Poem: Veterans

Veterans

One mild November
When I was a child
I watched the old men
Gather in the park.
I talked to the old guy
Who spent Easter morning
At Vimy Ridge.
“What was it like, sir?”
I managed to ask.
“Noisy,” he said
And he went back
To sucking a biscuit.

(c) J S Phillips

Poem: Maji Maji

Maji Maji

When Kinjikile found his spring
Did he really believe
He could turn men
Into Achilles?
Did he really believe
That his magic could transform
Bullets into water?
Or did he lie,
Convinced that courage
Will always trump
Cold German steel?
Would he still have tried
If he'd known about
Wovoka
And the Ghost Dance
Or would he have left
His gospel to die
A bastard orphan
In a savage land?
It's hard to say
When a man lives as much
In the spirit world
As he does
In the world of men.

(c) J S Phillips

Poem: The Properties of Matter

The Properties of Matter

Class, can you tell me,
What is matter?
"Matter is an object,
Any object,
That occupies space
And possesses mass."
Mass, you say?
So matter is Catholic
Like us?
I'll see you after class, Rosetta.
Yes, Mwalimu.
Class, can you tell me,
What are the states
That matter takes?
"Solid state."
"Liquid state."
"Gaseous state."
But Teacher,
We learned this in chemistry.
I thought this was physics.
I'll see you after class, Rosetta.
Yes, Mwalimu.
Class, can you tell me,
In what state of matter
Do objects possess
A definite shape?
In what state of matter
Do objects possess
A definite shape?
"Solid, Teacher."
Class, can you tell me,
In what state of matter
Do objects possess
Weak forces of attraction?
In what state of matter
Do objects possess
Weak forces of attraction?
"Gaseous, Teacher."
Class, can you tell me,
In what state of matter
Are molecules
Very free
To move around
Randomly in any direction.
"Gaseous, Teacher."
Sometimes I wish
That I were a gas.
I'll see you after class, Rosetta.
Yes, Malimu.

(c) J S Phillips

Poem: For a Melancholic Friend

For a Melancholic Friend

Beautiful Antonio,
Mi amigo,
Mi hermano,
Is cursed no more
By sleeplessness.
Tonight he is haunted
By beautiful ghosts --
His words,
Not mine.
Perhaps he is in Chiapas
In his dreams,
Joining the heart
He left behind.

(c) J S Phillips

Poem: Olof Palme Orphans Education Centre

This is a poem that is based on some of my travel journal entries, a journal which already consists of 124 ledger-sized pages of hand-written musings.

Olof Palme Orphans Education Centre

The sun hangs high
In a cloudless blue sky,

Drop of amber

In sapphire sea.
For the first time in days
Beads of sweat
Assume formation on my brow.
My newly laundered shirt is dry,
At least, for now.

The fresh bug bites
That scar my wrist
Itch like the devil.
A breeze blows softly
From the east,
Causing the fronds
Of coconut palms
To rustle

And shiver,
As if being kissed
By invisible lips.

For once,
The sounds of songbirds
Overwhelm

The caws of crows
And cackles of hens.
The maize in the field
Behind the school
Is brown

And ready to pick.
Orange trees hang heavy
With sour-sweet fruit,
While pawpaws wait to fall.
Only the bananas
Refuse to offer
Themselves to the cook.

A rooster crows,
Challenged, no doubt,
By the previous lines,
Reclaiming dominance
For domesticated fowl.
Let him crow all he wants,
He’ll soon be on the plate,
Swimming in a sauce
Of fresh coconut milk.

Girls in the classroom
Next to mine
Laugh at something
The teacher does

Or says.
The cock crows again
As I scratch a bite
With absent-minded ardor.
A golden bug
Crawls across my sandal
While in the distance

The tea-time bell rings
Calling the girls

To the dining hall.

The wind picks up,
Then dies,
Ebbing and flowing
Like unseen tides of air.
Goats bleat

With barely heard voices
While outside the door
A student beats
A chalkboard eraser
Against a handy palm tree,
Raising a cloud
Of fine white dust
That settles on her dress.

In the classroom someone coughs,
Then coughs
And coughs again.
Sangu lectures on,
Undisturbed by the tea-time bell.
The air is still,
Then winds swirl
And songbirds trill
And students

Bang erasers
On a tree.

This is Africa.
This is Tanzania.
This is Olof Palme.

(c) J S Phillips

Poem: Tenebrae

Tenebrae

One by one the candles sputter
And die.
The lessons have been read,
All has been said,
And Christ hangs lifeless on the tree.
The Book has been slammed shut
And the people file out wordlessly;
The joy of Christmas
Replaced by endless sorrow.

Our God is vanquished,
Darkness reigns,
And the devil laughs to himself
In hell
As people cry out in agony,
"All is lost.
The battle is over.
The enemy rules supreme."

The cries rush like the tide
Through my soul,
Mouthing what I've known for years --
Death is victorious,
Christ lies dead and rotting
In the tomb.

He lies in the tomb,
But just for the weekend.
Easter morn shall surely come
And the Son of Man
Shall rise again in splendour.

(c) J S Phillips

Update to Yesterday's Poem

A couple of people have commented to me that they felt Self-Portrait as Saint Bartholomew is a dark and disturbing poem. One person asked me if I was contemplating suicide. My answers are (1) no, I am not considering suicide, and (2) it should be dark and disturbing -- its a poem about existing in a world where there is no God. It reallly does feel the way the narrator in the poem describes it.

I realize that there may be a bit of confusion and contraction in the poem. After all, how can someone feel pain and despair about not believing in God when there is no God in which to believe? I really don't have the answer to that question. All I have is the question -- and the pain and despair.

Poem: Self-Portrait as Saint Bartholomew

Self Portrait as Saint Bartholomew

See how I lie,
Curled in a ball
Beneath this nest of blankets.
See how I bleed,
Heart stripped from body,
Hope stripped from soul,
Very existence raw and exposed
Like the skin stripped from muscle
On Saint Bartholomew.

Where is the man who once was so proud?
Where is the man who once was so strong?
Where is the man who was once so happy?
Where is the man who loved you so well?

Where is the man I once was?

That man is gone.
He lies in a ball
Beneath a pile of blankets,
Slowly,
Surely
Bleeding to death
While you go on your celestial way.

(c) J S Phillips

Poem: Kayaking

Kayaking


Why do we do this?
She asks out loud
As the sun plants a kiss
On the mountain’s crest.
I let the paddle speak for me --
Blade slices surface,
Blade slices surface,
Until my world
Is silent once again.



(c) J S Phillips

Poem: Lost Patrol

Lost Patrol

Here we lie,

Abandoned statues of

Flesh and ice
A million miles from home.

Here we lie,

Twisted and frozen,

Alone beneath a frigid desert sky.

Here we lie,

Forgotten and famished,
Afloat on an ocean of

Muskeg and starvation.

This is no place for feeble men.
The night, like the land,

Never ends.

This is no place for hearty souls,

For the cold respects

No man.

And so we lie,

Mute witnesses to Empire.

Only the savage heart endures.

(c) J S Phillips

Poem: Virginia Dare

Virginia Dare

Sometimes, it's no fun
Being first -
First to be born,
First to disappear.

(c) J S Phillips

Poem: Plotzensee

Plotzensee

At Plotzensee only the meathooks remain.
Flowers replace piano wire
And the halls no longer echo
Of jackboots on stone.
Best of all,
The men we'd like to be no longer die
At the hands of the men we are.

(c) J S Phillips


A poem for the July 20th conspirators and everyone else who fought the Nazi regime.

Poem: Haiku

Haiku

is this ironic?
since praising tanka in verse
I dream in haiku

(c) J S Phillips

Poem: Tanka on Tanka

Tanka on Tanka

no haiku for me
with complicated rhythm
I favour tanka
delicate waltz of black ink
on white parchment ballroom floor

(c) J S Phillips

Poem: Matador

Matador

I have seen my future
In the blood
On the bullring floor.

(c) J S Phillips