READINGS OF THE WORK BY PHILIP HARVEY

The colt from old regret that got away Made hay while the sun shone, sowed its wild oats, Switched midstream, whatever floated its boat, Lucky enough finding out the hard way. Regret, being regret, studied its bet. What-ifs and how-comes absorb and bother It’s a horse of another colour Wishing it all back, assessing the debt. There was movement at the station the word Getting out about these shenanigans. “Horses bolted.” “The worm, the early bird.” Youth will have its way, say the old masters Longing for that ride of a lifetime again As they put themselves out to pasture.

Time will say nothing but I told you so, Partner out again all night on the tiles, Meaning in his jokes and his breakfast smiles. The way it will be, the way it can go. Wars start and wars continue and wars stop Words hold up, are crossed out, resurrected They stand in for truth, are redirected Speaking of yesterdays when old bombs dropped. Still your words still us, me and millions. Your books are read, your sins vermilion. Cigarettes calming, red wine Chilean. English of yours, English that is ours Setting out a pattern of the hours, Setting suns gone down on the old powers.  

I heard a fly buzz when it died. Search me how it happens, I’ve tried: It’s tired, it’s soft, it’s Friday. Science just wasn’t my forte. Similarly, my devotions Equate the wind with the oceans. No proof, just a solemn feeling When it roars above the ceiling. Once I looked deep into his eyes. Their rare colour was a disguise. Small are questions. Why him? What for? My theme is big, etched on scrimshaw. Thus I stay in my wooden room Leaving outside to share and zoom.

Something there is that doesn’t like a waul That wants it tamed and named and syllabled. Pacifiers serve to mute untroubled The air round a child’s most ardent call. Tribulation turns to ululation. A scream must be schemed into a symphony, A high-pitched wail into a eulogy And cries kept to off-stage imitation. Good sentences make good neighbours, it’s said. A howl, a growl are unsound offences. Learn when to pause, and close your words well-bred. No time like the present for such behaviour. Restrain banshee assaults on the senses, Forsooth, good sentences make good neighbours.

Slouching towards Bethlehem the left turn Brought us face-to-face with a Trumpian wall; Right turn worse, customs officials, what gall! Talking to a sphinx is lots to unlearn. The latest online Spiritus Mundi Lead piece argues those with no conviction And those with intensity of passion Meet their Maker regardless, maybe next Monday. Then reception gave out, whether wifi Or recharging, the centre could not hold. Oh what was my password again? sKyPIe. Okay, Bethlehem scratched. Where next to go. Emmaus, where’s that when it’s home? Not told. Or there’s the old road going down to Jericho.   Some readers may object to this reading of ‘The Second Coming’, a veritable fruitcake of famous lines. However I have always had reservations about what Yeats is really on about in this poem, especially his peculiar use of certain typologies in the New Testament. Agreed, the poem describes the foreboding felt in Europe at the end of the war in 1919, and the words are ...

Shall you compare me to a summer’s day Red hot with sunburn forty-degree rash Flaking from heatwave, mine eyes not too flash, Hatband’s intemperate sweat marks, hair grey. Thou art not wrong, thou shalt draw a long face. Climate doth change mine and e’en your features, Summer’s increase wearies all us creatures Making heavy weather towards a cool place. This mild crease in my brow grew there somehow, My melting cap thinking through whys and whats; I scratch my chin predicting El Niño. Even these words, worthy of a choir May get lost forever on microdots Or float out to space, cinders from bushfire.

Abandon hope all ye who enter here Et tu, Alighieri who held life dear Yet dropped your bêtes noires without care or fear Into black hell, with wrinkled lip and sneer. Ravenna, a backwater and somewhere odd To damn your enemies and play at God. Imagine assuming you’d get the nod A fast-track to heaven, though made of sod. Flip it how you will, your unforgiveness Threads the back weave of their lasting distress; Betrayal begets betrayal – what a mess! While you sail onward free of fault or blame In perfect terza rima like a game, Enraptured by daydreams of an old flame.   My attention has been drawn to fan fiction, which in Japanese is called dōjinshi. It’s an entire literary manifestation. It is “fictional writing  written by fans, commonly of an existing work of fiction. The author uses copyrighted characters, settings, or other intellectual properties from the original creator(s) as a basis for their writing .” (Wikipedia) I have taken this...