Penelope says she has a dream vision of Odysseus’

Homecoming but that all such intimations issue

From two gates, one of horn which gives unvarnished

Truth, and one of ivory which gives deceptive wish-

Fulfilments and complicated lies. The dream of her man’s

Return, she thinks, comes through ivory, although he stands

Before her as she says so, in disguise. So is she mistaken

About which gate it is, or is her version of the dream gates

Too simple because too binary? I don’t sleep well because

I am tortured by dreams that I would dearly love to be false

But they come through gates of fact, stories of my past

Actions and inactions, depicted in all their nastiness

By a sceptical investigator. Oh, to wake up and be able

To reject them as fictions! The burden of them is intolerable,

but real and must be carried. Yet, like Penelope who accepted

the many stories that were Odysseus, as connected

narratives from the gates of fiction to bring him home,

could I accept the stories of my past as fictive wisdom,

A sequence of septic selves I wove and wore until I learned

Enough humility to be not much more than a man who yearns

For his own bed and lady. Homer knew his story ended

On a poor rocky island with nothing more to be defended.

 

 

 

 

 The word is new to me, although I guessed it came from carcer,

Latin for a prison, which in turn came from a far earlier

Indo -European root, ‘ker’, which was doubled as ‘kerker’ to give

The sense of enclosure, as in the related word, circus. If

You were found guilty of a crime in Rome, you were unlikely

To be jailed unless you were awaiting execution -exile,

forced labour, fines and whipping being much more common.

Standard incarceration is an invention of Christendom.

When they call the state carceral, they mean that its key

Institutions imprison its citizens actions and thoughts in ways

That suit its rulers. Most decent people think this theory is farcical

And angrily reject the notion that say, education, is carceral.

 

Susan aged 25 was in prison for selling small quantities of ketamine,

A sensible, cheeky, model prisoner, six months pregnant, keen

To give birth and nurse her baby. She was taken to hospital handcuffed

To a male officer, and still was when displaying what he called her muff

For examination. Her labour was intensely painful, but he showed no

Interest while playing heavy metal on his phone. The female officer who

Replaced him was no better. She felt abused and violated. The complaint

She made was dismissed by the governor who said some officers would faint

at the sight of blood, so she was lucky with the two she had. This ain’t

a holiday camp, he said. Show some respect to us and we’ll

some to you even if you are a housing scheme drug dealer, amigo.

 

From the age of five, my school taught me to revere the men

In suits and ties and gowns who hit me again and again.

I was no angel, but I certainly was not as feral

As those whose discipline made the place carceral.

 

 

 

 

The USA and Israel killed him and his family on the first

Day of their war, Ayatollah Khomenei, who in repeated bursts

Of repression had killed thousands of his protesting citizens

Who did not share his ludicrous view that their offence

Was rejection of Allah and worthy of the death penalty.

Now, with the war declared a victory of both sides, melodies

Of patriotism call Iranians to their leader’s funeral. From

All over Iran, in buses, trains and cars, on willing feet they come

Many hundreds of thousands, together, then divided into female

And male cohorts for solemn assembly. These women are not frail

But, ranged in rows, project the power of people much kept down

Yet freed in this vast crowd. Their lips are parted, not in sound

But silent ecstasy of grief at all that must be borne,, including

Their leader’s death, and anger at the unbelievers’ stupid

Military that wiped a school and all its pupils from the map.

A dullness in their eyes says if I make a criticism or madcap

Joke amongst them, they’ll murder me and eat my balls.

 

Then I remember Paul Fusco’s photos of Bobby Kennedy’s funeral

Train from New York to Washington with people all down the line

Showing respect, especially the poor who saw him as a sign

Of hope because he knew the arc of the moral universe does not bend

Toward justice without the contemporary commitment

Of decent citizens. So, there they are, his people, marshalling

Themselves along the track, not in military formation, but calling

Families and friends into groups that speak of love and the struggle

To survive, as for example the family at the yard door of an ugly

Three story brick house, black people standing with pride, parents

And at least four children on the step, the eldest out front, wearing

Sunday best for the man who understood their royalty and was steering

The state towards their kingdom. The mother and eldest daughter wave

Affectionately towards RFK as he journeys towards his grave.

“Many people see the way things are and ask, Why? But

I see things that do not yet exist and ask, Why not?”

Fusco’s photos are a joyful critique of the Islamic Republic

Of Iran, and of Trump’s sad superpower America.

 

 

 

 

I saw her in Gneevguillia, County Kerry, on a Sunday at Mass

Standing at the rail, reaching as if there were no perhaps.

She came to mind when you asked if there is any reality

In religion, and I have painted her for you, so that her bodily

Presence may be with you, in your struggle with the enemies

Of life. My canvas is almost life- size so that it can tell this

Story with conviction.The main figure is on the left side

With low down a block of grey as in dust, tilted to the right,

The application of the paint miming an upward thrust. Above,

Tilted to the left a block of brown as of arms or legs that you’d love

A shirt in, flagrant. On top, poised centrally, a small purple

Oval with a nose facing right, sharply. You might guess purpose

If this was a person. In the centre, to the right of this figure, level

With the brown block, are five large purple tubes laid parallel

To each other horizontally with a definite impetus as if stretching

Rightward to demand a reward, which at first seems wretchedly

Absent, but when you look closely you see it is conventional

And trite, a tiny communion wafer tinged with wine, not mystical

Nor philosophic, but drawn from a specific history, simply saying,

“Jesus God is here, now” That is her passion amid all the tatters

Of her time and place. And if it is true, nothing else matters.

 

 

 

They often say of old friends that when you meet them

After a long absence, it’s as if time itself were defeated

And you pick up where you left off, but when two friends

With whom I’d worked forty years ago, two old men

Came to visit me, I was struck by how much they had changed:

This one, after two divorces and a career in community education

Was committed to playing and composing jazz, an ability

And skills not evident when I knew him, though perhaps his instantly

Correct grasp of my ideas came from the same place as his joy

In jamming. The other when young had been a benign playboy

Of energy and potential, which he had used well in local

Government, family life, and friendships to become a bloke of

mellow interaction, easy with the world. I love them new

as they are, hoping for future meetings in which this true

affection may be celebrated. But who did they encounter?

A man stripped of illusions of personal empowerment

And communal usefulness, offering only a trust in what

Is beyond the self, whose daughter’s death was havoc

To the soul, how could they love this altered man?

And yet they did, it seemed by their warmth, even if I can

Not. Friendship is no mere aggregate but a mystery whose arts

Make a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts.

 

 

 

 

“They are invading our British province without our consent

To overcome our Christian culture and make us dispossessed

in our own land. People say we’re not native, but we were settled

here by God’s will to control the Catholics, so our natural mettle

is to resist the stranger especially one whose culture promotes

beheading your enemy rather than the traditional gunshot

in the back of the head. The Sudanese man who attacked an

innocent guest of our community must be punished but his clan

must be extirpated from this territory, all of it, and no mercy

for women and children. The media will describe this as a frenzy

of hatred but that is quite mistaken. Firstly, we’re perfectly rational:

all over Europe white people are being replaced by other nationals

mainly Arab and Moslem. What we are defending is civilisational.

Jesus said he had come not to bring peace but a sword. Woke

Clergy make him into a weakling, but he was a Jewish bloke

Who knew how to fight, as they do still. Secondly, we are the peacemakers

Who brought about the Good Friday Agreement by taking

One Catholic life for every Prod they killed, which stuck the Armed

Struggle up their arse. They say these immigrants would be harmed

In their own countries, but did we emigrate to Africa during the troubles?

No, we can’t have our citizens murdered by foreigners, this point is subtle,

because our birthright is to be killed only by each other. Eh, law of the jungle.

 

 

 

 Oh, I was lucky to get a ticket for the blessing of the cross by

The Pope, from the bishop, although it was only right seeing I

Got him one for the world cup semi. Anyway, there I was, off

To the side but near the front next to a man in dungarees and rough

Hands, and a woman wearing something by Dior, maybe. I was near

The crossing so I could look upwards into the dizzying atmospheres

Of the towers. There was a lot of ceremony, choirs and the like -I’m not

Religious- and the Pope chuntered on, piously in Spanish and I thought

My report for the Guardian needed some facts, so I said to my neighbour

“It’s about 500 feet high, yes?” “560 feet” he answered. “That’s now they’ve laid

This cross on top, it’s around 50?” “56 feet” he confirmed. The Pope was doing

the blessing, finger in the air. Then I said, “You seem to know it well,” Chewing

his gum, he nodded. “So, let me ask you: do you like crosses? I mean I know

it’s a Christian symbol, but it’s also an instrument of torture devised by Romans

for rebels and riffraff.”  “It’s quite a bit older than Rome,” he said. “Used in Babylon

and Egypt and very much in Persia.But the Romans standardised it” “Nab you, then

scourge you, then nail you up, then you can’t take a breath because your weight

pulls you down.” “The other way round,” he told me. “The pressure is so great

on your chest you can manage intake but not out-breath, unless you push

with your feet, which would be agony. When you couldn’t manage that, you

suffocated.” “The big cross up there with its viewing platform will be too

comfy, from your perspective,” I suggested. He nodded. I was hoping to get

a photo of him for the article, but there was a huge explosion overhead

and outside, of celebratory fireworks, and by the time I recollected

my job, the knowledgeable man had disappeared. That was the finish.

I went home to write, without the man to whom I had been glad to listen

 

When Cuchulainn arrives at his Ulster court threatening violence

King Conchobar “orders his women to intercept him, naked” A tense

Moment, but the women are happy to oblige, and the hero is “delayed,”

Until he can be cooled off in a succession of baths. In order to dissuade

Him from killing on another occasion the ladies at court uncover

Their breasts. Indeed, the Ulster women are shown to have a tougher

Sexuality than is common in most heroic literature, their lust readily

Aroused by seeing a tasty man. Modern scholars of the Irish sagas see

This depiction as part of the patriarchal viewpoint of the male

Writers, this is how men would like women to be, up for it, all

The time, all of them, except their own women who will do what

They are told. Patriarchy is not absent, but I think it could not

Create these lovely women and their honest sexual display,

Which matches what I know of women’s sly humour, their way

Of hinting that male desire is weak compared with theirs

And much too boastful. Their grace is not to control nature

But to express it in restraint or shared enjoyment with a chosen

partner. Cassius Dio, in the 3^rd century, tells of a Roman

Empress who criticised the lax morality of Celtic women

To a Celtic noblewoman, her guest. “We are honest,” she replied

“In how we deal with natural desires. We consort openly, bride

Or lover, with the best of men, while you are debauched in secret

By the vilest.” And Scotland now? A society that cannot even speak it

Without sniggers has much to learn from one that lived its sexuality

With humour and honour, led by women, in the light of day.

Because I spent some time in my youth on yachts

I was used to the poetry of the BBC Fishing Forecast

“Malin, Hebrides, Bailey…. South West 4 , storm later.

Fair, occasionally poor.”  No use now to fishers with state of

The art onboard communications and today I go the internet

For the daily weather. Various apps provide razzmatazz but the Met

Office is elegantly sober offering hour by hour symbols plus

Temperature plus percentage probability of rain (remember this

Is the UK) plus wind speed and direction. When I see the sun

Symbol uncluttered by clouds I am already anticipating a run

On the local beach avoiding dogs and children next to the blue

Water under the blue sky, as often happens. But there are the few

Times the forecast is wrong. The other day it promised a burst

Of heavy rain at midnight. Intrigued I waited and checked. First

Thing I noticed was it was not raining. It was warm, windless, and moist.

 A lumpy moon hung above, I could hear the hedgehog having its choice

Of slugs and everywhere a quiet ache at the absence of rain. I wonder

When I expect a clear dawn, but turn out to be one of that night’s number

Of sudden deaths, will the morning that lights my garden and the hedgehog

As it slopes off to sleep, feel any ache at my absence from the weather?

 

 

The motif is square with marked entrances on facing sides.

Within, there is blue with flowers in yellow, red, green, and white

On the other sides. This area surrounds a red octagon, which

contains a white on black border of wavy lines and strict

Rectangles, which surrounds a white bow- tie imposed

On a long thin rectangle. In its very centre, enclosed,

is a small black circle with four segments yellow- red

yellow-red. On my runner carpet the motif is repeated

four times. It was likely made in the high grazing lands

of the Zagros mountains in Iran, by a young woman

using a horizontal loom, with wool from her sheep

and goats, for sale in the city of Shiraz, but she might keep

the same motif for the rugs in her family tent, the siah-

-chador, which can be easily transported by donkeys or

camel. It is a common enough image to be recognised as

A walled garden, also the Gods’ garden, or pairidaeza

In Old Persian, which is an image of the complete truth

Of life, the flowers standing for growth and beauty, blue

For water and sky, the octagon for universal balance

Within which black is the colour of earth and all that springs

From it, while white is the colour of heaven. The bow-tie

Motif is probably a star, and at its heart the circle ties

Together the yellow of sun and the red of fire, heaven

And hearth, a hint that the whole motif may also be a version

Of the black shelter, the family tent and its inhabitants,

Who hope to mirror paradise in their living. The rug is an implant,

skilled weaver, of your clear faith and custom thousands of miles

From your upland home into my study, house, society, and style

Of life, which are blest by them, not least that I can journey

With you on tracks amid the mountain flowers, in a sweet country

of new grass and harsh rains, to live by the freedom

And discipline of paradise, knowing how much I need them.