First Silence
We sat in North woods
Coffees in hand
Under August pines
Lake at peace
Sunlight ebbing
Crickets itching stilled
Aspen leaves done clattering
Last thrush-trill hushed
A falling pine-cone’s tiny scuff
Then
And my Beijing friend blurted:
‘God! I’m terrified. This is the first silence. ever so scared.’
Scared of no car hive
Scared of no A/C hissing
Scared of no footsteps herding
Scared of no motors decibel fogging
Scared of no phone jangles pilfering time
Scared of no metronome jackhammering
Scared of no earbuds throbbing in aural drugs
Scared of no screen-babble echoes of a frantic Earth
Scared of no skyward jets roaring to anyplace-will-do fast
Scared of no neighbours behind walls bickering over yesterday’s tomorrow
Sacred of no semi-trucks idling on life’s off-ramp, starved caterpillars looping on a deep jar’s rim
Scared of awaiting
Scared of being unperturbed
God!
© Roger Suffling
Stenciled on Cathedral Stairs
30. To the stars?
29. Try the elevator, glide
28. So, why don’t we
27. Ascend
26. Blind bound clones
25. We ribosomal pilgrims
24. Treading worn templates
23. Permutating mantras
22. Thus we plod the helix faithfully
21. Thighs whimper in the discipline
20. As we seek the promised vista
19. No, tread every one
18. Don’t miss a step
17. Don’t look down
16. Don’t look out
15. But we’re urged on by those above
14. ‘How much further?’
13. Now we gasp exasperation
12. Tempted to sit here
Yet we squeeze inward, let them pass
11. Open to the sky but secret
10. Above the city’s roofs
9. We glimpse Screwtape vignettes
8. As the out side flails, useless, unnerved
7. Inner hand clasps the reassuring spine
6. Arced in narrow, ancient slivers
5. Cold stone
4. Cleaving to mortared DNA
3. Groping starlight
2. You and I
1. We’re tendrils
© Roger Suffling
Amazon Epiphany
I
The longed-for parcel
Descends into my mailbox
From the mythical Middle Kingdom
If not on a tasseled golden cushion then
Borne, at least, by a uniformed acolyte
In a decorated van
This treasure invites immediate installation
But inside corrugated board, bubble-wrap, foam and plastic bag
My widget is so much less substantial
Than the Catalogue of Wonders implied
Even thus it begs initiation
For my pleasure
II
A multicultural catechism promises
To waft me to promised Nirvana
This prayer flag of instructions
Printed unreadably in faint yellow, both sides
Might have holy authority
But the graphics are from Escher
And the language a Babel-tongued
Spanglish, Deutsch, Francais, Italiano, Arabic, Polskie
And possibly Braille and Sanskrit
Ah, this becomes a test of will!
III
The great god, Google,
Has alternative instructions
An animated knit-one-and-pearl-two
And the cruel illusion holds promise until
The goal and reality are slowly torn asunder
Now I am Iceland in the jaws of continental drift
My high aspirations for the machine tugged far
From the logical reality
That my tiny toy
Will not turn
Illuminate
Receive
Record
Inform
Emit
Or go I sigh
IV
My exorcism
Of the little devil
Grows strident, coarser by the hour
“The error must be yours”, yells my spouse
Three rooms away (She knows!)
With my manhood now at stake
I return to the loftier, spiritual approach
Repeating the mantra line by line
Interminably aping each picture on the phosphor screen
I’m the techno yogi floating through so much real time that
Meals are uneaten, children leave un-hugged
Scummy coffee sits cold, un-sipped
And still I cannot divine my future
From the scattered entrails
Of this tiny ugly thing
That will
Not
V
The prayer line
For the despondent
Is answered with evangelical cheeriness
By a fully educated and underpaid Indian accent
“Did you switch it on, is it plugged in?”
“No, I know Sir, no it’s not your fault”
(Across the ether I feel him roll his eyes)
“Yes, I am fully aware that you are not an idiot”
“But we have to follow the script”
The mantra
We are universally bound to the consumer mantra
Eventually he loses interest
And the line goes suddenly dead
Was it something I said?
No, surely, he was the insolent one
VI
Rage!
Yes, rage is all I have left
Among the strewn packaging
Mid the screw drivers, the wrenches and the random parts
I’ll denounce the sorcerers of this tawdry demon
Troll Twitter and the feedback pages
Stamp on it, crush it utterly
Sue them into penury
Write a letter to the Sun
Consign it to Salvation Army
Thrift store purgatory
Burn it
You’ll see
And, anyway
I never
Really
Needed it.
© Roger Suffling
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