Not Quite Myself
A broken night; breakfast-table phrases
assembled for a touch of sympathy:
‘don’t ask…! ’
‘bit out of sorts…’
‘haven’t really got going yet…’
‘not quite myself…’
a familiar unpleasantness, discomfort, restlessness, unease –
something’s got it in for me, but what, and why?
but today it’s worse than that..
so, run through the well-worn menu
of remedies: seek distraction,
play some music, read the paper,
connect the hands and mind - clean the gas-stove, ha…
express absorbing interest in the state of others…
or there are mental and spiritual consolations;
‘these things will pass…
in two hours, you’ll have forgotten…’
‘these things are sent to try us..’ yeah yeah…
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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My father's Plato
And that’s not a claim to paternity –
it’s the possessive case; though to what degree
my father possessed Plato, or Plato, him,
remains one of those unsolved mysteries
stored in that little room of sadness in the hearts
of children of that more formal, distanced age…
Like so many self-made men, he’d never read
a novel before he retired; and then
set out to educate himself
as would befit the father of a son
he planned – God unwilling, at first – to have,
whom he would provide with all the advantages
he’d never had… alas; alas for both of us…
He’d read of course, Smiles’ ‘Self-Help’ – they all had;
moved on to Carlyle, Ruskin (briefly) , Emerson; wrote
in warm approval to George Bernard Shaw,
who responded with one of his printed pre-texted postcards…
then worked through those nicely-bound
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Love's Grammar Book
I love you.
That's it, really.
all there is to say.
sums it up.
in a nutshell.
the long and the short of it.
the be-all and the end-all.
I know what I mean;
you know what I mean.
more or less.
we know what I mean.
most of the time.
But though love's sometimes
best defined by silence
it may be good
to say a few good words
since you, and love, have taught me
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Zeke Snirer, poetry critic
Zeke Snirer.
he’s young. ish.
he’s got something to offer the world:
he’s the best judge of poetry. ever.
this is his sincere opinion.
so he’s obliged to tell you. often.
in case you missed it.
he’ll take on any other poet.
invited or not.
especially celebrated ones.
he’ll even interrupt their own poetry readings
tell them how bad they are
and offer to read his own poems
to prove to the audience
what poetry should be.
he’ll grade Shakespeare’s sonnets
and tell you the very few
which are nearly as good as his own -
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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In a Greek Amphitheatre: George Seferis, poet
Noon here in hot summer in this quarter-sphere of stepped stone;
the smell of herbs rolling down from the mountainside,
the light so strong that it seems to have bleached away all thought;
time is taking a siesta.
come sit with me here in this almost deserted amphitheatre
which has stood for more than two thousand years,
only the bees are quietly moving,
searching the flowers which grow between these huge blocks of stone
which someone quarried, someone brought here,
someone acted out the world upon, some many sat
and were moved to fear and tears;
someone ate olives, spat the pits between the blocks of stone;
now an olive tree bears witness,
its bleached roots like an arthritic climber,
splitting the stone blocks with the insistence of history.
‘Memory, wherever you touch it,
hurts’…
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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A Zimbabwean asks a question
O Great Spirit,
You who in Your form of the Chapungu,
the great eagle with sharper eye than any aeroplane,
watches over us and knows all things;
who even descends from your great circles of flight
over our beautiful land of stone and earth and tree
to show a child lost in the bush
the way back to the village and to home,
please show us, too, the way back home, to You.
You know I talk to you each day in my heart,
but today a man has asked me to speak some words
that many people may hear.
So I speak for Zimbabwe, and for the Africa
of which we are so proud:
for we in Africa are proud; and proud for You:
that in a mad and busy world, we have not forgotten
that every blade of grass and flower,
lizard, singing bird, lion, elephant,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Everlasting Throes of Those
The Everlasting Throes
Of Those
Who Argue about Poetry versus Prose
And about the Propriety or Crime
Of Meter and Rhyme
In Poetry:
as I see it, it’s back to the ancient Greek idea
of three near-absolutes – Truth, Beauty and Goodness
and although they’re all absolute in their aim,
and therefore theoretically equal,
most of us, I suspect, have our personal order for this list
those who put Truth first at all costs are more likely
to write prose; but if they love beauty in words
and have the urge to write something beautiful in words
they may try poetry; but to them,
rhyme is untruthful, dishonest, because
looking for a rhyme
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0021 The Advent of Commerce
December 11; and through the letterbox
falls like a heavy snowflake, the first Christmas card..
who’s so eager to draw
my mind and heart to Advent-tide?
no stamp – ah yes, of course,
it’s from Alex the paper boy,
counting his goodwill before it’s cashed,
throwing me into a moral tizzy.
My parents, who knew the circumspection
with which the poor must treat the poor,
taught me that after God and the family
had been acknowledged on Christmas Day,
‘Boxing Day’ was the time for showing gratitude
to those who’d served your family faithfully
daily or weekly – the milkman with his
unsociable hours; the paperboy
(for those who could afford a daily paper) :
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Who? From 'Ellam Ondre
To know the unity of all
is good for you and good for others.
Is there any better way to obtain the good?
Who can share the mental peace,
the mental freshness, of one who knows unity?
Thus, you become the good itself;
you become the God made visible.
Who are you? You are turiya:
beyond sleeping, dreaming, waking;
what is there more for you than that?
It is pure knowledge, that with which
you see the world in truth: this is
the greatest good you can gain from the world;
the greatest good you can give back to it.
Who is God? He has no name
but that we give to Him;
he has no form but that we give to Him;
but what’s the harm in that?
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Hermaphrodite
I'd seen her in the pub from time to time -
shortish height, slightly awkward jerky movements
not quite to be called boyish
like her haircut,
indeterminate of age -
a worn sixteen; an undeveloped twenty-six?
but in a year or two, she seemed the latter
though her vulnerable, aggressive stance
made age irrelevant.
had she been more confident, more inyerface
she'd have been lesbait, no doubt of that; I felt
uncomfortable around her, as you do, however kind,
around those who have not yet resolved their life.
but she didn't pose her boyishness; wore
her trousers without pride; didn't
give off that lesbian vibe.
she might almost have been
the girl in the girls' school play who was as tomboy
told to play the boy and
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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