 |
 |
Songs to be sung 1. Ludovic the cat To hold his still-warm body in my hands As I buried him Was heartbreaking. He was only six years old. A black Bath neutered moggy with piercing golden eyes. Malignancy of the bone marrow. Something like what I have myself. He was my little dog. An independent cat of character. Never happier than roaming outside. He came and went through his catflaps as he pleased. Didn't eat much. Pinched his food outside. But at night he would come And cuddle up beside me in my chair. When dying he picked his spot. A corner of the living room >From where he could see all that was going on. And he waited for death. I loved him. 2. Homesteader Coatham Hall is where I come from. The nettles in the woods were headhigh And I used to carve out a network of paths By slashing furiously with my trusty stick. >From the jungle where the trees had been cut down I built secret homes of the undergrowth. Caves. Avenues for bicycles. Connectedness. I was ten years old when I began daydreaming. Susan's garden is my pet wilderness in Bath. Below the patio I had built last year are my widow's weeds. Wild rose bushes and rampant blackberries. Intermeshed into my private constructed sacred place. It was there I went to discuss when the schizophrenia hit me. I believed I spoke with John Keats down those steps. Then I went back to the kitchen to pick up the knife. It is twenty years since I built Susan's garden. On the World Wide Web I have set up my little crannies. Interlinked archives of poem and history. Rabbit warrens. Hypertexted linkages the reader submerges in for months. Hundreds of files maged by certainty of existence. An electronic epitaph. Works of a lifetime. Grownup writing down the dreamscape Believing it was all magic and real, Then finding the crystal broken. Nearer sixty now than fifty I have slept For near half a century in the Neverneverland. It is cruel to awake and find that the dreams have vanished. All's left is a homestead on the Frontier And a batch of unwanted selfpenned books. 3. Poetry I am here. I was there. The person that wrote those poems Then was lost for words. The cats are buried in the back garden, The girls a faded dream of the heart, All's left is summer and the rain. Like Hannibal I challenged an empire, Like him I was defeated, All I had was a song. Not in fashion no more To sing of broken hearts, >From small acorns do great oaks grow. I was there. I am here. The wild Irish fiddlers go on forever As I recall lost dreams. 4. Poem What do you do? I write poems. And drink beer. Once a month I churn out rubbish. There is no hope for me. I once had a cat. He was brave. But he died. My guts are collapsible >From the beer. My belly bigger every day. But it's that or read books, Inspiration don't grow on trees. Once I lived the poet's life. Words forever words. And love sharp as a razor. I could do it. But now it's time for me drink. I listen to Mair\'ead and Sandy. The fiddle and the song. No more sad refrains. That is impossible. I was born to weep. %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%