Robert James Berry

My country

has been described

as a safe haven

a thing of great beauty

good for the soul

however

this omits

many glaring defects

the children sunk

in appalling poverty

the homeless

chided on the streets

it may be picture-postcard pretty

however it would be remiss to claim

it's perfect.

You loved to sleep

on our honeymoon

in India

you snoozed

as we drove

in our beautiful limousine

passing exquisite palaces

even a bear on the road

my eyes popped

your eyelids drooped

the air-conditioning

whispered into your ears

I exchanged amused glances

with our driver

as Rajasthan passed you by

and all the wonders of India

were as dreams.

Today there is snow

nobody shall come

I don't need to fear

the crunch of leather shoes

on my gravel path

the vulgar rap of knuckles

on my door

I don't need to fake

another persona

because no one shall brave

the whiteout today

I will look out from my big window

at the other houses

dusted like a marzipan fairytale

and breathe

because nobody is calling today.

He had seductive hands

big and knotty

he would turn wood

in his garage

like it was a love affair

I was envious

of his craft

which came so naturally

without any effort

so far as I could see

I wished my own poetry

would come this way

my brown stubby hands

wove no magic

he was the master.

I used to cycle

unimaginable distances

on my bicycle

I explored the entire West coast

of my little country

rounding every obscure bay

until I had ticked off

my marathon journey 

that I would remember forever 

I still keep my bike

in the woodshed

its body is rusted

whereas the memory

of its long painful exertions

is evergreen.

Beside my computer

I have a pile of unread novels

birthday gifts

I've never got around to

one bright day

I shall delve in

break their spines

devour all the words

thereafter

the better volumes

shall be promoted

to my bookcase

the tamer productions

will gather dust

their end papers shall curl

I shall sit my coffee cup

on all their blurb

leave deep black rings

on the inset photograph

of the forgotten author.

If I was mangled

in a road accident

pronounced dead

I should not wish them 

to harvest my organs

I am squeamish

even after death

I should wish

to remain intact

for proper burial

who knows

I may need all my parts

in the place to come.

I had this notepad

I'd hunch up 

against the wall

resting my workbook

upon my knees

preferring the austerity 

to a desk and chair

I believed I wrote better

that way

after a half hour

I had something big

I copied the words carefully

into my proper journal

I thought about breakfast

which I would take

at a favourite street stall

I'd sip my ginseng coffee

slurp my spicy noodles like a pro.

I am ashamed

to say

I have always been

mean

to my Mother

since she died

so long ago

she has been grist

to my poetry

I have defamed

her ghost

on untold occasions

it is time

I made some recompense

for my churlish behaviour.

At my age

with my exposure

I should be a pro

after all

I have been scribbling

since I was a teen

I have seen through publication

ten slim volumes

of variable quality

I should be a doyen

of poetry by now

touting a narrow cigar 

sporting a rakish fedora

however

in this difficult art

I am still a regular novice

searching for that perfect word

to crown a patchy career.

I don't suppose

I shall travel again

I still crave

for a decent long-haul flight

to take me away

from everything

when I was younger

I was not afraid

to settle in questionable places

that urge is still there

I love the bawl of foreign markets

the throb of mopeds

in the insane streets

of South East Asia

the splendour of the monsoon

I miss all that colour and madness.

I launched my new volume

of poetry in the old university bookshop

nobody came. I sat at a desk

with my favourite fountain pen

ready to sign copies 

there was no foot traffic

only a couple of curious bystanders

their heads buried in better books

eyed me vaguely. I looked hard

at my slim collection ranged in stacks 

and thought of the agony my invention

had cost me. It was a dire day.

The fear

of becoming

a rough sleeper

has always haunted me

there have been moments

in my checkered history

when that likelihood

has seemed mighty close

I have crept along

the cruel kerbstones

shouldering my rucksack

with no place to go

now our main street

is chocker with homeless

whom I always give money

the fear returns 

I have vivid nightmares

I am bundled up in rags

newspaper stuffed down my joggers

biting down on the cold.

I followed the map 

down dirt tracks 

the tyres threw up

large flinty stones

as we passed

it rained hard

I sought the estuary 

of our greatest river

we came to a metal gate

parked up our muddy vehicle

walked the sandy track

to where I heard the sea thunder

here our lazy river deposited her soul

into a lamenting ocean

it was a wild intractable place

I felt how miniscule we are.

I prefer 

not to kill any creature

however horrible

but

there was this spider

in my bath

with ghastly long feelers

with a scary jumping motion

it had to die

so with boiling water

I washed it down the plug hole 

I feel such guilt now

because

were it not for my squeamishness

at something so ugly

it would have lived

I should have swept it up

and deposited it outside

fought the revulsion

the desire to kill

which is so big in me.

I was always amused

at how young women

carried parasols

to shade themselves

against the sun

which might pinken

their wax-candle complexions

and so ruin their marriage prospects

I went bareheaded

mad-dog Englishman

that I always was

while the girls glided

shading their pretty faces

giggling at the heat.

If a king tide

swamped our home

staining all our beautiful couches

with brown silt

if the salt waters

lapped into our living room

destroying all our sentimental things

I should be heartbroken

the ocean observes no boundaries

it takes its pleasure

encroaching over human endeavour

it is a heartless monster.