The Meaning of Intelligence
To make the distinction between the Person and the Thing,
Discriminate in one's depths 'twixt blind force and the Ring
Of deafening Silence, that bears the fruits of Honesty,
The leaves of Chastity, the flowers of Purity, that hold
The wayward, broken flesh of man's Mortality
In willing, mutual vigour, compassionate Charity;
Is all we have Intelligence granted to us,
To swat illusion, scatter lies, to gather up trust.
Things mend with the exposure; we need the heat, the cold,
The wind and rain to mould and reset our bearings to carry the old
And start afresh in new configurations bright with contentment
And lost illusions; but if the burdens too great
The gate will come off its hinges, the fence grate
The pavement and public places. Smiles can help the process
But isolation tears the pith from the prowess
And leads to the maw of a souless resentment.
The Angler Fish
If the male to the unbilical chord
Is tied, an angler fish inside a womb;
Caught between weakness and devouring strength,
The duty of manhood and pity's tomb;
Life within love's placenta, strewn at length
The Ocean bed, is but death's lovely ward.
Deep within her flesh, his soul ruminates
Swallowing the debris she has long cared,
Seeing with her eyes, sensing with the tips
Of feelers, her body's corpse long prepared,
Not knowing if it's he or she who dips
The line, to catch the fish, that time frustrates.
The Meaning of Sport
If our lives are written in sport,
Endless lines that reach the nethers and tort,
In sympathy and affection; loyalty gone for the reasons of our team,
Are we not tropes of a wider kalideoscope
Where what is not important is transferred to the pub or terraces,
So we can sit it in bars for the sake of a hopeful win
That ends in the tapas room and bearpit
Where we feel locally loyal or nationally proud
And throw our drunken weight, outside, inside
And feel better at the end of an everchanging, inconsequential tide.