A free man walks.
Looking around
in wonder
He may not
know where he’s going,
But he knows
where he’s been.
The iron
door was broken,
So, now he’s
on the street.
Looking like
he cannot yet believe,
That walls
no longer confine him.
His arms are
outstretched,
His hands
palm upwards
As if to receive
every possible blessing
From sun and
sky
Long may these
last
And from now
on
Always light
his path.
Intending to get back home
As I roam in
my sleep,
I make my
way to a familiar railway station
Where, to my
consternation,
I recognise the platforms, the stairs, the
trains,
But not the names
of the destinations
So, I scan indicators
And read the
route maps,
Looking for
the reason for this mishap.
I try to see
where I went wrong.
To find the
route I wanted all along.
Perplexed I decide
to go by bus instead.
Out in the London
street
The busses are
double decked and red
The streets at
first seem the same
As those I walked
when awake
Yet they’re
somehow different
And I don’t
know which to take.
Then I think
I’ll find my way,
If I just
walk down here
Past a large
domed building
Which must
be the Albert Hall?
Or a church
or a cathedral,
But it isn’t
that at all.
Military people
stand around outside
Waiting for
a bugle call
Lost and
bewildered
I wake from
this bad dream.
To my own known reality
Where the howling
gale outside my window
Seems reassuring
to me.
Where did all the smoke go?
Was it blown
away into history,
As a passing
yellow cloud?
Once it was
everywhere,
It seeped
into everything
Infusing
clothes, skins, rooms and breaths.
People
smoked cigarettes, roll-ups,
Pipes and
cigars
At home, in
the street,
In buses,
trains and cars
So many
would all inhale and exhale
Now only a
few last hold-outs
Light up
their coffin nails.
I had a
youthful ambition for smoke,
It looked so
cool
It might
make a young fool
Into a
proper bloke.
All the
tempting images
And brands
and advertising mirages
Reinforced
my bad choice
So, I
enjoyed
Number Six
and Number Ten
Then as
nicotine inserted
Its hooks
and chains
I inhaled
and exhaled
Again and
again
Bensons,
Marlboro, Gauloises, Gitanes.
When the
craving really needed slaking
I was
capable of taking
Dog ends
from ashtrays
To disinter
smoked tobacco
Just to resmoke
it and cough.
Too late I
decided to cast smoke off
Now I am
free
I think
smugly
As I strap
on tight
The
breathing mask
That I need
to sleep every night.
Seen through the windscreen of a moving car,
This suburban
street flashes past,
Lined with similar
semi-detached,
Housing ordinary
England
Not at all
bizarre.
But walk its
pavement,
Looking out
for cracks,
Or protruding
tree roots,
That might
trip you in your tracks.
You might
see a street stranger than it seemed.
Someone, maybe
drunk or in a dream
Drove a vehicle
through a front garden wall,
Almost
crashed it into a front room.
Then did renegade
scholar or maverick teacher
Decorate a grey
metal electricity cabinet.
With a quotation from Frederich Nietzsche?
I read this with puzzlement
Then go on
as best I can,
Past piles
of soggy leaves,
As I am no
superman.
A magpie
cackles at me, so I retreat,
Through my front door
And off this
strange street.
In the valley, below the melting glacier,
Under vast
mountains that stab the sky,
People, tiny
as ants by comparison,
Are practicing
and preparing.
Learning how
to carry stretchers,
How to search
the rubble of fallen houses.
Seeking out
places that might be safe,
When the glacier
fills the lake
So that the
flood breaks.
Meanwhile,
on a pimply little suburban hill,
An old man hobbles
up his street,
Coming back
after visiting a cash machine.
He talks to
a neighbour,
Who is
sweeping the leaves
Stripped and
scattered
By last
night’s storm.
This, they agree,
blew down a plane tree
Up by the
park.
They hope
such would never fall on their homes.
This is
nothing
Compared to
the valley below the melting glacier,
But a twenty-foot
plane tree
Is one big
twig floating in a stream,
Before an
impending flood.
VIRTUAL DODO THIRTEEN - open mic slots
Deadline Friday 10th January 2025
We invite you to contribute a poem on any
theme to Virtual Dodo Thirteen, our first online event of 2025
Please send a video of you reading a poem using a
computer or mobile to Peter Murry (email yrrumuk@googlemail.com). If you can’t manage a video, a manuscript will
be fine. Please include your name. In case you missed it, here's the last
Virtual Dodo.https://dodomodernvidpoets2022.blogspot.com/
The
previous 12 events attracted around 300 contributions. We thank all
participating poets for sharing their work with our audience. Virtual
Dodo Thirteen will include two featured acts as well as open mic contributors.
The finished show is sent to our mailing list
We look forward to your submissions. Regards
Patric Cunnane/ PR Murry
DODO MODERN POETS
07769 777022 /01303 243868
Nowadays I get the news from archaeologists
Who, with scholars
of archaeology
I see like
talking postage stamps,
On my
computer screen.
They talk of
really digging the dirt
Of sieving through
bones and theories
Of finding
flint flakes and clues,
As to who
walked how, when and where
And how we
ended up here
In this time
when news seems only of
Death from
above
In Russia, Gaza,
Lebanon and Ukraine,
Of wars dragging
on and on in Sudan
Holy lands
made unholy by slaughter;
Whilst climate
change never goes away.
The now news
makes me feel like ant
Crawling along
the ground
With an impending
descending boot above me
Whilst I take
some slight fleeting solace
From learning
of archaeology.
