A bilingual (English/Japanese) collection of my poetry was published by H2HPublishers/Trafford in 2011 - see Books on this site for details. Below are a few poems fro the collection.
Deserted villages flit fitfully by
Their church spires rank reminders
Of past acts of ardour, cloaked in faith,
Of devout, unapologetic passion.
Awash we were with energy and adoration
And sensuality we dared call love.
Of rapturous, guilty innocence?
Where are the whisperings of our worship?
Have they too gone deadly cold
Like those piles of stone, there
Beyond the now leafless trees?
Has time erased what once consumed our souls?
Leaving ashes white with evidence.
The spires, empty now of fervent prayer,
Mark memory’s horizon like headstones.
All will be wiped, but - like e-mail binned -
Etched onto the hard disk of experience:
Unseen, entombed, forever gone, forever there.
At 55 resolved
To be his own man at last
Unfailingly surprised he is at
The world’s wickedness
Not excluding his own:
Annoyed, too, for following
The wrong, well-trodden path
Not mincingly or weak
But full of purpose
Directed at he-knows-not-what
Once I round the corner
He mumbles, but not audibly
For he is certainly not old
He falls asleep, still hopeful,
For there is a depth to him
Unfathomed, waiting to be revealed
Tomorrow morning, no doubt
After coffee and the morning papers,
When nothing will prevent him
From finding his true course
of Olympian skittlers
pushing their puck
without shame or season
Into the icy rigidity
of princely erections
and flaunting their luck
Hair brushed back behind the ears
Expression earnest, posture prim
The mouth plum-like, pursed -
In your long skirt, your eyes
Unfocused across the little table -
Like a woman in La Coupole.
Negating the lingering intimacy -
I hear myself plead for patience...
Then, emotions bleeding, I am gone.
Your hand unmoving and alone now
Still loosely holds the teacup's ear.
A sigh. And the hand moves on.
on deserted Sydney shopping street
one radiant Sunday morning,
folding wings, strutting, pecking,
his impossibly long bent bill
nosily inspecting piled garbage,
which winds round and round
his swanlike neck, slowly strangling him.
Houdini tricks absent among his options,
the only witnesses a strolling couple
wrapped in tranquil weekend mood.
they pursue the ibis who, terrified
scampers limpingly through alley and arcade
stumbling, dragging his smelly noose
till driven into a hopeless corner
and overcome, and finally set free.
criminal returned to his place of crime -
stretching his slender neck longingly
towards the bag that almost killed him:
base desire outflanking experience.
Their feet snugly planted
In their protestant past.
And deserted streets
They eat well, and drink
To their own health and cleverness
Keeping God at bay now, yet
In all their secularity
Never quite disowning him,
Without taking themselves too seriously,
Balancing the practical with the just,
They’d do old Socrates proud.
© Hans Brinckmann 2005