Manifeste NEW PROSE My Writing Space The Last Refuge Paul Potts Sacrificial Lamb NEW POEMS Uncertain Ways Swept Out Burial at Sea Hidden Light |
HIDDEN LIGHT
The Budge/Hogan Power Station, Crouch End Peter and Mary harness the heavens for energy. They’re on the side of the angels but do not like to fly. Floating on a cloud’s a balanced life in principle. But it’s more fun coming down to earth on a bicycle powered by his surdo drum and her soul-song. It’s a tandem. Even in Crouch End the good sun will always shine for them. Basking in it lights the way and warms the cockles of their heart. The atmosphere that’s created could be considered a start on saving the earth from the carbonic Armageddon. When taking the train and boat from Kings Cross to Kilcreden their natural ebullience works up steam for the engines. Once there, these pure spirits walk by the sea when the tide’s in, and sing along with protected species when it is out. Then light a wood fire to give the sun a rest. It’s done them proud. Outages in the Holy Land Gaza is dark tonight. You can see the stars, and the helicopters. What is there to hide isn’t in the shadows. Families expose themselves to worldwide scrutiny, sharing food cooked in the warmth of an open fire. The Tel Aviv grid powers a confusion in the whited streets, as though day’s been wired in. It’s the light that hides. Past caring, in a nightlife rush, the people seem alone. It is obvious nobody’s at home. A Call to Heaven All the world is a mobile phone. And the music of the spheres play while we’re waiting for God to speak. ‘Hang on’, says a voice from time to time. After what seems an eternity another voice, female, butts in. ‘If you want to leave a message press G six six six two two one.’ It’s promptly answered by a bark. ‘The Number of the Beast speaking. If you want to continue, press B and GO 2 H.E.L.L.’ ‘But I wanted God’, I got in. ‘Sorry, he’s otherwise engaged. But I can speak on his behalf, as long as you reverse charges.’ Then the line went dead. I was left with a God-forsaken sense of alienation. I’m a damn fool, I think. It’s God who should call me. Letter Home from Guy Moquet A teenage resistance fighter executed by the Nazis, 22 October 1941 1. I am as those I love for their mirror makes me appear so I won’t be myself alone. Above the ego is the thee. 2. Before being born I didn’t know what it was like to be alive. Why should I, in my panic, strive to make sense of what is go- ing to happen after I die. You just accept that’s how it is. But while you’re alive you must try to examine what’s going on, the existing phenomenon grace of others who, passing by, allow you to be someone else. It is not merely for yourself. Détente in the Dark The old moon over the port is a crumbling crème-brulée, peach apricot breaking through. The broken banana boat from Maroc is rust red too. Its cargo rots on the quay. After the storm the TV in the backwater bar is soundless, and black and white, and spirits up street riots - begowned judges in Paris, car-parks torched in the banlieux, and gendarmes shot at. ‘That’s new’, says the lone drinker. ‘Gun tot- ing jeunes potting at the flic.’ As Sarkozy fills the screen (a bell-hop touting a tip), the barfly lip-reads his spiel. ‘To re-pack purchasing power, France must become an offshoot of America and trigger growth, by spending more bullets. Our State shares the same gunplay laws.’ And adds, after a pause for thought. ‘Here naught to report, save in the hunting season the odd friendly-fire shooting of a neighbour scree-rooting, mistaken for a wild boar. The case is thrown out of court.’ |