Nicholas Power

adapted from William Shakespeare for Vicki Fraser (1965 – 2023)

I wrote this song when I heard you were dead.

In hopes it will find you in the beyond

and break the news that I’ve lost the thread

that holds me to this world in which you’re gone.

Remember the words of this song, not me,

the one who wrote this out of love for you.

I would rather that you soon forgot me,

to spare you sorrow as you slip from view.

There is no ‘if’ about you in this verse –

the place where love for you will not decay.

When they slide you into the long black hearse,

my love will still be with you on that day.

These woeful words are meant to play the thief,

to make room for love amidst this painful grief.

Our long days shaped by wind and snow
ice encasing limbs of the tallest trees
dangerous sidewalks appear safe
each step measured before taken

We’re worried about rising seas
we must do more than write letters
officials obfuscate in the face of storms
uncertainties can’t stop us from planning

There’s no longer any time for debate
a birds fly inland from the coast
this poem’s not a metaphor
we can still build new dikes

The cities pave over fertile soil
farmland has been left to the wind
in Miami the ocean crosses the road
everywhere flowers drown in backyards

New Orleans rebuilds on their flood plain
and islands in the Pacific grow smaller
we can’t all live in the mountains
or survive on an ark like Noah

It’s not enough to save ourselves
we’re working for our grandchildren
forget the burgers, cars and cheap flights
remember we all live on the same turtle’s back

based on Tu Fu’s reply to a letter from his brother at Lin-Yi
lamenting rains and flooding on the Yellow River
(8th century CE)

I hear them gearing up for battle –

old war-horses brought back

to drill us with intemperate speech.

Mothers and fathers, wives and children

urged on to crowd the roadsides and cheer.

We’re here again, but this time,

mourning.

.

Our cries break amid the traffic,

warn raw recruits to question their orders,

ask them to consider where they’re going.

:

‘We joined young when our numbers came up.

We man the frontier wherever that might be.

And now the old men are sending us out again.

You will soon be tying yellow ribbons on trees.

We’re either in their jails or at their wars

leaving everything to those at home.’

.

Imperial dreams are revived in secret

while weeds grow in the centre of the city

and basic needs of many remain unmet.

We ask for security in our own country

but the young are sent to foreign lands

where blood disappears in the sand.

.

Local reporters ask us gently

if we’ve recovered from the storm.

Have we repossessed our own houses?

Have our neighbours returned?

What do immigrant households face

when clerks are free to discriminate?

None of our friends evaded taxes;

but many are not allowed to vote.

.

Bodies drowned on desperate journeys

lie unclaimed along the shores of nearby seas.

Under grey skies we join the voices of hungry ghosts

.

based on Tu Fu’s Song of the War-Carts

the advantage of being
numerous selves
a well-spoken chorale
simplicity themselves
carrying everything with them
resting only occasionally
pouring broken existences
into verse
juxtaposing silk curtains
and utensils
a tolerance for being lost
ontologically
finding themselves on the frontier
making a lean-to

not yet spring        and a cold wind blows through him to the bones

words of elderly and dying residents of the hospice        stay with him

voices of broken men        living on the streets        echo in him

he listens to their fragmented sentences        trying to catch the cadence

entering their dementia and drunken conversations

the weight of their years in his body       

he breathes in the sickness        and on bleak nights        sinks into their grief

like a fellow traveller        he shuffles        heavy-footed

he knows there will be long years       finding his way back to himself

sleepless nights       and waking dreams that may not be his own

he has no immunity to their troubles       holds their charged speech

in memory       and then sifts through his notes

scripting words and actions for the stage

 

EIGHTY-ONE

truthful words aren’t always beautiful
and beautiful words can avoid the truth

I argue, say ugly words
think I’m after the truth

I swear I know
but I don’t

holding tight to my truth
I’m wrong

the Tao of Lao Tzu says

do good