0013 The Witness Box
It was a minor court case –
a matter of a market trader
selling maybe stolen goods,
the police attempting, probably not for the first time,
to get clear evidence to nail him…
but for those serving on a jury
for the first time, an occasion
full of all the solemn majesty of law;
the difficulties of following court proceedings;
weighing the evidence; and most of all,
the fear of convicting an innocent man –
even, as visibly here, a slippery man to deal with.
The court was small; almost intimate.
After the grubby, vague, sometimes seemingly irrelevant
prosecution claims (points being made that
a jury would not appreciate, involving finer points of law) -
and, months after the event,
policemen reading from notes they took of the case
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Mind's Polarities
It’s said – and so it seems to be –
that when the individual mind
emerges from that place where mind
rests, perfect, and in unity with all things to be known –
in that place, which is; within us, and without us:
that in that moment, as the mind expands,
and as its sphere within expands to match that sphere without,
polarities arise; such axis as may join them
to lie hidden and forgot; instead we see
all as remotenesses, that grow ever more the farther;
and then – the aweful nature of the human lie –
name them ‘opposites’… and in that step,
a further one, ‘duality’…
and so, condemn ourselves to fruitless life
where, across the vast mind’s sphere,
sadness – let’s say – sees, far off, that pure happiness -
too far, too far, to be within its reach…
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0244 Trying to write a sonnet
It's a bit like a trip in a hot air balloon -
the hot air of thousands of years of
poets poetizing; all trying to float a little higher than the everyday,
just a little lower than the angels -
whoops, there's four lines gone already...
so, the first four lines or so say
where you're taking this trip from, hoping
to arrive somewhere quite new and unexpected
after fourteen lines, otherwise
why take the trip at all?
so, fire up the burner of ambition, whatever,
and we're into the second four lines now;
floating in an easy, silent, gently breeze-blown world,
a poet's paradise,
where the mind is stilled, the beauty of the landscape
almost beyond words (ha!) : all perspectives on the world
altered; but do we know now where we're heading?
It's a cool way of experiencing altered state
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Teacher
I wish I’d known him better.
But our respect for him was such
that you only spoke to him
when you needed to.
In a way, that was to know him truly.
You wouldn’t notice him, passing him
in a crowd; and yet, two paces on,
and you’d feel you had just passed
someone who walked in their own space
and left space itself quite unaffected.
To meet him, in the corridor, say,
early in the morning, was - what? -
awesome, refreshing, vitalising:
there was a sense that overnight,
he’d dived into some deep ocean
of sheer bliss; and emerged
like a morning seashore,
washed with freshness,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Emily Dickinson takes a poetry course
Dear Ms Dickinson: I’ve just received
your amusing little trifle,
'Faith is a fine invention'
as your first week's homework on this course..
and hope that as your designated docent
(you may of course request a change..)
we may establish a relationship
that’s full of ‘ mellow fruitfulness’ – as
John Keats (1795-1821) would put it..
First, may I say that it’s more interesting
for the reader, not to use the first line
of your poem –especially one so short –
as the title…something more intriguing perhaps?
such as – in this case, ‘Natural Science’?
I have a feeling that you have within you
much more to say on this theme
(already well covered by the poets, did you know?)
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Parsing of Senility
The names go first. That’s not
uncommon, and even among those who
are younger.. psychologists say
(how discomforted this couch, Professor Freud..)
it’s sheer selfishness; we don’t want our friends
to know our other friends..
The names go first. One learns the dodges –
‘You’ll all know each other, of course…’;
names, they’re nouns; so how far will it go?
how well can I live well, when without nouns?
Spirit lives in all things; the self exists in all;
perhaps I’ll manage with this thought.
Then, what will be next to go ? (The nurse sighs
as the impatient patient cries, ‘..want..THAT…’)
Ah, there’s the clue: pronouns simply stand for names;
first person, second, third, will merge
into one selfish self – ‘want.. that! .. hungry..! fetch!
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0011 How Rilke might have translated Bashó on poetry
Be solitary.
Love solitude, and don’t look for poetry;
don’t seek what former poets sought;
see what is still and changeless;
see also what is changing;
be filled with the true nature of things – mountains, rivers, trees, grasses, falling blossoms, the scattering leaves,
and, yes, humanity too, its true nature –
and the universe will become your companion.
So your solitude will be full of the universe;
and you will watch, unmoved, the reality
and the vacuity of the world.
Concentrate your thoughts, in solitude,
on an object, on each object;
in this concentration,
the space between oneself and the object will disappear,
and the essential nature of the object can be perceived.
Then be quick to express it, while it lives for you;
say quickly what is in your mind;
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0020 A loving sestina to Our Lady
1 In Europe, around the end of the 12th century, women
2 began to be regarded by men as more than a good lay
3 and mother to your children; but that contented sorta love
4 that even men feel afterward, could be seen as quite divine
5 and thus related however distantly to the Creator;
6 this gave rise to a type of poetry called the sestina.
6 a troubadour called Arnaut Daniel invented the sestina,
1 so it’s said, around 1190; and this new respect for women
5 as being, believe it or not, related distantly to their Creator
2 led to this, to us, rather absurd and complicated ‘lay’ -
4 that was the rather double-entendre name for the divine
3 love for mankind related to the act of physical love
3 which, though we make this a common metaphor for love
6 today, was new then, to unreconstructed men; the sestina
4 which plugs the same six end-words throughout, divine
1 and human, was supposed to underline that women,
2 exquisitely praised in the poetry of the troubadour’s lay,
5 were men’s path to loving, through them, his Creator;
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Shop until you surface
It’s the weekend – but
you’re feeling low – well, more than low…
time, perhaps, for retail therapy…
the girls, the boys, go about it differently:
with the girls, a sense of purpose:
phone your Best Shopping Friend, arrange to meet;
for the boys, it has to be covert, set up
as accidental, just a diversion
on the way to pub or café..
Your best friend senses that you’re low;
so gently teases you by dragging off the rail
the most inappropriate; that’s easy for the girls;
it’s all huge fun, around the serious stuff;
for boys, even with your best friend – or perhaps,
because he is – the inner world is hedged with image,
self-esteem or lack of it.. a trip made best alone?
A new verse, now, for The Big Metaphor:
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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New Balls Please... Yes It's Another Rant...
Big sports weekend…
in a coupla hours, Wimbledon,
or to local residents, Womble-din…
someone’s gointa win; someone’s
gointa lose. That’s life
for millionaire sportspersons;
love-all. New balls please, loser…
then those post-match, post-coital,
exquisitely embarrassing how-was-it-for-you,
high-thrive or detumescent interviews…
will the dreaded HOW virus strike again?
live-mike brings on rabbit-in-the-headlights syndrome –
at the end of the day, we know
the answer – that’s what it’s all about,
all credit to the other guys…
yes, there was pressure – that’s what it’s…
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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