Racists make white a dirty word.

Philip Larkin, A.E. Houseman
Neither could kick death – no more than I can.

All soaring to the sun
Clawed back by daemons of the soul
Its holy rays my rack
My darkened heart my dole.

All love is a journey
Through the marches of desire, affection and friendship
To the none-too-distant heartland of lonliness.
Fortunately,
When we get there,
Though we have arrived home,
We can take long vacations in the charabanc
Of memory and make-believe,
Revisiting the marches.

I must stay on my knees
Wedge open the door
Though the wind seems always to be chill.
Through what crevice
In the wall of the night
Will that alien light shine?
Or is it all around
Shuttered by the mystery of being
That mere knowledge
Has yet to break through?
Only on my knees
Shall I weather the plague of winds
That will engulf me then.

We prepare ourselves for grief.
But we are never ready.
We simply run faster
Trying to leave it behind.
But it is forever tailing us
Jumping out at dark corners
Or looming up in the mist.

Suffer him to come to me
And I will sit him on my knee
And make his trusting spirit glad
By telling how his darling dad
For not believing, I will send
To Auschwitzland, world without end

‘Seekers after truth’ are great
Until, at last, they find it.
If only they would contemplate
A question mark behind it!

If it is true

That we are just

A hormone stew,

Then say ‘I lust’

And not ‘I woo’.

If also true

That love is just

Cerebral goo,

Then say ‘I must’

And not ‘I do’.

So, all we do

From dust to dust

Is fixed? Says who?

Take it on trust,

I – do – love – you.

I was born here,

Innocent and unaware.

I saw only carefully painted scenery,

Not the real void beyond.

Though no-one knew it then,

I had come to live

Too close to the big questions of life.

And now that the scenery has been shifted,

The truth of the silent void –

Draws me.