Sunday, 19 November 2017

O Tell Me the Truth About Life

Inspired by W H Auden's 'O Tell Me the Truth About Love', which I wrote last year

Some say that life is new spring chicks
Emerging from their eggs
Acknowledging the world first time
On wobbly little legs
And when I asked the mother hen
What she had created
She chuckled at what she’d just born
The opposite of hatred.

Does life all come down to one’s survival,
On this insignificant rock?
Does it hail water as our revival,
Or the food we have to stock?
Is it about caring for each other,
Or just getting yourself by?
Is it treating one’s neighbours like brother?
O tell me the truth about life.

Some say that life revolves ‘round death
The pessimistic view
Quite common to have this belief
Grim Reaper will come soon
I’ve found this rather sad to think
We live only for end
Constantly tilting on the edge
A state where we suspend.

Does it continue because of memory,
All those videos we harvest?
Could forgetfulness be our enemy,
Halting life on its bounding quest?
Is it counting on neurons in the brain?
Does it need senses to be rife?
Will it collapse without synapse’s chain?
O tell me the truth about life.

I have travelled around the world
Maybe it’s to do with time
I tried to ask the clock if his hands knew
If life demands its chime
I can’t be sure if it’s Earth’s rotation
Which keeps our lives in check
Celestial points surrounding the sun
A trillion year old trek.

Can it be defined as our DNA,
Are scientists finally right?
Is it coding that makes our life this way?
It can be laid out in plain sight
Have our ancestors shaped it for today?
Can be supported by the knife
Cutting genes and studied on display
O tell me the truth about life.

What if life is simply about living,
Bracing yourself for ev’ryday?
Taking it as much as you are giving
And all the time you lead the way
Is life really about what you make it,
To be content and not with strife?
I can’t find the guide or beginners kit
O tell me the truth about life.

The beginning or the ending?

Friday, 10 November 2017

Tube People - poem

An old Santa, with socks and sandals
dozing against Sleepers on daylight trains,
nestled behind Suits scanning books in Spanish.
Swerving Silk Trousers, who dives for a seat,
Adjacent to vacant handrails - bar the Millennials:
young hands, belonging to younger men,
these iPods with tiny headphones,
these Seat Sitters and Handrail Hangers.
Where the Silent Yawner’s ricochet is the only greeting
against the rhythmic daily commute.