A Couple of Old Poems

Primavera Yet Again

Spring comes like a snowball down a lava mountain side,

bump and frazzle, gathering size and speed,

but slowly disappearing as it approaches the bottom

where we are seated, exhausted from the mere

contemplation of the climb ahead;

dark and fuzzy in the overcast afternoon,

its promise tantalises only because we know

from ancient sonnets what it’s supposed to bring.

Down from the topos of the mountains

like a ripe cliché in June it bounces

and sings to the circle of randy owls all night

and leaves its rancid odours as it melts on the morning slope

for frustrated nymphs and swains to follow

as they seek the shelter of its eloquence.

Spring, thou art a loser of attention, a thumper

of pretentiousness, that I could not live without,

and therefore I call on you, before you dissolve

completely, to spare a drop of wholesome blood

and a rare pressure on my temples, pretty please.

Medicinal Advice for the New Millennium

Melody or malady, the old physicians pondered,

A Galen of this, a bit of humor, purge

And blood-letting, change of climate, try

To think of pleasant things, or not to think at all.

Hippocrates, Vasilius,  Maimonides, schools

Of fish or physicians, what’s the use? The pains

Remain, and Æscelapius cannot dream up cures,

No matter how many serpents entwine his staff.

Let us dissect more pigs, study chicken eggs,

Count out the generations of the fruit fly, pour beans

Into cold crania, are these skulduggery tactics

More efficacious? Ask the victims, if you can.

Who bottles ether from the stratosphere,

 Ignites with phlogiston the laughing gas,

Sour-stuff, miasma’s whipping boy?

The passes made by Doctor Mesmer ooze

With self-assurance, and the vital spirits

Wriggle in delight.  But Houdini did as well,

And Doctor Slop could not save the nose of Tristram,

No more than Susannah with the window sash.

So stick to myrtle leaves and moly, manuka

Honey, cod-liver oil, and mummy’s kisses:

The melody lingers, and the malady passes on.