.
She. above all the Great Ones, we revere
but could not live with.
She is called Widow, Mother (honorific.
usually Old) and Nurse. Her heart is large
and honest, as the rest of her. Unlike
the Villain (boo!) and the Principal Boy,
who is a girl and Something for the Dads
who otherwise won’t come.