You have to go home
But the dog did not answer.
A wagging tail, a wriggling body, his youth his joy.
And this just when the writer was in doubt,
If this is Csaba utca why is the bus stop Maros?
And yet his worries were not heavily inclined.
He had a pen and paper, beer and table, and the girl.
An ink blot at a full stop and a pause did figure that this was his flow, but his contrived.
Category Archives: Writing
Driven
Driven by the body’s excesses
The cough and splutter
Slowly lumbers
In afternoon traffic jams
Among the arteries of Budapest.
Without the crowd
Another glimpse into the mirror
The face more sunken
The beard dishevelled
The cap fit tight against the wind
The jacket bind
All are revealing, reflecting doubt.
What DO they think
What DO they think of us
Our parenting books
Our observational comedy
Our moaning about fatigue
Expecting sympathy
Perhaps even pity.
What do they think
Raised hard and poor
No TV, no distractions.
Electronic nannies!?!
No nannies, no babysitters at all
Except the eldest
Who kept the youngest along
And the other in line.
What do they think of us
With our worries and our fears
Those who witnessed glass smashed,
Fingers broken and much more.
What will we think when we’re like them?
© TheHairyTeacher 2017
The Hapless Elephant
The ideas intellectualising
And I see the evasive gestures
Intertwined in the silence
That space between thoughts and written words
And war weary
cast ashore in that talk of the weather
Nobody dares mention the critical
Instead in the mediocrity, sparse honesty
Carefully chosen each destination so as to not bring anyone too close to the fire,
Or worse, beyond it – into the darkness
That has always surrounded us.
© TheHairyTeacher 2017
The Nose Job
Hungarians pride themselves on their numerous inventions but I’m not sure that they should…
Rubiks Cube…madness inducing
Match…pyromaniac
Bike Spokes…eye poker outers
Orrszivo Porszivo…need I say more
In Plight
My mother’ grip weaker but tighter too
A desperate plea to me and to mortality
The love abounding but unstable
The conditions placed upon herself weigh badly.
“Was I a good mother?” the plaintive quest to understand
The fear of an Unforgiven.
Yet what her memories paint and what of them remain
I cannot judge
But what I can induce is blame
That reassurances will never penetrate.
A child robbed of youth;
Or the joy therein,
Robbed of a father through the maraudings of a mean mother
And when his death arrived
Though grown
She was left alone against the politics of the justifiably estranged
Strained through years of conflict and contradiction.
So what then of my future in this mess?
A hand that will grip tight long after death
Is made of love and not the need for love
To reciprocate is joy
But to give without expectation is strength
And to never look for reassurances is brave –
Especially at the end.
© TheHairyTeacher 2017
Across a notion
In the faded blue now turned dark
There sparkle the settlements of an age
An eyesore to the unspoilt landscape
A sign of hope to the weary traveler
A beacon amidst the puffs of clouds
Which dispel the views our tired minds are longing for.
Holding on just this little bit longer
The time now measured in our descent
as the clouds embalm us
The darkness almost entombing –
But we pray, collectively,
That engineering, yes science,
Will save us again,
Will transport us safely into the bosom of our destination.
We are the pilgrims set out against life
In search of it
In the nuances of every step
We are fools hoping for change
And yet we see it,
We feel it,
Perceive it at every turn.
But collectively we become lost in the mantras
The panic,
The sheer superstition ,
Rock Face sheer, cliffintine,
We have it, it us
And shattered in our communion
We scream injustice
Searching for our scapegoat
The voodoo functions
The blame is cast
The snake eyes removed as was our Judas.
And again as we set down we forget our hysteria
And once more we move beyond the limits of our fear
Into the freedom that forgetfulness and ignorance afford us.
© TheHairyTeacher 2017
ItchyMalley
Back again my pretty creepy crawley
With school start and hair washed-
It doesn’t matter.
You discriminate not though many on your behalf do
They shout “You filth” and they do not mean you.
The psychosomatic impulse
The hand that reaches, scratches, passes back to point
And waits
The tendency engorged by fitful, fanciful, frantic
Imaginations!
And back again to torment, Cos that is what you do.
The morning’s bus-stop-wait inspection
The routine, the chore imposed.
Each itch, each scratch, questioned
Queried, curious, cautious
And paranoid, yes paranoid,
The present you endow.
© TheHairyTeacher 2017
A song
I didn’t try today to remember
Nor forget for I thought that unwise.
I didn’t reach for tears to quench the fire
Nor would I allow my heart to burn with rage.
I never promised anything nor were oaths given
And yet I felt betrayed by what you’d done.
While I the innocent stone thrower
Lay down my implements of hypocrisy.
Refrain: I regret not knowing you
And you not loving me
I despise the taint I threw on thee
I blame my self as is my fallacy
Noone was wrong to let a thing just be.
I didn’t die that day
When you released me
Nor did I relish in
The new found misery.
I guess I begged
I may even have seemed pathetic
I was new to you and never asked for this.
Yet I wasn’t the victim of a hit and run
I believe we fought two pugilists as one.
You may have cracked my heart
With belittlements’ array
While I internalized the rage and came undone.
I didn’t lie that day upon failed laurels
Instead I fuelled my dreams from painful memory
Not like a trooper nor a troubadour
But like a man who’s lost and carries on.
Sometimes empowered by self-righteousness
Sometimes alone and left distraught
I have at times given weight to thee
And wonder if you’ve ever even thought of me.
Refrain: 1 or 2?