Year of the Rat: a New Year poem for 2020

2020

This New Year’s Eve

brings an acuity of vision,

sharp as a bat’s echo:

the birth of a decade that

might likely see me crowned dead;

the simplicity of staring ahead

into the future,

with its simple lines,

its constructed disambiguation,

its sudden benign presence,

watching the past metastasized.

Is that the clarity I dread?

Some unstained happiness

shaken out and hung on the line,

a flailing dance in the breeze

of unhindered revision -

the words to a song

that spoke of sap

rising in a tree,

that speaks with the rasp

of leaves uncurling,

of the crisp dry leaves underfoot,

the unfurling of the hand

from around the throat?

And yet,

a last intake of breath

for a leave-taking

that no longer speaks

in wheezy Chinese whispers

but with the bitter-sweet tang

of longing and laughter,

a carousel, a carousal, a recital
of drunken midnight-death happiness

from the drunk and disorderly bards

wrestling with the squared circle,
for all joys want eternity;

not without a bang,

this New Year's song was sung. 

Listen to Zhou Long here

Poetry and plagues; A Ring a Ring o' Roses ...

The Bus Driver (or the virus bred)

The bus driver drives the bus

round and around his route.

He stops at every stop,

even at request stops,

where he stops without request,

opens the doors, closes the doors,

moves on,

round and around his route;

eight hours a day,

each day, every day

round and around his route.

And no one gets on

and no one gets off.

At lunchtime

he takes a break,

he takes a breather,

carefully unwraps

the foil-wrapped sandwich

his wife has prepared and wrapped

with care: the thin sausage slices

between thin slices

of homemade bread -

ah, the simple pleasures;

and he stares out the front window

of his empty bus,

at the empty streets,

chewing slowly,

chewing it over.

He likes his job:

The routine,

the familiarity of the route,

of the people he sees - they chew the fat,

pass the time of day;

and each day just that bit different,

but reassuringly the same.

And there’s the pension:

Something to look forward to.

At the end of his shift,

he parks up at the terminal,

and he gets off and he goes home,

walking down the empty streets,

past the closed school,

the deserted square,

the shuttered houses,

the blinkered offices,

the idle factories,

the unopened shops,

the forsaken restaurant,

the unpeopled bus stops,

the locked church

(though every day is a Sunday now)

enjoying the unseasonable sun,

the unexpected peace and quiet,

unexamined and knowing nothing,

just being, unessential,

he breathes the air,

just thinking of his dinner –

it’s come to that.

At home,

he kisses his wife,

kisses his kids.

They eat a frugal supper;

he passes the salt,

passes the bread ...

they share a glass of wine.

He says his prayers.

He says goodnight.

He dreams:

There is no air in his bus,

not even enough to scream;

and he is no longer the bus driver,

he’s only a passenger,

the lone passenger,

looking out of the back window

as the bus moves forwards,

and everyone is waving

as he goes round and around the route,

up the hill and down the hill,

to and fro, back and forth,

and everyone is waving

as he goes around, comes around

endlessly 

A comment?