Poems © by Colin Bass

in the forest

Whispers weaving secrets on the vine
Liquid crystal drops suspended
Green moist underfoot conceals
The thinking creature tunnels

Set abandoned, Autumn rain
Its pungent damp anatomy
Ancient ghost traps spring asunder
Awake! long-dormant fears



Glorious Swansong

On the train from Innowroclaw to Poznan – Monday morning


Sun is shining in a nearly as blue sky as it should be
if there were not the charcoal burning emanations
from the crawling conurbations
choking up the land and sky
encircling the snow-clad forests

The sun now sourly glimmering red
sulkily casts the last long shadow
to send us without supper to bed
a swansong of expiring fury
12 angry men in a well-hung jury
Gloria Swanson fellating Fury
Oh is nothing sacred anymore?
It’s just my my train of thought
as I gaze through the window of the slow train to Poznan

Out of Innowroclaw
the wide river is frozen over
you can carve out a fishing hole
and sit on a tiny stool there
with the voice of Czeslaw Niemen
on your transistor radio
and there’ll be a handy thermos flask
presumably

On this train of thought we trundle over bridges
hoisting up our britches
splicing every mainbrace
forever casting off
on a virtual adventure
into the straits of Malacca
off shiny Singapore
before
the teardrops in her noodle soup
bring you back again once more

And again you’re just a stranger on a train
watching what remains to be seen
through the disconnecting screen
of selective memory’s greatest hits
while the here and now and the was weiss ich?
flash past the window
and it’s nearly never over yet
it's nearly never over


Confusing Eros for Psyche

Everytime I open my mouth some damn fool starts talking
I can’t get a word in for gushing proclamations
I’m a spy with the wrong information
And it’s going out all over the town
And if I had my way
I’d be holding the candle to the bowl
Until it’s soft and warm
Confusing Eros for Psyche
And a rose as something with thorns
But every time I try to speak
Someone else walks in
And everytime I open my mouth
Some damn fool starts talking

The Invisible Man

It was one of those days when I felt like the invisible man.
No cars hooted before running me down.
My unoffered hearty greetings were not returned by those to whom they were not directed.
Faced with choices my glazed eyes concealed an optic nerve still waiting
for instructions from Central Intelligence Control
– a smoky den of tangled synapses manned by weasels and unicorns –
where a major system crash had caused much perturbation
in the the communications chain of command directives
pertaining to physical responses of any kind
except the occasional bout of flatulence.
What was I to do?
Hang around like a lovelorn fool
snivelling into his cup of cruel and bitter gruel?
To borrow from Kafka :
if I woke up and found myself metamorphosed into a hamster
would I be happy if I had a warm bed of wood-shavings,
a reasonable selection of food and drink and a nice wheel to walk in?
If I wouldn’t know that were I to be cast out into the natural jungle,
a flapping, shrieking bird would swoop down and snatch me in its terrible beak
and carry me off for a non-vegetarian breakfast?
It’s hard to say.
Well that was the morning.
After lunch things appeared somewhat differently.
It was agreed that a decision had to be made.
What form this decision might take was not immediately clear
but a quorom of representatives of the necessary number of cells required,
affirmed that discussion over possible grounds for action would take place
at a time to be negotiated as soon as a meeting could be scheduled
to work out the details of the timetable.
So that was a bit of a relief.
After tea I walked down to the village.
It’s a lovely walk down the leafy path,
over the stile by the copse,
where the soul is uplifted by the sudden revelation of the parish church
nestled in the gentle valley, by the rushing stream.
Pause here, kind stranger if you will.
Mark the particular late summer’s afternoon light,
savour the energy-giving rays of the warm sun.
Enjoy the barrelous buzz of a busy honey-bee,
notice a rustle in the undergrowth then pass on,
contented in the knowledge that all is well on the land.
Such moments make life worth living.
But it was raining so I thought, stuff that and went for the short cut.
Just a quick hop down the alleyway by the newsagents,
a gentle scramble down the embankment
and walk the two hundred metres along the hard shoulder of the M33
up to the Beamish Hampton Service Area.
I can’t deny there was a spring in my step as I approached
the welcoming lights of Berndt’s Steak House.
It was almost empty as usual.
I keep telling Berndt to change the name of the place.
But my mind was elsewhere.
All I could think was : will she be there tonight?
Who? Yes, who is she?
The fragrant gazelle of the griddle,
the mistress of the mushy peas,
the temptress with the tea-bags: Serena.
And she is: calm, reserved yet self-assured,
amply attributed and tastefully attired.
Our relationship has warmed over the years.
Lately I noticed she has started to call me “love”.
I know she’s kind-hearted
because when another customer is around she calls them “love” too
so they don’t feel left out.
As I walked into the lobby I determined I would once and for all reveal
the depth of my feelings for her.
Why wait any longer? I told myself,
life is busy making other plans and here you are
encapsulated in a bathisphere
trailing the dark depths of the Ocean of Indecision.
It’s time to take responsibility for your destiny,
this is a turning point in life,
a “defining moment”.
On this day a new dynasty can be founded
and perhaps one day
our sons and daughters will help to save a world overburdened from human greed.
I rehearsed my lines as I approached the salad bar :
Serena, let me take you away from all these foodstuffs,
there’s more to life than Special Haddock on Fridays.
Please say you’ll be mine and you’ll never have to grease that griddle again.
As I neared the soup tureen my heart was beating
with a ferocity I only ever experienced as a young lad
when I once did some exercises.
Afraid until now to lift my head I willed my eyes upward
and prepared to conquer the beloved object of my desire.
But it must have been Serena’s night off,
it was Mrs Blowfin turning over the sausages.
Well, I wasn’t very hungry anyway
so I went and had a game of “Space Pustules” in the arcade
and went home for a quick twang on the banjo and off to bed.
Tomorrow is another day.