In Praise of Men

for they wake on the most languid of mornings marvellously erect
for they do not know their own soft beauty
nor how it sounds an enticing counterpoint to their muscled arrogance
for they sing in morning showers as though no one can hear them
for when they get dressed they begin to leave you
little by little to the world of bank managers, taxation and scams
for they drive holding your hand and still find a parking spot
for they walk through the world differently
for their shoulders are broad, their hips narrow and their skin is tender
doe their voices are certain and their talk
and their ears hear some nuances and are sometimes deaf
for they wonderfully try to fix things, both in your kitchen
and in the world, for they all began life as scabby kneed boys
always fiddling around and asking questions
for they gave their mothers quick close hugs when no-one was watching
for they wanted to cry into their pillows
for there were mysteries they yearned to master
and could not name

for when these men come to your bed
when they lie beside you naked
they are all of that and your fingers walk over them
with a wondering, bewildered love.

Meditations on Light

The squirrel night lamp
which kept all my familiars where they should be,
the dressing gown on its hook
the gaped slippers waiting under the bed
the rag clown folded in sleep.

The kitchen fluoro, the lamp in the window
the hearth fire carried to the new country.

Candles—once a whole room full, dancing
the girls miming pop songs and a spill of pink roses.

The accidental fire, which blazed so suddenly
we all stood there, mouths open
until someone’s shout, the curtains!
jerked us into slow motion.

And this light—call it comfort or home
call it that of god I seek in you
and in me
or a collection of valves and tubes,
a pump secured within bone arches.
This light—
in all its illuminations
the beginning
with all its shadows
the beginning.

About the Poet
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