THE NIGHT SKY
As I look into the night sky
I feel the immense comfort of the darkness.
The only points of light are distant
To the point of nothingness, as harmless as streetlamps.
But that is only perspective.
Vast clouds of dust and gas impede our view.
Little light reaches our tiny planet.
And our vision is forever limited.
We do not see the crunching together of galaxies,
the wolves that ride in the night consuming elephants,
the worms that ride in their bellies
before exploding into edifices,
the wild constructs of insane nature,
before it corrupts into its own deficiencies,
before it is devoured by the light,
which is the production of its own decay,
and its own falling together into massive formlessness,
beyond decency, beyond control, beyond comprehension,
beyond amazement, beyond advertisement, beyond notion even,
beyond every force of nature known to us,
beyond God, beyond the Hounds of Hell, beyond
beyond, beyond, beyond.
At the center of a star oxygen, nitrogen,
helium, all known gases, become iron.
We see nothing of this, but the iron
is in our blood and without it we are water.
Truly we are worms, that only eat
into the wolf’s belly.
But still I look into the night sky
and see comfort in its peace.
Ever constant, never changing,
that is how we wish the universe to be.
But yet it is flung, vast indefinable distances,
from some point never established,
never establishable.
To what purpose? In what direction?
There may not even exist any direction.
We may not understand the concept of direction,
which has a point of beginning and a destination,
only suffering and annihilation.
How can we come to terms with this?
As I look at the night sky,
I see a soft fog descending,
blanketing the mountain,
but this soft fog is death.
I also want the morning light,
in which the fog is driven away
and the stone rock face is once more seen
in all its clarity,
lifeless but perceptible,
and where I know I can once more
receive my maker.
Nov 2010.
Friday, 19 November 2010
Wednesday, 17 November 2010
The Goodnight Kiss
THE GOODNIGHT KISS
Sometimes we just hold hands
or rub each other’s back or feet
or pass our fingers through each other’ hair,
like fish swimming through anenomes.
But most of all the night begins
when our lips meet
and, no longer earthbound, we can fly
through gardens rich with flowers,
past lakes and waterfalls
on into the hills
and up the bare mountainside,
then on again into the dark,
between the silent stars,
to travel dreamless until morning.
Sometimes we just hold hands
or rub each other’s back or feet
or pass our fingers through each other’ hair,
like fish swimming through anenomes.
But most of all the night begins
when our lips meet
and, no longer earthbound, we can fly
through gardens rich with flowers,
past lakes and waterfalls
on into the hills
and up the bare mountainside,
then on again into the dark,
between the silent stars,
to travel dreamless until morning.
Journey Home
JOURNEY HOME
Each night I chase my journey home,
yet never find the true way there.
Sometimes I’m on a bus that stops
halfway and though I know the place,
I have no money for the fare to travel further.
Sometimes I ‘m still at school.
My pupils keep me back.
I’m grateful for their attendance but not
because they cause me to forget
the place I came from.
Sometimes I knock at unknown doors,
hoping for directions
but no-one answers.
Sometimes I’m in a place I know,
but do not know how to escape from it.
Sometimes I am at night, in frost, by stars
knowing there is a homeward way by heaven,
but that was long ago. The way
is closed, like the old midnight railway line
where mice sleep on the tracks.
My sleep is rarely comfortable,
and when I wake I ask:
is my home here,
even though I don’t know how to see it ?
Each night I chase my journey home,
yet never find the true way there.
Sometimes I’m on a bus that stops
halfway and though I know the place,
I have no money for the fare to travel further.
Sometimes I ‘m still at school.
My pupils keep me back.
I’m grateful for their attendance but not
because they cause me to forget
the place I came from.
Sometimes I knock at unknown doors,
hoping for directions
but no-one answers.
Sometimes I’m in a place I know,
but do not know how to escape from it.
Sometimes I am at night, in frost, by stars
knowing there is a homeward way by heaven,
but that was long ago. The way
is closed, like the old midnight railway line
where mice sleep on the tracks.
My sleep is rarely comfortable,
and when I wake I ask:
is my home here,
even though I don’t know how to see it ?
A very Brazilian funeral
A VERY BRAZILIAN FUNERAL
Miriam’s 88 year-old Aunt Nair died at the weekend and we took her Mother to the funeral on Monday. They don’t hang around much. You don’t want dead bodies lying around in the summer heat.
As the doctor had given a different cause of death to why she had been admitted to hospital, respectively pulmonary oedema and a broken leg, there had to be a police investigation. It was a public (charity) hospital and nobody trusts them much. So the body was only released for burial a few hours before the funeral. This was to have unforeseen consequences as I will explain later.
When we arrived in São Paulo we went to the house of a neighbour. Mourners are not generally admitted to the house of the deceased for fear of the Evil Eye. It was a typical lower middle class Brazilian house, very dark inside with lots of hand-made artifacts. Two superb half grandfather clocks of the 19th century, on adjacent walls, each chiming after the other in perfect time.
Miriam’s cousin Dito tried to keep us all amused with a series of funny stories, though most of the women were crying. His own daughter had died recently, murdered by an ex-boyfriend. Miriam made a cuckoo sound to indicate that she thought he had probably turned the corner.
We drove to the cemetery through insane traffic, in constant fear of getting lost as no-one knew the way and arrived a good two hours before the funeral was set to begin. The body was laid in an open coffin in a small chapel, one of several adjacent ones. It was a very busy cemetery. There were several other groups of mourners both in and outside these.
The body was covered with masses of lovely red and white flowers, leaving only the head and the hands exposed. Her skin was already the color of a medieval statue. Somewhat alarmingly many of the mourners wanted to hold her hands and stroke and kiss her face. No-one wore black. Most of the mourners were in T-shirts and jeans. One ten year old boy wore an Incredible Hulk jacket. There were a remarkable number of people there. I asked if they were all relatives and were told they were mostly neighbors, one of the many things different to England. After paying their last respects many remained on in the chapel to chat to their friends, the eternal Sao Paulo topics, the traffic, the rotten politicians, how hard it was to make ends meet. Nair continued looking at the ceiling behind closed eyes with a subtle smile, as if pleased that none of this could bother her any more. At times it got quite noisy. I wished there could have been some music. It was really more like a market than a funeral.
The late release of the body had an unwelcome consequence as I hinted at earlier. Because of the lack of notice the priest informed Arnildo, Nair’s son, who was organizing everything, that he would not be able to attend until 5.30. The funeral service had been scheduled for 5. At 5.30 the cemetery closed. There was no chance of altering these arrangements. As it appeared that there was a real chance of Nair being buried unceremoniously, Miriam bravely took matters in hand herself, and producing a prayer book conducted the service herself. Although understandably very nervous, she acquitted herself extremely well. The Catholic Church does not accept women priests, still less unordained ones, but there seemed to be little alternative.
Shortly after, two sextons, dressed in blue overalls a bit like car mechanics, appeared with a trolley and several of the mourners stepped forward to carry the coffin over to it. There was no sign of any undertakers. There was an unequal number of men on each side so the coffin tilted rather precariously and I don’t think the lid was nailed on but they managed to get it into position. We then walked down to the burial site, though Miriam’s mother had to be driven as it was quite a steep slope and she is not too good on her legs. As it was by now getting close to 5.30 the sextons had already put the coffin inside the grave by the time we arrived, the whole thing protected by a kind of awning.Beyond the grave there was a long row of other holes already dug. As I said it was a busy cemetery. There are 18 million people in Sao Paulo and it’s becoming very hard to find to find places to put them when they pass on. There was hardly any space between the graves. Miriam said it was more like a dog’s graveyard.There was no sort of ceremony at the graveside.
We didn’t stay long. Someone suggested we ought to go to see the grave of Marcia, Dito’s murdered daughter. As we walked along the rows of freshly buried corpses we had to be careful not to walk on the still bare earth. In one place the earth had collapsed over the grave and the handle of a coffin was now visible. There was no room for headstones, only a plaque that was placed on the top. I expected there to be some mention of the cruel way Marcia had died, but her plaque only gave the barest of details.
When we got home, Miriam insisted I remove my shoes before entering the house. It’s considered bad luck to bring in any earth in from such places. The following morning she had washed all our clothes. I asked if this was for the same reason but she said no, they were just very dirty.
I have given her instructions that I am to be cremated and the ashes sent back to England.
Miriam’s 88 year-old Aunt Nair died at the weekend and we took her Mother to the funeral on Monday. They don’t hang around much. You don’t want dead bodies lying around in the summer heat.
As the doctor had given a different cause of death to why she had been admitted to hospital, respectively pulmonary oedema and a broken leg, there had to be a police investigation. It was a public (charity) hospital and nobody trusts them much. So the body was only released for burial a few hours before the funeral. This was to have unforeseen consequences as I will explain later.
When we arrived in São Paulo we went to the house of a neighbour. Mourners are not generally admitted to the house of the deceased for fear of the Evil Eye. It was a typical lower middle class Brazilian house, very dark inside with lots of hand-made artifacts. Two superb half grandfather clocks of the 19th century, on adjacent walls, each chiming after the other in perfect time.
Miriam’s cousin Dito tried to keep us all amused with a series of funny stories, though most of the women were crying. His own daughter had died recently, murdered by an ex-boyfriend. Miriam made a cuckoo sound to indicate that she thought he had probably turned the corner.
We drove to the cemetery through insane traffic, in constant fear of getting lost as no-one knew the way and arrived a good two hours before the funeral was set to begin. The body was laid in an open coffin in a small chapel, one of several adjacent ones. It was a very busy cemetery. There were several other groups of mourners both in and outside these.
The body was covered with masses of lovely red and white flowers, leaving only the head and the hands exposed. Her skin was already the color of a medieval statue. Somewhat alarmingly many of the mourners wanted to hold her hands and stroke and kiss her face. No-one wore black. Most of the mourners were in T-shirts and jeans. One ten year old boy wore an Incredible Hulk jacket. There were a remarkable number of people there. I asked if they were all relatives and were told they were mostly neighbors, one of the many things different to England. After paying their last respects many remained on in the chapel to chat to their friends, the eternal Sao Paulo topics, the traffic, the rotten politicians, how hard it was to make ends meet. Nair continued looking at the ceiling behind closed eyes with a subtle smile, as if pleased that none of this could bother her any more. At times it got quite noisy. I wished there could have been some music. It was really more like a market than a funeral.
The late release of the body had an unwelcome consequence as I hinted at earlier. Because of the lack of notice the priest informed Arnildo, Nair’s son, who was organizing everything, that he would not be able to attend until 5.30. The funeral service had been scheduled for 5. At 5.30 the cemetery closed. There was no chance of altering these arrangements. As it appeared that there was a real chance of Nair being buried unceremoniously, Miriam bravely took matters in hand herself, and producing a prayer book conducted the service herself. Although understandably very nervous, she acquitted herself extremely well. The Catholic Church does not accept women priests, still less unordained ones, but there seemed to be little alternative.
Shortly after, two sextons, dressed in blue overalls a bit like car mechanics, appeared with a trolley and several of the mourners stepped forward to carry the coffin over to it. There was no sign of any undertakers. There was an unequal number of men on each side so the coffin tilted rather precariously and I don’t think the lid was nailed on but they managed to get it into position. We then walked down to the burial site, though Miriam’s mother had to be driven as it was quite a steep slope and she is not too good on her legs. As it was by now getting close to 5.30 the sextons had already put the coffin inside the grave by the time we arrived, the whole thing protected by a kind of awning.Beyond the grave there was a long row of other holes already dug. As I said it was a busy cemetery. There are 18 million people in Sao Paulo and it’s becoming very hard to find to find places to put them when they pass on. There was hardly any space between the graves. Miriam said it was more like a dog’s graveyard.There was no sort of ceremony at the graveside.
We didn’t stay long. Someone suggested we ought to go to see the grave of Marcia, Dito’s murdered daughter. As we walked along the rows of freshly buried corpses we had to be careful not to walk on the still bare earth. In one place the earth had collapsed over the grave and the handle of a coffin was now visible. There was no room for headstones, only a plaque that was placed on the top. I expected there to be some mention of the cruel way Marcia had died, but her plaque only gave the barest of details.
When we got home, Miriam insisted I remove my shoes before entering the house. It’s considered bad luck to bring in any earth in from such places. The following morning she had washed all our clothes. I asked if this was for the same reason but she said no, they were just very dirty.
I have given her instructions that I am to be cremated and the ashes sent back to England.
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