Ode to Henry He is strung between poles - tense as a hawser his field-lines taught. Striving to reconcile - Father and Mother now long-time divorced. He is all feeling heart - responding to beauty and caring for others; but all thinking head - loves debates of theory and picking out motives. He is sometimes so sad - crying for loss and clutching at blame; but sometimes ecstatic - laughing great joys and expecting great fame.	He is wise beyond measure - being truly convicted and having control; but confused and foolish - being sadly conflicted and having no goal. He is searching for truth - accepting no lies demanding no less. He is seeking for love - benevolent eyes an adequate tenderness. His eyes are wide open - consumed by destiny fixed on the horizon. His eyes are pressed shut - fearful of finality he cannot see home.
Two in Darkness The atmosphere is fragile   strung taught enough to snap. In deepest shade we sit   each waiting, longing. With visionless eyes we stare.   Each cheated of issue   each cheating the other. A silent soap-opera   of impotent expectation   and unrequited desire. Such delectable deceit. A Query  Is romance a shoddy fabrication? A pretext for mutual exploitation? The disguised urge for procreation?	Reticence  I will never let you know   the trouble in my heart I will never let you know   the anguish in my soul I will never let you know   the pain your silence speaks. I will never say the words   my heart now longs to speak I will never say the words   my soul consuming burn I will never say the words   I wish that were your own. I will never speak the truth   that's closest to my heart I will never speak the truth   that's ravishing my soul I will never speak the truth   which is itself a lie.
Moomintroll and Snufkin  You were in distress, your mind throbbed with what you called  anxiety. You wanted to be helped. You asked me  to read to you, (to share your precious book; lying on the  close-cropped lawn that bright Summer’s day) of Moomintroll and Snufkin. Of their  odd and  unaccountable  friendship; which gave them joy. Then of  Moomintroll’s desolation when Snufkin  told him that he must leave; but might return.	You were comforted a little. It was a joy for me to help, to be privileged, to be allowed  to intrude  into your inner life; to help take away your pain. Now you have gone. There is no  consolation prize for me. Only sadness. Only pain.
Ghosts We visited Henry's Grandfather    at my urging in the Autumn. He had not been well. A tumour in the brain had been found. I was afraid that if we delayed    we'd be too late and no goodbye be said    a departure made        without adieu or au-revoire    but with negligence of affection    and absence of affirmed connection. Henry procrastinated. Our first date was postponed. Then another fortunately agreed. Not too soon, I thought. It was a bright sun-shiny day. The gravel drive was flanked      by stone lions. A huge willow-tree guarding      the house itself. We were ushered into the living room. An expanse beyond expectation:    glittering chandeliers,     an orphaned grand piano,    a redundant snooker table,    a comfortable three-piece suite,    bookcases filled with novels    and family photographs,    a sterile marble fireplace    and a bed of infirmity. The old man was sprightly:    in full command of his wits       and full of life    his worst concern was a broken boiler. We were plied with tea and biscuits    then I was faced with     an over-microwaved pasty:    tough as leather, dry as dust. I declaimed some poetry,    carried away by rhythm and rhyme. We discussed science and religion    and the fact that his late wife's will     would be debated later that day. We watched some silly soap opera     about doctors. One young man seduced another:    very modern,         a politically correct mediocrity. His cat made her presence known;    her violent habits becoming    the topic of much discourse. We said our goodbyes. I was pleased that the connection     had been renewed;    content that I had helped        renew family bonds,    delighted that I had been made welcome,    happy my presence was unquestioned. I was pleased that I had made a new friend. We drove home content,    engrossed in happy conversation. Two days later the phone rang,    the old man was dead. The tumour was not the villain,    but his fragile heart:        an unexpected culprit. I was not invited to the funeral    – not being family, you know,    my presence was not required. Henry was a pall-bearer,    but his dietary wants        were entirely neglected. My inheritance from that single day,    that sparse encounter with the older man    was the book of poetry,     from which I'd read at length. Henry's legacy: a boxful of music disks    –  to which he was not much attached.	Now I am haunted:    not by that kindly man's ghost,    not by his welcoming spirit,    not by any unwanted or unquiet presence; but by an absence more cruel and malign    than any poltergeist: an echoing emptiness,    a betrayal of trust,    an abortion of friendship. Ghoulish fingers fumble at my heart-strings    a sombre melody of loneliness to evoke    that ends in an unresolved cadence. Henry left my life without goodbye    leaving bitter-sweet regrets    and an unfinished ending        for me to wrestle with    like the one that I'd earlier prevented. He refuses all recall of companionship    insists on a sullen dichotomy. I am surrounded by the silence of abandonment,    pursued by an importuning        mongrel of memory    which leaps out on me unawares    from stealthy shadows. I am not invited to a funeral    to commemorate the life that has died. There is no celebration of past joys. There are no prayers for absolution. Nor formal place for tears and grief. No acknowledgement of bereavement. I was not family – you know,    so my absence is not remarked. I am the only mourner;    but I have no pall to bear. There is no grave to stand before. No memorial stone for me to visit. My unlooked for and unwanted     legacy lies piled in         the relationship corner. A case of crumpled clothes, two guitars; six crates of abandoned goods:     a framed picture of Tigger,    a small metal box emblazoned        with Pooh and Piglet,    images of angels, a leaping wild wolf,    a penguin brutalized by a killer whale,    books of history, philosophy         and erotic poetry,    novels, music disks, photographs,     endless notebooks filled         with minuscule text,    the story of an unloved carpet cleaner,    images of anxiety and betrayal    – of pain and abuse,    an old clapped-out lap-top PC,    a loofer (dried-up and forlorn:    not like the ones we saw         green and growing         in Leicester's botanic gardens),     a Norwegian flag on a stick,    and sundry items of pathetic brick-a-brack. Astride it all, sits Edward Bear:    enthroned as advocate and spokesman     for furtive subconscious aspirations. More than this, I am left with     the loss of hope:    an agony of social amputation    and furtive remembrances        with uncertain significance. The pain of separation    hangs about my frame        like a mildewed shroud.
The Cave Reality is fractured  with violence and pain splintering into exquisite shards  of harsh significance and austere detail: awe-inspiring in its suffering; the birth pangs it endures  as it struggles to attain maturity,  a sophistication  which as yet escapes its grasp. The darkness is seductive. The womb’s continued hospitality offers consolation and understanding. Solace for a sensitive soul, overwhelmed by  unrelenting demands  of necessity and survival. A place to hide and feel secure. A voice calls me out. I hesitate. Is this pain so terrible? At least it proves reality is so! While the soul suffers, it is not dead: there is prospect for a future joy for transformation, for rebirth. While there is vulnerability there is hope for tenderness, for communion, for touch. The call is insistent,  unremitting,  seductive, cruel. The words pierce my brain, stab into the chasm of my darkness   - lightning bolts tearing       the night sky apart - Light and darkness seethe about, combating for mastery of meaning. Hints of fires rage  in the corners of my perception. Sulphurous shadows punctuate violent flames which threaten to consume my existence  in a final conflagration.	Which choice yields joy    and which despair? Which path gives peace    and which interior war? Who is ally and who enemy? It is too much for me to fathom,  I yield;  surrendering my freedom, I sacrifice my autonomy. I step into the fearsome light, the divine fire which consumes  all that is frail all that is mortal,  all that is already dead. I am scorched:  skin sloughs from my limbs and body, sordid flesh melts from eager bones. I am in agony: sore afraid, but I do not die. At first I am blinded, then I blink  and see for the first time. I am surrounded  by gentle hues  and pastel shades. They comfort my mind, sooth my wounded heart. I glimpse a flaming sword; but it is no threat to me. It is held as defence against  my despair and my despite. It is held by one willingly charged with my care. I am enfolded by love held in strong arms touched by grace.
Symposium Socrates stands silent,     without the house. He sways to and fro;     though there is no breeze. His daemon speaks,     in words of tantalising uncertainty; warning of danger,    urging on with cue. Within, the revellers laugh,     intent to entertain themselves with wine    and song and jest. They miss his presence,     await his profile at the door. Hopeful of his words, yet fearful too. The seer breaks his pose;     returning to this world of doubt. Regaining his will and purpose,     he looks about. He shrugs and enters into     its flimsy reality. It is most unsatisfactory,     but will have to do. His eyes peer into shadows     which lie all about him. They reveal their remote origins     to his mind  as they obscure their immediate    intentions from his eyes. He knows at last his will,     with doubt he’s through. He wishes to advance;     move forward in this place; join his friends within;     enjoy their fellowship. He wishes much more.     To pass beyond this place to enter into a richness     which few subdue. Socrates bows his head     and enters the festive hall. His presence fills the room,     the party song falls silent. Let us speak of love,     dear friends, he says. Let us praise the source     of all life new. Account is made of Eros,     ancient of days; wisest and most beneficent,    yet maddener of men; neither spirit nor matter   – but interlocutor between – carrying precious gifts     reconciliation to pursue. Socrates is silent. Then he frowns     and shakes his head. What truth was spoke     was not spoke true enough; weighed down by quest     for earthly ease. Such phantasms, he knows,     he must eschew. He recalls an aged seeress,     Diotima she was named. She once instructed him in love;     when he was young and brash and wilful     and fully self-assured. She cut him down a peg:     her words he will review.	Love is desire for beauty     with good outcome; life leading to life     and on to eternity. Beauty is next to Good,     and supplies the defect  of sight to restore     what wisdom once knew. The end of love is     fellowship of being; union with the source     of life and hope, attainment of clear sight     and understanding sure knowledge of beauty     and justice true. All love and beauty     in this world is perilous; an intimation of     what lies beyond the veil, an incentive to kindness     and spur to courage but also a nagging distraction    from these two. Then in storms Alchibiades,     apple of the sage’s eye; yet rotten to the core.     Traitor both to tutor and to State. Sure of himself,     overflowing with hubris, ravishing in countenance     and thew. He berates his erstwhile lover,     speaking of deceit, how he promised much,     but gave nothing;  not tenderness,     nor comfort of embrace, but by cultured neglect     all passion slew. He accuses the silent Socrates    of inhumanity, of spiritual conceit   and direst pride being impossible to live with    or without: his friendship he does    most sorely rue! A tear wells in the seer’s face;     but he turns away  from what he has loved,     and always will love,  in this world: knowing that     the warning,  once heard, he can never     misconstrue. This spoiled man, he knows,     exemplifies full well (but without spark of intent     or glimmer of awareness) the power of love     to pervert and corrupt, when divorced from     its object due.
One Night  I sit alone with you in silence. I ask what’s wrong what’s on your mind; but you give me no reply. Then you,  who don’t believe  in Christ, demand that I  who do profess my faith. You are afraid that I (who am your friend and who love you and desire only your good) am in league with Satan! Yet it is you  who have sympathy for Lucifer who finds him alluring; his figure pathetic yet remarkable: romantic in his rebellion. You wish to aid the fallen Daystar to redeem him  from his woe; yet fear that his clutch, his fierce embrace, will lead you into  temptation  and the doing of ill. I am furious. I up and leave. I shout: “Go to Hell yourself, not with me; I’ll not lead you there!”	An eternal moment… passes. Then you whimper at my door: “You said you wouldn’t  give up on me  so easily,  Stephen.” I relent, of course. I never meant  to abandon you. How could  I abandon you? I will not be complicit  in your self-harming though! I offer to spend  the night with you. To guard together against the fearful  darkness. You agree. You take off your outer clothes, and prepare to sleep. I place a rosary of awful beads about your narrow neck. We sleep; like two Wild Things curled up together: against the cold, against the night, against the darkness. In the morning, we wake. I am amazed by  the austere beauty of the fragile form, lying next to me. Hardly more than bone. Life so close to death.
End Game We are playing a game  without any rules: at least without rules that I know. Cut and thrust of sharp words, stab of heart-bound hurt;  flow of bright-red arterial tide. We don't talk: only stare  and debate what's not said, there is nothing, yet everything, at stake. I do not understand you;  for you will not speak of the phantasm that poisons your mind. I ask what you want but you will not say; I think because you don't know. I think you confused I think you are trapped by a fear of the future and woe.	I cajole and declaim;  but it serves me no good; for I know not of what you won't say. Neither hint, nor resemblance  will you slip past your lips; I am left all unknowing and afraid. What we had – if 'twas aught –  will right ready be lost if we speak not of it right soon. What you fear may come true,  just because of that fear; what you hope for may die from it to. So conquer your fear and trust in yourself have confidence in your own will. What you speak, I'll not like mayhap – but let that be so: only make an end of this soon!
The Lone Wolf  Hear the howl  of the lone wolf.  He is bereft of hope  Beyond consolation. His pack mate is gone.  He is abandoned:  alone.  Now he must hunt alone,  but where's the joy in that?  Now he can walk slowly  only towards death  with no friend,  no companion:  alone.	Suddenly life is austere:  its richness fractured  into cruel shards  which penetrate his soul  and tear into his mind and puncture his heart.  There is no joy, no hope  but desolation  alone.  There is no understanding  no account, no word;  the silence is crushing, overwhelming, all arbitrary and cruel  deathly consuming.  In the far distance,  the wild wolf wails alone.
Sorry-oo and the Hemulen A small dog is waiting in the snow waiting in his wailing pit. Sorry-oo does not know  what he awaits: he thinks it is for wolves. He hears the far of call of wolves. Their language rends his heart, an incantation of belonging of purpose and stalwart striving of an urge for life and living of experiencing  the urgency and passion of existence the necessities and exigencies of survival. Sorry-oo is overwhelmed with longing. He wags his tail  and wails his welcome  into the cold, dark, soul-less night. The wolves come closer: amber eyes gleam like burnished brass, fangs sharp piercing the expectant air. Their tails do not wag, The tails of wolves do not wag: their aesthetic does not allow it. Fear clutches his canine heart, his gut is racked by dread, nausea overwhelms him now. His four legs fail him he is paralyzed,  stricken by anxiety, rooted in his wailing pit. The wolves draw near. He knows himself for dead meat; the supper of beasts beyond his nature surpassing his simple frame and form: formidable is their ferocity unbidable is their wildness overwhelming is their presence. The wolf pack is here. Sorry-oo is suddenly sad. He realises he is self misled. He has spun himself a sorry tale: a beautiful lie -  but a lie after all is said. All that wasted time waiting in his wailing pit.	Longing to run with the pack. Longing to share the life       that is not his life. Longing to be pierced       by a purging pain. Longing to be ravished       by a love unknown. Longing to be freed of the violence      always threatening to overwhelm. Longing to exceed himself. Longing to be what he cannot be. Longing to pass beyond his nature. The wolves surround him. Then there is a strident sound, The Hemulen’s horn: brazen in its confidence, brash in its ignorance of harm, bright in its self knowledge. The wolves are fled. “Have you waited long for me?” the Hemulen asks in innocence. “No, not long,” Sorry-oo replies. “Good, let’s be off then! Come with me  and share what I have. Let us travel together  and see the Mountains. Let us ski down slopes of silk-soft snow. Let us penetrate ravines of austere, unyielding ice and view what no Hemulen     nor little dog    nor even Moomintroll has seen.” The Hemulen turns to go. He does not await the little dog’s consent. He passes on his way, intent on his quest, consumed by his vision: harsh beauty of snow and ice and rock. Sorry-oo hesitates  for the briefest of moments, then follows his newly found friend. It seemed much the best thing he could do.
Absence In my home is an empty room. Filled with an absence more real that any presence. The light floods through its window and illumines nothing more substantial than any object. Road sounds  punctuate a morbid silence which expects no renewal of life. He who filled this place occupied it with his very self  as he struggled with his pain and with his past and with his present is gone. He left a clutter an unhappy mess of damp clothes and scattered papers so unlike the tidy room  he’d kept austere while trying to  turn his life about.	Everywhere the deadly void  accompanies me dutifully. Its unwanted devotion is a presence of derision a legacy of disdain. A spectre stalks the town, lurks in our old haunts; squirming on the park bench; racing down the high-street; pacing too and fro in the Swan; searching eagerly through shelves of piled-high  well-thumbed books for Poo and Piglet  and Moomintroll. It stands introspective in  health-food stores contemplating  Vegan fayre; and sits aloof from me at Mass. I am blocked de-friended bereft. All I have is ghosts.