Christmas Sonnet ...

in Cavendish¹ Square...

I see the walking people pause to search

The shelves and racks, to find the perfect gift.

I sense the deep heart-longing as they sift

Through what's on view and who they love, to lurch

From this to that, reluctant to besmirch

The value of relationship with thrift;

Intensely seeking, vaguely longing, drift

To celebration, perhaps to annual church.

We need our “festive seasons”, different days

That make humanity; yet there behind

It all, desire Light within the haze

Of lights; and as we wander through the maze

Of fable, feast and fun we hope to find

Some Presence, centre for our wonder-blaze.

2008

1Cavendish Square: a shopping mall

Urban Street Vendors

Do you despair or hope as you unpack

Your tent and table, basket, box and bag?

You sell while cold or hot, when fast or slack:

Is this proud dream or nightmare's daily drag?

The loads you carry make your shoulders sag;

You lift and dump, arrange your goods on the rack,

Create displays, clear grime with wielded rag.

Do you despair of hope as you unpack?

Variety between each stand or shack:

From belt to hairdo, t-shirt, phone or flag;

A pen or vase, a drink, a smoke, a snack –

In tent, on table, out of box and bag.

From summer's shine to winter's morning lag,

You see the year, can write the almanac.

You're there when clients smile or patron's nag;

You sell while cold or hot, when fast or slack.

Here you chance on friendship, risk attack;

Here is freedom and the binding snag;

Here you go under, or you learn the knack;

Here is proud dream and nightmare's daily drag.

Do you despair or hope?

2007, Rondeau Redoublé

... on the hidden life of malls

Down into the earth you drive your load,

Into the building's bowels, where no-one sees

The dusty cardboard boxes being stowed.

When do you unpack and pack all these:

Entering as goods, displayed as owed

To chosen beauty, status, selfish ease.

Room and time outside where others go

Preserve the magic wonderland on show.

Down slender passages to hidden spaces

You trundle your container full of tools,

Maintaining disguised inner working places.

People go, and grim disorder rules

Until you scrape and scrub, remove all traces

Of day past, create stark renewals.

The fairy face of shops in shopping hours

Is founded on these secret, mundane powers.

Behind the scenes of crowded light you brood,

Counting numbers, adding lists. You keep

The profit holy, see the merit moved.

The electronic systems only leap

To answer touch command if you've pursued

The faults, repaired the logic twisted deep.

Invisible to those within the spell

This arcane sorcery's there in parallel.

2007

...after walking through the mall...

Denim jeans have jilted labour, now jostle with the silks

Jowl by cheek with jewels in jeopardy of severed roots

Can this giant generate one genuine earthed thing?

Fluffy finery is false, fresh flowers are real

In the face of fashion, funky fun laughs

And forgetful fancy flies before fragrant flavoured spice.

Computer, camera, carpets, clothes … covet the unneeded.

Yet commerce cannot overcome creation –

Covert, constant, colours all endeavour.

Drenched in deepening desperation they slip;

Dessicated by driving delight they stagger;

Made dumb and deaf by duty they stand

In this moving, milling, mauling crowded place.

People immersed in money emerge emaciated, needs unmet

For music, books, the movies may engage the mind – or dull it.

Things bent to evil, blighted, braided in among

The brilliant beauty of burnished blush of stipple dark:

Burning blade, bondage-breaker, bring freedom.

Thea McKenzie, 2007

...on the release of the seventh Harry Potter book...

Simultaneous longing and delight;

An urban festival to deep desire;

A global waiting for the coming gem.

Midnight, noon, the evening, three am:

An opportunity for baser hire

Eleven million books in one day-night.

Hands clench, hearts laugh, we hold our breath, we sigh;

Reaching after something far beyond,

Searching for safe ways to look inside.

Here is a world win which I can confide,

Experience vicarious close bond;

Recounting my heart's fundamental cry.

The darkness all around us is revealed

As people choose for evil, seize the power.

Here too the light is seen to be denied

As people grasp their comfort, clutch their lives.

But even in the best the shadows glower,

They fight to turn away and not to yield.

From this alternate world hope comes to dawn

In my reality, where hope has died.

Here courage stands, though weak, against the strong;

Sacrifices, dares refuse the wrong.

At last the hater perishes in pride,

Defeated by the one it laughed to scorn.

Can the world of history be like this?

Did a crown of thorns once make a twist,

Make fantasy and truth connect, and kiss?

silent mime

Does the father think he's spending time

With his daughter, sitting silent by?

With silent sips of coffee, he reads on,

Undisturbed as daughter says goodbye,

The news absorbs him, when she's here or gone,

Each petty item large. This is no bi-

Directional relationship, but non-

Togetherness. So she goes off to buy

While he reads finance, politics and crime.

What if once he'd let the paper lie?

What if once his love could glow upon

His daughter, watch and praise her as she shone?

Might they still escape this silent lie

And not maintain this mute pretence in mime?

No Sense

The glass of one shop front reflects the faded image of another

A small child staggers under a bunch of sweet-smelling flowers; a father-daughter conspiracy for a much-loved woman

Escalators escalate unceasingly, rushing me past people I only glance at

The smooth marble floors glide, glide away

A poem with no rhythm, metre or verse

A lone, lonely woman dressed up to the tens

hurrying, hurrying to meet a prince charming she knows is

Silent, silent mouthing cartoons trapped behind the flashing lights

Speak what I can only guess at

Pictures make no sense to me, a montage without

Within fake cactus plants, surviving the desert, still have no purchase here

I cannot make this poetry.

Compulsion

We wait for our hot chocolate, mine with foam

And hers with cream. The crowded red and chrome

Engulfs us, lets us watch the people walk

Alone, in pairs, or families – home from home.

The great machine of greed applies it's torque;

It reels us in, follows behind to stalk

Our dreams; compulsion where there was delight

Strikes, with the beauty of the wheeling hawk.

Constructed cave of twenty-four-hour night

Is artificially lit to crazy-bright,

With electronic noise, and heat and cold.

Yet nothing can eclude your tender might:

The rose so soft, strelizias spiked and bold,

Gentle voice and muffled footfalls hold

The promise of the bark of dogs and dome

Of stars. Your love must even here be told.

...on Claremont urban hub...

I stand and watch as people pass me by

Unknowing as this place controls, confines.

Are there those who can in strength defy?

I feel your weariness, I breathe your sigh;

The drudgery groans and grates and grinds;

I keep my watch as now you pass me by.

I catch excitement glinting in your eye;

Some vibrant venture's voice your life defines –

And yet, I guess, your strength cannot defy

These forces that allow for no reply.

Worker, owner, client: each resigns

Their will; and watch as people pass them by,

Their value measured by how much they buy.

I scent alluring lies, their lustrous lines

Embalming those who could in strength defy.

Beyond the gilt I sense the silent cry,

But living grace sets free where image binds;

I, hopeful, watch as people pass me by,

There are those who can by stealth defy.

2007, Villanelle