Caliban

Caliban, Caliban; wherefore arte thou?
tu me manque
I see you everyday
you make eyes at me
and I should feel afraid
I should detest your look
I really should
stay away?

I see you when you're not looking
when the moon is too high
and you wield your stick
I can see the sweat on your bare back
the deliberate movement of your hands

I see you everyday when you see me too
and you make eyes at me
I shouldn't turn back to look at you
and I don't
yet I can see you looking at me

I can see you when you're not there
you, the freckled whelp, born of a hag
you, who dishonour the human shape
you, with your knotty trails
which tremble me in my sleep

I can see you when they think you have disappeared
into the bowels beneath
I see you again and again
without averting my eyes in disgust
and no despair

but he has seen you too
you filthy abhorred slave
you hag dependant on our mercy
you, on the street
never supposed to be seen

........................

And I see your cold countenance
turning glazy
I see the sweat freeze
I see your eyes still on me
and I'm afarid

I see you though you've gone
I sense your eyes follow me
everywhere behind my back
all that's left of you now
And I finally see thw flame turn to smoke.


15/4/07 1.00AM
Eve of the Shakespeare paper

The tyranny of the big over the littler souls
Is never a thing of the past
Harmony in nature?
Perhaps the world’s most forceful paradox

Laws permit the lion to gobble the sheep
The cattle to feed on the lush green leaves
then there are always miscreants to weed
and the unsuspecting titans, the mighty and prickly cacti

What disgrace and what wounds might they suffer
When the mighty mango tree falls on its succulent tender limbs
Those bodies that withstood the stoic June heat
The August rain and the dry, chilly new year
And innocently look forward to a serene virginal spring

Those that have braved the spells of drought
And have sharpened their veins to keep the enemy at bay
And then…all of a sudden…
Crushed under the weight of the cracking cut branches
How selfish is the mange tree now-
No more the beauty of fruit or shade
Now, its minutes are numbered
It blushes greener, fells the cacti anyway

Both lie there now, grasping for a life, cut short
Wait, there is still gasping
Restoration is yet possible
The keepers lament the loss, and plug the final strings
Too difficult to maintain the unchaste cost

In the name of the lord, the father, the creator
The joyful and caring planter, the gardener,
Who too fatal fate didn’t spare
Harmed? Never; displaced? Never
Now impudent hands (and feet)
Carelessly and willingly mangle and trample

Hope not, however, to blame the mango tree
It murdered, but fell to the knife too
Price to harbor pestering and festering unruly elements
Now writ is the new old law of nature
The tyranny of the big over the lesser souls
Will be re-iterated again n again n again.


4/12/06
On the day when the neighbors cut down their tree and let it fall upon the cactus rockery. In spite of being home, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Silenced, by the bigger men, she shouted but could not be heard.