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The Poem about Circularity
Life is a metaphor as well as fact;
Existence never can be lived intact.
We need each other, watch each other move
Up and down escalators.Whether we approve
Or not, our lives go on, events, though not foreseen
Happen to student, teacher, princess, queen,
Nice ones and nasty ones - we can't avoid
What Fate or Chance brings - so why get annoyed
At silly mishaps? Take things in your stride
As I have come to do. Deep down inside
Most of us know fine how to handle life:
Colleagues, friends, family, husband, lover, wife,
Deal with the gas bill, get the kids some shoes,
Borrow a lawnmower, mend that bloody fuse
That always seems to go in these daft plugs
With thirteen amps; try to sort out the bugs
In the computer or the fax machine;
Dry all the dishes, keep the kitchen clean,
Hang out the washing - there are many more
Things to go wrong, or mend, things to ignore,
For instance English, Scots, Welsh, Irish insularity
Literal as well as metaphorical barbarity.
Life is so wide and vast, like a giant stream,
The Amazon perhaps, a grey-brown dream
So many miles across as it pours out
Into the South Atlantic. People spout
Buckets of purple prose about the thrill
Of rain-forest cruises where weird monkeys' shrill
Calls echo through the water-sated trees
And parrots glide and flap in a slight breeze,
Where giant branches overarch the boat
And sleepy looking alligators float
Hoping that unsuspecting humans will
Go swimming - then they'll move in for the kill
And turn the turgid water bloody red.
We little know what bad things lie ahead
(If you're the victim, then of course it's bad,
If the attacker, you don't feel so sad)
Nor do we realise that round the bend
(Things often happen when we just pretend)
There might be something wonderful ahead:
The future holds much else beside being dead.
I used to think, as Larkin did at dawn
Of death inevitable : on the lawn
Coming with one thrust of a thrush's beak
Or by the garden shed, a mouse's squeak
Betraying the presence of the black-robed reaper
Hiding behind each bush and tree and creeper.
It waits for us too at every intersection,
Or intercourse, relationship, connection,
Holding our ticket in skeletal hand -
Express to Heaven, or to Never Land,
Hades or Hell, Valhalla, what's the odds?
The main thing is, he didn't believe in gods
Plural or singular. I'm not sure if I do
But think, as an inmate of the human zoo,
That we should try to act as if there were
Somebody watching through the stratosphere
And judging us by all our daily actions
Towards our families, friends, ourselves. The factions
That push like German bus-queues leave me cold.
I'd rather stand and watch things from the back
Than be in front there, leading the attack
To get on board first, put the bath-towels down,
Nuke our opponents, drive beggars out of town,
Feud with the neighbours about some old fence
Or go to court to seek a recompense
For having lost a six-inch strip of path:
People like that should take an early bath,
Red-carded from the football game of life.
It's much more fun to hold right back from strife
And take things easy, look on the bright side.
I don't mean loaf about the place or hide
When big decisions are needing to be made,
Rather, be positive. Life will one day fade
But can take on new meaning if we do
Things that perhaps we've always wanted to,
Like write a book, or run three times a day,
Spend ages gardening, tidy away
Years' worth of documents, letters, files -
Most go in the waste-bin. One just smiles
At the thought of the pleasure that freedom brings
So that we can talk, drink coffee,sing
In the shower if we want to, fall deeply in love
With someone who thinks you're a gift from above
Or just be good friends, wait for things just to come -
And they will, if you want them to. It would be dumb
To expect everything to be perfect at once;
You have to be ready to take hold of chance,
Turn it to advantage, do the best that you can
To stand out from the pack, not an also-ran.
These are all metaphors too, like faith, hope and charity -
All part of the rhythm of life's circularity.