EXISTENTIAL ANGST Alive It was all done for you. I really should have died last summer when I was on 95% oxygen with two collapsed lungs and the doctors and nurses shaking their heads after catching MRSA at my operation. Now I haven't the nerve to send you the copies of my new books after the way you played up over those email messages back in '96. The whole business hardly seems worth the bother. I'd have been better off dead. I don't want to write poems so American college students can scrabble over my guts. I get a reader every 15 minutes on the Internet but they are totally anonymous to me. `Nobody's sleep under so many eyes'. You must think me insane to write to you when I haven't seen you in twenty years but it was all done for you. Even the lies of `Hulagu's Ride'. Put them off the scent. I'll miss you with the horses and hounds on Boxing Day. Victory I sit by the campfires of the tribe On the evening after the afternoon That my Bath defeated Brive for the European Cup In rugby football at Bordeaux. And I think how I never have been so alone. The youthful opportunities of transcendental love Have vanished into the periphery of vision. The future is mundane, detrimental. I would wave a candle at life But its remorselessness crushes me. Once I believed in the morning That the onward surge of living leads to success. But now I know better, It is enough to be alive The energy of a new day confirmed. I have been there. I have seen the eyes and heard the voices. Written down the bloodjet metaphors of poetry. The Augustan anthem rolls off my tongue. There is nothing in my life now but being alive. I don't want orgasms. I don't want death. What I want is the dream I carry with me. Of not being alone in all this mumbo-jumbo Of sharing a skin. Not knowing where one person ends and the other begins. They will have to bury me to put an end to that. Two poems for Sally Purcell 1. Again In Intensive Care As I realised that I was going to live I wrote a note to my surgeon: `Why did you save my life? Now I will have to go back home And suffer once again.' I don't want to live And I don't want to die. 2. Medicine Every morning I swallow my pills. The pink capsule lets me drink my beer. The blue tablet stops my blood clotting. The red and green capsule thins my blood. The orange tablet controls my blood pressure And minimises my erections. Or is that just old age? The cherry red vitamin pill is just for fun. And I have my monthly injection of depot To keep the schizophrenia away. God bless the NHS. Warmth Nearly fifty years ago I used to lie in my bed at Coatham Hall In the darkness Watching the dying red glow of the coke fire Before I went to sleep. Norma, our maid, used to creep in And change into her pyjamas Shadowed against the fire As she sought for warmth. Once I watched a lively mouse Run along the top of the fireguard. I would try to get the cat to sleep with me But it always objected and fled from beneath the sheets. In the early hours of the morning I would awake screaming in hot sweats. This happened frequently And my mother, worried, would come to comfort me. I was screaming at the nothingness I felt all around and in me. The emptiness. My being alone in the world of my head. No affection reaching me. I have been alone all my life except for three girls. My trilogy. Love is all you need. poeta nascitur non fit 1. All poets are in a competition: the prize is immortality. 2. In this life we are each given a set of cards to play of our nature and our nurture. All we can do is to play the right card at the right time and hope for the best. We have no control over the outcome. 3. On John Clare's gravestone the Latin motto is written in English. Surrounded yearly by the Helpston children's midsummer cushions; John Clare, who so loved Nature. Mary Joyce lays her tribute. 4. `Drink to me only with thine eyes And I will pledge thee mine'. I am of the tribe of Ben. 5. My books rival the Brontės' `Poems' for sales, I will never be famous. Revenge I hung tightly to my father's hand As he led me from the grey Vauxhall car To the ivy-clad red brick building. It was to be my first day at school. Hurworth House Preparatory. I was five years old. The master called me his dog Spot And used to make me bark for him. I wet my pants 'cos I was too shy to put my hand up for the toilet. I won a silver cup for good behaviour 'cos I never said a word. At Grangefield Grammar School the headmaster would chase me round the desk in his office where he would summon me. I must have been a pretty little boy. The only time he got his hands on my body was in the Main Hall. Ever since then I have been scared of men. His name was Ronald Bradshaw. I dreamed in the greenery of Coatham Hall Loving the wilderness I have re-invented in Bath. I explored twenty miles of country lanes on my bicycle. The rambling old house with its damp walls Vented fantasies I enjoyed every hour of every day. I haven't been home for forty years. At fiftyfive You should know that my life has been a disaster. I couldn't hold a job. I never found a wife. My health has been dreadful. And the poetry was an absolute waste of effort. It's all been a terrible mistake putting me on this planet, Lord. Couldn't you have chosen a better time and a better place. I wonder if I'll ever grow old. %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%