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.
Jam a dam into a valley.
This edifice
gives an illusion of control.
The water
rises behind the dam
A lake
expands.
Apparently water
obeys
Our concrete and steel commands.
Land is
drowned
Because experts
think
This is how
our cities will drink.
And enslaved
water will wash away
Skin detritus,
shit, piss, soapsuds and more
Again and
again and again and again
Through the
prisons we have made for it
Sewers, conduits,
gutters, canals and drains.
Until the
day when water rebels
And washes
us all away.
Carry the past on your back,
Like a
rock-filled rucksack.
Carry it
until your bones groan and crack.
Carry all
those indexed texts,
Directories,
dictionaries and holy tomes,
All heavier
than any stones;
All along a
seemingly endless uphill track,
When nothing
must be dropped,
And you
cannot slack.
Then pull
sodden cloth from washing machine,
As you dream
about
What might
have been.
If, and
only, if you had been able
To
completely control the movement of water.
But it was
always too fast, too free, too unstable.
It suddenly
fell from the sky.
At school
they taught you why,
Yet it broke
any riverbanks, sea defences
Rules or
theories placed in its way.
And
sometimes flowed uncontrollably,
From your
eyes.
Then what
made you even madder,
Than when
emotions flowed
Making you
happier or sadder
Was when you
could not stop water
Exiting your
bladder.
Van Gogh soup throwers
Shower sunflowers
With gazpacho
And spatter
cultural artefacts
With consommé,
All for the
sake of political impact.
Lock up
these insolent pups!
Wipe the
additive laden orange liquid off
The picture
glass
Wipe art’s arse.
There, there
it’s all clean now,
Culture can
the safely consumed again
This culinary
gesture can be ignored
And gallery
goers can file around exhibits,
Feigning fascination
whilst secretly bored
But climate change
will go on and on,
Until it’s too
late
And shit-enhanced
Thames water soup
Floods into
the Tate.
If you turn over a new leaf
You might
find a slug underneath it.
Then perhaps,
you’ll relapse,
Go b ack to
the old well worn ways
Of crawling
through day after day, after day, after day.
You might
revert and desert
The shiny
path of virtue
Tight vice might
be tailor made
To suit you better
But deferred
gratification
Might extract
you from this situation.
It’s deep
rooted in your DNA, anyway.
So, don’t sip
from the bottle, avoid the flagon
Stay sitting
in the straw
On the floor
of the wagon.
Just trundle in the tumbril
You’re going
to get there anyway
One day.
I found a time machine
In my back
room
Which had
been there for years
But it now
suddenly appeared
In this
suburban situation.
It was not a
contraption
Of levers and
dials
From HG
Wells’ great imagination.
Nor the end
of a space-time hole or crack
Which terminators
could use
To go when
and then again go back.
It was only
an old portfolio
Made of cardboard
fabric and tape
Which was a portal
to long passed days
When the artworks
in it were made
Young boys sitting
a maths exam
In nineteen
thirty one
And the
artist noted in at a later time
After the
drawing was done
That one of
the boys
Spat fire in
the skies
Flying a fighter
plane
Whilst the
artist worked on beneath
Painting the
bombsites
In blast ravaged
London streets.
I close the
portfolio
And travel
back to now
Where war is
still carves human meat
Oh time
machine,
Please carry
me off
To a future
of freedom and peace.
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAFT
I can’t stand it when people say RAFT,
It annoys an old FAAAAAART like me
To not use this word accurately
Describing a wooden assemblage that floats,
And is not a boat
But is also used to mean
An obscene metaphorical assemblage
Of bullshit political proposals.
Then there’s ROBUST
An annoying adjective applied
To many a spurious RAFT of lies.
It no longer means strong, healthy or fit
I’m really unsure of the significance of it
When it’s frequently emitted
By politician pundits, scribblers and babblers
Who keep on saying ROBUST
It’s like a maggot crawling from under a pie crust.
It’s almost as bad as UPTICK
It makes me sick
RAAAAAAAAAAAAAFT
I’m there and I’m not there
Because I’m here
Sitting in
my chair
Looking at people
seen
Like talking
postage stamps
On my
computer screen.
Yattering and
chattering
Debating and
berating,
Oozing charm and derision,
Raising my
suspicions.
Whilst their
words go in one ear
Mistrust whispers
in the other.
Despite slick
presentations
And passionate
orations,
Mistrust
just won’t go away.
I’m too
cynical and aged,
For real
speakers on real stages,
So, I’ll sit
here at home
Scratch my
head, fart and groan.
While the postage
stamp people
Burble,
babble on and on
And endlessly
intone’
Turning my
remaining brain cells
Into arid echoing
bone.
Once I had two strong, firm friends
Who lived halfway up my legs.
They never betrayed me,
They always supported me;
And my legend alleges
That they allowed me,
When I was only aged three
Push my own pushchair
Eleven miles along
A Cornish cliff path.
Later they ascended
Carrying me
Onwards and upwards
To the tops of the Cairngorm plateau,
Likewise the summit of mount Vihren.
Then they propelled
My bicycle across France,
From Channel to Pyrenees.
Oh, what wonderful knees.
Until arthritis and laziness struck
And I was cursed with pain
That got worse and worse.
Now only one knee remains.
The left left replaced
By plastic and metal
While the right grinds
Whilst I am hobbling on
Lonlier,
Now that one of my friends
Has gone.
On a good night
Maybe once a
fortnight
I sometimes
go to heaven,
I can’t say
how long I stay,
Because there
is no time there;
But it’s on
a hillside
Always in
early summer
Warm,
With a few
fluffy white clouds
And swifts
doing aerobatics
In a blue
sky.
I sit
outside on a wooden bench,
With friends
around me,
Sipping ambrosia
ale
Or soma beer
Which has no
side effects at all.
But then I have
a real urge to urinate
And wake.
There is no
way back again.
Yet.
My internal soundtrack
Tells me
that
I’m jumping
jack flash,
As I use a
walking stick
To hobble
alone,
Three yards across
the bathroom,
From the
shower
To the
porcelain throne.
Where I will
begin my golden reign
Again, and again
and again and again.
AAAREAGHAHYAH
I scream.
Possibly connecting
to another place
Or time
As the scream
streaks out
Of my silly
old face
Am I channeling an ancient saxon
Or some long
dead celt?
Or does my
scream go further down
The spine of
ancestry?
Is it the
scream of an unknown proto-chimpanzee?
Or of the
first fish mad enough
To crawl up
a beach?
Or have I given
voice to
The old old
slime mould
That cannot
speak?
No, I’m just
a stupid man.
Screaming at
a comma on a computer screen
That won’t
do what I want
To punctuate
a message to
A hospital
urology department.
Once in a while, I poke my nose outside of my front door,
That’s
almost all that I can do any more.
I step out onto
a city street,
Where herring gulls scream in the sky,
And cranes
slowly turn above the rooftops;
Building more
storage flats for workers,
So that they
can eat, sleep, wake and work again.
I drag
dustbins around to assigned locations,
Now that my
detritus has been taken away.
But something
has been left behind today,
A soggy bag
of shiny magazines
Commemorative
editions
Full of
pictures of the new king and the old queen.
And their
crowns, palaces, shiny white teeth and offsprings.
I delight in
hurling these images into my dustbin.
I’m sad that
I can only throw away photos.
I write about sandwiches and skies
Although I now
know much news about how
Exploding death
drops from above onto some
How human limbs
and bodies are shattered and torn
I hear
children shouting with pleasure
From the neighbouring
school
It’s their playtime.
I seek
dreamless sleep
Or mindless routine
tasks.
I do little
bits of campaigning
To salve my
conscience
But I can
never unknow
Whilst some are
stopped from knowing forever
We live inside a sandwich,
The bees,
the birds, the beasts, the birds.
The trees,
the cars, the plants, the
ants,
And the people, the buildings, the steeples
And the mosque domes,
The nests, the pests,
The aerodromes, the care homes.
Then I could add the sane and the mad,
The sober, the drugged and the pissed.
Suffice it to say, anyway,
We all live
inside a sandwich.
A slice of
sky above
Sometimes blue
and bright as love,
Sometimes obscured
by cloud.
Or black and
denying any light
Or sometimes
letting stars shine through.
And a slice of planet
Beneath our feet
Solid ground or shifting sand
Or granite innit?
Or seas or oceans or lakes or mountains
All soils, terrains and H2o too
So, what are you going to do,
When the only place you can be
And almost all that you can see
Is inside a sandwich?
In a strange railway station
I await a strange train
Five hundred miles from home.
Then I hear bird calls
That I have heard before.
One note from house sparrows
Echoing down
From iron rafters above.
The song that once
I heard every day,
A sound that I had filed away,
In a deep dark archive
In my skull.
Now it fires some neuron or other,
And I see a suburban street,
With sparrows nesting in every gutter
Of every house.
I remember sweeping up the nestlings,
That fell straight from the egg
To death on a pavement below
Never having flown.
I’ve sipped tea,
In cafes in London parks
Where the ground was hidden by
A mass of sparrows,
Hopping between shoes
To dine on dropped crumbs.
These birds were always there,
Everyday everywhere,
Until one day they weren’t.
The air was empty
No more one note song,
And I never knew that they had gone,
I was always too busy to notice.
But now sparrows are back again,
Long may they remain,
Singing a simple song,
Surviving in a city.
Metallic click of walking sticks,
On the
paving stones beside the harbour
Or any other British seaside promenade.
And the hum
of electric wheelchairs,
Beneath wheeling
screaming seagulls
Whilst spoiled
spaniels
Strain at leashes
to attain doggy treats;
Almost overturning
owners.
Old mods and
rockers
Have returned
to the beaches,
Scooterless and bikeless,
But still bedecked
with badges.
Now they’re
more likely to fall over deckchairs
Than throw
them at each other.
Then there
are the giant windmills,
Standing in
the sea
Turning, turning,
turning.
Seagulls, starlings, pigeons and crows
Scavenge around
the shops,
On top of
the hill above the orbital road.
Some slice through
the polluted air
Like white
winged knives
Some squawk and scuttle,
Along the pavements
To stay with their flock.
Some wait for opportunity
Perched atop lamposts.
Some just know where to go.
They find the shoe squashed grapes,
That have fallen from
Greengrocers’ displays.
They find crumbs
of pitta bread
Old cold potato chips
And rancid bits of kebab meat
So, life struggles on in this bleak place,
As long as there’s anything to eat.
Memories of dead friends wake me,
As radio
speaks of
Lunar
lithium mining,
And election
of fascists.
So, I’m glad
that my dead friends
Do not have to hear
What’s happening now.
The only place to go
Is down the garden path
To the compost heap
To forking stick
A forking fork in it
And turn over rotting death,
To more quickly start new life.
There I find fat fat earthworms,
Greedily assisting me
In a slimy segmented way.
Some must be reincarnated parts of
The great poet Emile Sercombe,
And the great ecological arguer
Brian Orr,
Reminding me that
I too must shed my gross corpse
And embark on a worm assisted voyage
To another life,
In a richer compost heap,
On a healed planet.
