Haiku: The Trial

K is arrested,
‘Tried’ lengthily, though blameless.
The Law then kills him.

By Margaret Wilde

Victrix - Poem by Margaret Wilde

Victrix

Triumphant, she exulted.

Another night throttled.
Dead at her feet.

She set herself
to attack the dawn.

Her hair, falling out,
screamed as it fell.

Seeing its distress,
she wept.

“My poor, suffering child!”
(she to each strand).
“How I have loved you!”

She stroked her skin,
dry and broken.

It turned on her,
scratching fiercely.

With perfumed oils
she smoothed it,
soothed it.

But it craved real food.

“Would I could feed you banquets,”
she said,
“but eat we may not.”

As she rose, so she fell.

At her bidding,
bruised, bleeding,
her body crawled,

Painfully, doggedly,
into another day.

Margaret Wilde © 2012

You see I see - Poem by Margaret Wilde

You see I see

The world in absolutes.
Oh yes I know that
There are sepia photographs
Blur-edged with romance; that there are
Soft-focus tinted dreams.
And in the real world too
It is the case that
Many shades and shadows juxtapose.
There are no blacks and pure whites.
And what is red but a preponderance of light waves
Of a lower frequency than blue?

And yet
Stark silhouettes
Attract me so.
They are so clear-cut, potent,
Unambiguous.
- Not many-faceted,
Nor even straight two-faced.
Know what I mean?
Nudge nudge,
Wink wink.

Margaret Wilde © 1996

Poem for Good Friday

1982

I perch in the teeth of the adversary,
But "I" am not really here.
I have been taken over
By the body, mind and spirit snatcher,
Pain.

Rodents gnaw.
Other tormentors hover,
Ready to pounce at any
Lack of vigilance.

Warily, fearful of jarring
The enemy into fiercer attack,
I move and switch on the TV.

The coloured, flickering light
Has no meaning.
My concentration is inward. - I
See,
Hear,
Taste,
Think,
Feel,
AM
Pain.

Where is the life of the intellect?
What of happiness?
Spirituality?

Let me die!
I want no resurrection.
Let me sleep!

I'll change places with You anytime.
Your crucifixion lasted only hours.

O God Who does not exist!
Make the pain stop!


Margaret Wilde © 2010

Poem by Margaret Wilde

Dare you go exploring

Into the place of pain?
Among the ridges?
The sharpened edges?

Press the points?
Touch the throbbing masses?
Taste the tenderness?
Envelop the engorgement?
Skirt the swollen sores?

Engage with the deep, dark, hidden adversary?


Margaret Wilde © 2009

FAULTY GOODS - Poem by Margaret Wilde

Faulty Goods

If this were to be
The Real Life:
This moving, breathing being,
Which seems to be,
The Real Me;
Then would I think
As now I do:
“They must have given My Life
To someone else.
It isn’t here”?

Whom do I sue?

“Under the Trade Descriptions Act
This Life
Has proved unsuitable for its purpose.”


Margaret Wilde © 2009

AFTERMATH - Poem by Margaret Wilde

Aftermath

I cede to you this Wilderness,
Said God. -
Chaos is yours.
I wash My hands of it. -
The problem is too complex.
I will have none of it.
It was not caused by Me.

In the Beginning, the Primordial Void was mouldable. -
But not this: this engineered,
This fostered, nurtured, lush, vile
Cancer.

Let those who brought about Confusion,
End it.
You must not lay it at My door -
Nor at My feet. -
Forbear!

Thankful that it is no concern of Mine,
I exercise an ancient rite
In ecclesiastical circles:
I pass by on the other side.


Margaret Wilde © 2009

THE AWAKENING - Poem by Margaret Wilde

The Awakening

It seemed through endless ages that the fire had raged,
Fuel been expended and destruction wrought. -
The fire burned,
And having burned,
All was consumed.
It seemed that there remained but ashes.
And yet,
And yet,
There struggled forth –
A phoenix? –
No. –
The tiny cocoon of a worm lay on the pyre.

The minute creature
Has begun to gnaw
Its way to life.

With what strange form will the awakened one
Alarm us? –
This consciousness
Formed out of tragedy and outrage?
What metamorphosis
Shall we be privileged to view?

No, no.
It is too dangerous,
Too tender,
Too shaming,
And far, oh far too brave,
This small endeavour. –
Quick!
The insecticide!
Kill! Kill!

We will unwind its gossamer;
We will sew up its gentle, dying mouth.


Margaret Wilde © 2009

Bravura Performance

Too late we learn to sing
Sad songs in operatic mode. –
Too late.

We find the orchestra has left;
The sets are packed away;
The audience grown deaf.

Margaret Wilde © 2008

STILL LIFE IN FARGATE - Poem by Margaret Wilde

Still Life in Fargate

A saxophone in the precinct
And a tiny child-bundle stood rapt –
Whether in joy at the music
Or in wonder at the loud sound.

Unembarrassed the busker,
Flawless the blowing.

We too were arrested;
We also were charmed –
But not by the notes –
By the child.

And there was a musical tableau:
A little one listening,
Adults adoring.

I felt I was part of a painting.
Or part of a poem.


Margaret Wilde © 2007

THE COMPLAINTS DEPARTMENT - Poem by Margaret Wilde

The Complaints Department
(dedicated to the NHS Complaints Procedures)

This is the gate
Through which you must go
To get to the door
Of the passage
That leads
To the tunnel
And thence to the stairway,
The which you ascend
(As you tire),
And you find
At the top
That the hatches
Are down
And there stands in your path
A half-witted
Deaf-mute
With a gun.

© 1986 Margaret Wilde