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 garish 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 show

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.