Memoire of an Optimist.
By
Graham Buchan
He chanced on a tea dance outside the gates of Heaven,
or was it the gates of Hell?
The old and decrepit looking old and decrepit.
He remembered, fondly, how trees liked to hold hands under the soil
before a chorus of curious insects
and how their leaves turned to the sun.
The last of the rapists was expected to kill the girl.
He remembered the Christmas tree which grew its own tinsel,
and the light in the children’s eyes.
The head man, very old, thin, brown wizened skin, yammered incessantly, incoherently, his hands in an attitude of prayer.
The sergeant was becoming impatient.
He remembered Mary who kissed him in the cupboard - it was warm and damp.
When they entered the village all the houses were already alight.
He remembered the waves washing the sand.
........................................................................................................
Bullet wounds like strawberries
And the delicious Jesus-pain
Let me kiss you there.
..........................................................................................................
In Saddam’s palace
The huge room on the fourth floor,
airy, with an ornate circular ceiling
and the side of windows
lording it over the Euphrates.
Dirty now, dusty and graffiti’d.
The terror
the cancer
the psychopath moustache.
© Graham Buchan
Graham Buchan is an ex-engineer and ex-film-maker. He has published five books of poetry with The Tall Lighthouse and Lapwing Publications. He has a poetry channel on YouTube. He has also published short stories, flash fiction and dozens of reviews of art, cinema, theatre and literature. He is an Anglo-Scot living in London.
By
Graham Buchan
He chanced on a tea dance outside the gates of Heaven,
or was it the gates of Hell?
The old and decrepit looking old and decrepit.
He remembered, fondly, how trees liked to hold hands under the soil
before a chorus of curious insects
and how their leaves turned to the sun.
The last of the rapists was expected to kill the girl.
He remembered the Christmas tree which grew its own tinsel,
and the light in the children’s eyes.
The head man, very old, thin, brown wizened skin, yammered incessantly, incoherently, his hands in an attitude of prayer.
The sergeant was becoming impatient.
He remembered Mary who kissed him in the cupboard - it was warm and damp.
When they entered the village all the houses were already alight.
He remembered the waves washing the sand.
........................................................................................................
Bullet wounds like strawberries
And the delicious Jesus-pain
Let me kiss you there.
..........................................................................................................
In Saddam’s palace
The huge room on the fourth floor,
airy, with an ornate circular ceiling
and the side of windows
lording it over the Euphrates.
Dirty now, dusty and graffiti’d.
The terror
the cancer
the psychopath moustache.
© Graham Buchan
Graham Buchan is an ex-engineer and ex-film-maker. He has published five books of poetry with The Tall Lighthouse and Lapwing Publications. He has a poetry channel on YouTube. He has also published short stories, flash fiction and dozens of reviews of art, cinema, theatre and literature. He is an Anglo-Scot living in London.
