Four New Poems at Level 2 of the Covid-19 Emergency

Seasons of Tectonic Despair

There was a time when sylphs were summer’s ornament,

Nereids, water-babies and all that ilk,

And the universe’s government ran milk

And honey over dunes and dells, and all that meant

Something surely, as satins did and silk

When lovely demoiselles thought money spent

Well if luxuries and luminescence bent

Across the moon and brought forth sighs, but not

If leather bats and cardboard goblins were sent

On futile junkets into empty worlds;

As though their fragrant breath was daubed with snot

And eye-beams fluttered until they were uncurled

And fell into the swamps of inflammation:

So winter’s flu destroyed the flaccid nation.

Dream of Someone Very Special

I had lived among the werewolves long enough,

And watched berserkers break away in battle,

And thought that wodwoses were wily, tough

And mean, until I saw stampeding cattle

Chased over cliffs by puny little hunters,

Creatures without claws or antlers, whose calls

Were wild and inarticulate—only prattle

Round their fire pits, who scratch the walls

Of twisted caverns in the dark. Then I knew

The game was up for unicorns, for churls,

For every sort of satyr, and so I flew

Into the safest haven outside of heaven: girls’

And boys’ imagination, pink and blue,

Namby-pamby blankets, in rose and lilac halls.

The Noble Tui

The tui, with his white bow tie, loves to bathe

In our garden. He stands on the rim, turns left,

Then right, then takes his dip, flutters, bereft

Of dignity for just a moment—a wraith

In the silver light of dawn. A moment later

The sparrows gather, flouncing about, to peck

At crumbs of mouldy bread, that I, their waiter,

Scatter with disgust and duty. Those who wreck

The drying grass must be fed, though they lack

Respect and self-esteem. The noble tui

Will not deign to eat such fare, yet for who he

Is, atop the tree, does strip a snack

Of bark ostentatiously; and then at night,

When no one spies, he gathers morsels bite

By bite while flying low, in my spite.

The Shaman’s Flight

Shamans fly among the trees, not like bats

By radar; they glide up into the sky, then dart

Down underground to tussle with spirits, that’s

Their special task.  Another healer’s art

Is to creep, crawl, insinuate herself

Inside the consciousness of pain—and shout

A library of curses, until the elf

Recedes and runs away. And all about

The luminescent body tremble sons

And daughters, who dance and chant, until

The medicine takes hold. There are suns

And moons inside the soul, and stars that spill

Out energy of primal bangs, great storms

Of light and dark upon our fragile forms.