A poem about reexamining fixed opinions after listening and talking to a different, and younger generation. Realising that wisdom doesn’t always belong to age.

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Young wisdom

I find it hard to understand,

The way your thoughts and mind work.

And sometimes, I must admit, it’s easy to dismiss,

To keep to tracks and trails I’ve tread,

To keep the pattern in my head

And not to take the challenge.

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I find it hard to follow you,

Down unknown paths and avenues

Where definitions are so vague,

and facts are turned upon their heads,

and yet your truths do touch a nerve,

and make old facts seem newly absurd. 

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Dhaka, 2024

A poem about missing the people who have shared the different phases of my life.

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My Witnesses

Might think I had something to hide,

Some secret abandonment plan,

I’ve wondered off, so far away, put so much distance between.

But sometimes when it’s late here, and I lie alone in the dark,

I think of you taking a sunset walk

Or of you, gathering around candles and songs…

It’s not that I must be there, but I think of you, think of you, think.

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It’s not that I don’t have a task here,

or plans, and meetings and walks,

It’s not that I shouldn’t be here, in a place with plenty to teach,

Sometimes when I wake very early,

I think of you deep in your sleep,

Or of you, at a concert with friends, lights flashing…

It’s not that I can’t still my feet, but I think of you, think of you, think.

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I know that we must make our choices,

You can’t be two places at once,

It’s not that there’s one place I’m missing, or one single person I lack,

Sometimes when I walk in the evening,

I think of you, with your lad on your lap,

Or of you, preparing your daughters,

It’s not that I ever could be all those places, but I think of you, think of you, think.

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There are things I’d like to help with,

Words that need to be said with a hug,

It’s not that I know so much better, or know anything much at all,

But sometimes when I’m walking and thinking,

There are words that feel natural to say,

Ideas I’d like your views on,

It’s not that I can’t make my mind up, but I think of you, think of you, think. 

Dhaka

January 2023

This week’s poem – memories and appreciation for time spent with friends in Namibia, and the walks in the semi-desert, the edge of the Kalahari, where they live.

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Semi-desert

You choose to live out here,

In semi-desert,

Where life is armed with thorns,

With poisoned barbs,

Where blond grass tufts are tough,

Are bristled,

Deep roots against a wind that tears and rips.

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Biting, stinging ants,

Scorpions’ bulbous tails,

Extravagant thorns, protecting tight curled leaves.

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Dizzying heat shimmers,

Merciless sun pounds on red, rock anvil,

Heat cracks rocks, weathered by winter frost.

Across the scene tectonic action scribbles,

Crisscrossed by ancient lava flows,

and by the rare, life-changing, storm-brought floods.

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Pale sky curves to dusty grey horizons:

Trembling heat in summer,

The whipping wind,

The cracking frost in winter,

And just in case that’s not enough, the salt.

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Incredibly, a long-legged hare, runs startled,

Duiker flashes, and is gone,

Deep holes in hidden spots, to lairs,

Where, maybe,

Soft-bellied babies grunt and grow.

But also,

Along the dusty road, behind the kopje,

When velvet light softens golden dusk,

On your stoep, a heartfelt welcome,

Solid talk, braaied meat, and ice-cold beer.

Keetmanshoop, Namibia

December 2023

A poem about grown-up love, to welcome the new year.

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Believing

As Gibran says,

The oak and cypress grow not in each other’s shadow,

We give each other space and trust to grow,

And fill each other’s cup, but drink not from one cup,

We’re each our own, but choose an ‘us’, and also an ‘each other’,

We’ve lived and learnt, been scarred, been sceptical,

But after all,

We still believe in love.

.Namibia, 2024