#2 - Beau Travail (1999)

This poem was inspired by the 1999 French film Beau Travail, which was directed by Claire Denis. The film is set in the former French colony of Djibouti, and the main characters are all French Foreign Legion soldiers. I haven’t seen the movie (yet) but as I was reading the plot description online, I was struck by the themes of power, cruelty and disorientation in the story. These were the things that were swirling around in my mind when I wrote this poem.  It’s also my first time playing with an unrhymed lines in a sonnet – sacrilege! 

#2 - Good Work 

In this expansive openness, we men

are gods, and just like gods, we seek to cause 

destruction of our fellow deities;

a desert of our twisting spite and shame. 

This heat incites each man to lose his way – 

his empathy a glittering mirage.

This heat incites each god to dissipate –

and we are left as devils on the sand. 

The work is always harder than it seems,

and gods and men are harder, still, to bid.

The desert swallows all, no compromise;

it swallows, spits, and saves us from ourselves. 

We wanted to believe we did some good;

the wreckage, lying silent, seeping blood. 

LM

Poster Image via Wikipedia

Seven Ages of Andy (full crown)

 

William Mulready. image credit: V&A Museum London

1.       Infancy

 

expectant, trepidatious, on we go:

a blooded, squalling babe, a bag of needs.

a home, a crib, a blanket, frequent feeds;

a family to shield us as we grow –

to clean our shit and teach us all they know;

applauding each new victory, and deeds

of escalating wonder; joy that breeds

a freedom bearing out Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

 

this isn’t my own recollection here –

but parenthood has given me mementoes,

and watching my own infants grow is fuel

to re-evaluate my early years:

a curious, stumbling journey which crescendoes

with smiles and hopeful airs, first day of school.

 

2.       Schoolboy

 

With smiles and hopeful airs, first day of school:

crisp uniform and unfamiliar tie;

new disciplines, a timetable, and rules

of social commerce; cliques to codify.

Will tests in Maths and Science be your fuel?

Athletics, French, or Music get you by?

Perhaps – like me – you’ll reach the peak of ‘cool’?

(and – decades later – know that that’s a lie.)

This skinny, gobby tryhard spent his terms

deflecting – with his gags – the fists of churls;

and, quoting Shakespeare, and the Diet of Worms,

theatrically failed to dazzle girls.

Pubescent verse, hubristic faith alone:

a portrait of a man not fully grown.

 

3.       Lover

 

A portrait of a man not fully grown –

discovered in a loft and brought to light:

a leather jacket, Yankee hat, and bright

eyes, nonchalant to facing the unknown.

He wants to love, yet still needs to be shown

that common solipsistic oversight –

the plague of every amorous neophyte –

to have a care for hearts that aren’t his own.

 

At that age, breaking hearts was just a game

more fun than football (I played better, too).

The fug of booze and time obscures the names,

remorseful verse rewrites the billets-doux;

Quiescent will exists to make amends,

the hope on which society depends.

 

4.       Soldier

 

The hope on which society depends:

that still the arc of History will tend

towards a cultured, genteel evolution.

“Too slow!” cry new recruits with resolution –

some take up arms to hasten their solution,

and some write poems that call for revolution.

(And to this day, both cohorts still contend

at which approach will pay more dividends.)

 

So yeah, I wrote some angry stuff back then:

like “Burn the System! Capital Aflame!”

 “Drown All the Priests in Slurry Made From Tories!”

But Westminster still stood, despite my pen!

And I discovered – focusing my aim –

my muse, my comrade, wreathed in loving glory.

 

5.       Judge

 

My Muse! My Comrade! Wreathed in loving glory,

words fail to scale the height of my esteem!

A bildungsroman now is this, my story:

from callow youth to half a winning team.

 

It’s thanks to you – in every case before me –

my judgement’s more considered, less extreme;

romantic poets might murmur “I adore thee!” –

but sometimes rhymes run deeper than they seem.

 

This ain’t no corny Keatsian teenage yearning,

to seem profound (and get you into bed) –

more recognition that this guy’s still learning

to be the man he promised when we wed:

 

a partner for your honour, sure together;

a ward ‘gainst civil strife and chilly weather.

 

 

6.       Old Age

 

A ward ‘gainst civil strife and chilly weather –

lock all your doors, and wear a fluffy snood;

mistrust the ‘foreigners’ (but eat their food),

bemoan the lack of feeling in your nethers.

Recite the Telegraph and think you’re clever:

“Minorities lack moral rectitude!”

Divide, deprive, harass, oppress, exclude –

defend the white man’s privilege forever.

 

I hope to god I don’t become my Dad.

I have no taste for droning, whining, cold –

inert as my compassion ossifies.

I’ll try to stay this shop-soiled Galahad:

still seeking truth and beauty when I’m old –

and knowing I know nothing, therefore wise.

 

 

7.       Second Childhood

 

I know that I know nothing – therefore wise

it is that I should hold my foolish tongue?

Well, bugger that: embarrassing the young

shall be this poet’s joy before he dies.

With knackered knees and cataracted eyes,

besotted liver, reefer-blackened lung,

I plan to leave no single song unsung –

no random thought that I won’t verbalise.

So as I bimble through my final years,

I guess I’ll try to savour every breath:

intending laughter, steering clear of tears;

and as to the unmapped that’s after death –

it’s surely half the fun that we don’t know:

expectant, trepidatious, on we go…

 

AWB

 

 

#25 - Seven Ages: Second Childhood

Philosopher Laughing at Magick (detail)
David Teniers, c1775

 

I know that I know nothing – therefore wise

it is that I should hold my foolish tongue?

Well, bugger that: embarrassing the young

shall be this poet’s joy before he dies.

With knackered knees and cataracted eyes,

besotted liver, reefer-blackened lung,

I plan to leave no single song unsung –

no random thought that I won’t verbalise.

So, as I bimble through my final years,

I guess I’ll try to savour every breath:

intending laughter, steering clear of tears;

and as to the Unmapped that’s after death –

it’s surely half the fun that we don’t know:

expectant, trepidatious, on we go…

 

AWB

#21 - Seven Ages: Old Age

John Bull taking a luncheon, James Gillray 1798

 

A ward ‘gainst civil strife and chilly weather –

lock all your doors, and wear a fluffy snood;

mistrust the ‘foreigners’ (but eat their food),

bemoan the lack of feeling in your nethers.

Recite the Telegraph and think you’re clever:

“Minorities lack moral rectitude!”

Divide, deprive, harass, oppress, exclude –

defend the white man’s privilege forever.

 

I hope to god I don’t become my Dad.

I have no taste for droning, whining, cold –

inert as my compassion ossifies.

I’ll try to stay this shop-soiled Galahad:

still seeking truth and beauty when I’m old –

and knowing I know nothing, therefore wise.

 

AWB

#17 - Seven Ages: Judge

 

Presumably not distracted by kids singing Let It Go

My Muse! My Comrade! Wreathed in loving glory,

words fail to scale the height of my esteem!

A bildungsroman now is this, my story:

from callow youth to half a winning team.

 

It’s thanks to you – in every case before me –

my judgement’s more considered, less extreme;

romantic poets might murmur “I adore thee!” –

but sometimes rhymes run deeper than they seem.

 

This ain’t no corny Keatsian teenage yearning,

to seem profound (and get you into bed) –

more recognition that this guy’s still learning

to be the man he promised when we wed:

 

a partner for your honour, sure together;

a ward ‘gainst civil strife and chilly weather..

AWB

#13 - Seven Ages: Soldier

Hunt at Peterloo 1819. Never forget.

 

The hope on which society depends:

that still the arc of History will tend

towards a cultured, genteel evolution.

“Too slow!” cry new recruits with resolution –

some take up arms to hasten their solution,

and some write poems that call for revolution.

(And to this day, both cohorts still contend

at which approach will pay more dividends.)

 

So yeah, I wrote some angry stuff back then:

like “Burn the System! Capital Aflame!”

 “Drown All the Priests in Slurry Made From Tories!”

But Westminster still stood, despite my pen!

And I discovered – focusing my aim –

my muse, a comrade, wreathed in loving glory.

AWB

#5 - Seven Ages: Schoolboy

 

With smiles and hopeful airs, first day of school:

crisp uniform and unfamiliar tie;

new disciplines, a timetable, and rules

of social commerce; cliques to codify.

Will tests in Maths and Science be your fuel?

Athletics, French, or Music get you by?

Perhaps – like me – you’ll reach the peak of ‘cool’?

(and – decades later – know that that’s a lie.)

This skinny, gobby tryhard spent his terms

deflecting – with his gags – the fists of churls;

and, quoting Shakespeare, and the Diet of Worms,

theatrically failed to dazzle girls.

Pubescent verse, hubristic faith alone:

a portrait of a man not fully grown.

 

AWB

#29 - Seven (by Lewis Buxton)

 
The other men fumble for a special number

something remarkable that’ll change the outcome

of the game and remind them of Sheringham,

Roy Keane, the little known Jeremy Alliadiere

 

or, most beautifully of all, the lucky seven,

which will lay on their back like the sun’s rays.

These days it’s Saka, Ronaldo, or Michael Olise

but before it was Cantona, Pires, David Beckham.

 

I’ve never gone in for that sort of thing

I’d pluck out eighteen, forty four, a bad

squad player somehow come up from the youth team.

 

Things only mean if you want them to mean,

and as I join the clutch of hands in the kit bag,

The number means nothing, only fingers brushing.

 

 

Lewis Buxton is a writer and theatre maker. His work has appeared in The Independent, Poetry Review, The Rialto, and Magma amongst others. His first collection Boy in Various Poses was published by Nine Arches Press in 2021. His new show ‘FRIEND’ is touring in Autumn 2024. He lives in Norfolk.

#25 - Seven Fukujin: Benzaiten

 

We’re seven Gods of Fortune. After all

the boys can offer you, I’ll take my turn.

The arts that fill your day are my concern:

the frosty morning Turner on your wall;

the noonday warmth in every verse you learn;

the evening wreathed in Chopin’s last nocturne;

my works contain the talent to enthral.

 

For what are lengthy days if they lie fallow?

A life bereft of art is hardly living –

refreshment meagre, meditations shallow.

I offer beauty – paramount, life-giving.

Art begets art. Compassion breeds.

You’re hungry. I got what you really need.

 

AWB

(image credit: Celeste,
Random Colours)

#21 - Seven Fukujin: Fukurokuju

 

Just close your eyes. And face towards the sun –

appreciate the blessing on your skin.

A lucky life’s the right of everyone:

the blithesome boon of seven fukujin.

 

We’ll grant you lengthy days, and feasts to fill them;  

a castle to protect your laughing children;

a love to make the Earth beneath you shift:

all human bounties lie within our gift.

 

the chief of these is luck – or kismet, karma –

the serendipity of cosmic dances;

the happy fluke of how the dice may fall.

 

So here’s the deal: you cultivate your dharma,

and us, we’ll strive to consecrate your chances –

We’re seven Gods of Fortune after all.

AWB

#17 - Seven Fukujin: Jurōjin

 

Assuring you a long and healthy life?

I rather think that’s my domain, old bean!

One constant thought to pierce you like a knife:

your years are finite; death comes unforeseen.

 

But I’ll be here, exchanging blows with brevity –

a duellist fencing fickle father time.

A prayer to me will guarantee longevity,

and Socrates’ old wisdom is no crime.

 

Sit back, relax, and have yourself a peach –

Enjoy the peaceful garden, filled with light.

A mortal’s grasp should e’er exceed his reach,

and reaching, grasp exceptionally tight.

 

And when the time-bell calls – your days are done –

just close your eyes and face towards the sun.

AWB

#13 - Seven Fukujin: Bishamonten

 The dangers of this world and what is in it?

Precisely why you need a god like me!

This life’s a battle – I can help you win it,

(but bear in mind: I rarely work for free).

Now, many call for skulls, or thrones of gore –

a sacrifice before they offer favour:

your firstborn plus two hundred fattened boar,

(your daughters to be auctioned off to slavers).

 

Not me. I simply state: laws should be obeyed –

those formal codes of manners and convention.

If you behave, then count upon my blade,

to execute that lifelong intervention:

defending you in war and hostile strife;

assuring you a long and healthy life.

AWB

#9 Seven Fukujin: Hotei

 

A home, a hearth, and something worth defending?

Is someone getting broody over there?

Does instinct urge you to produce an heir?

Secure genetic legacy unending?

Or else, it’s more for family – you’re intending

to lead a joyous band of offspring fair,

who’ll often make you laugh (and sometimes swear);

a life of love (and frequent moneylending)?

 

A small remembrance will secure my blessings,

since – though your love’s a fortress, all-embracing –

you can’t protect them each and every minute.

I’ll keep an eye, and see how they’re progressing

along life’s shining walkway, always facing

the dangers of this world and what is in it.

 

AWB

#5 - Seven Fukujin: Daikokuten

 

A bursting belly and one sated soul

is well and good – but why not five? or twenty?

He brings a feast to fill your empty bowl,

but one good harvest gluts your life with plenty.

 

Me? I think longer term, devise and plan –

this planet offers bounty to the willing.

Renounce the stopgap slop of Fishy Man:

a prayer to me is future-proof fulfilling.

 

You teach a man to fish – y’know the rest –

this hackneyed saw is centred on “himself”.

My field is wider – there’s no use pretending:

 

You teach a man to grow, he builds a nest,

with future dinners lining every shelf –

a home, a hearth, and something worth defending.

 

AWB

#1 - Seven Fukujin: Ebisu

 

    You’re hungry? I got what you really need.

Just stick with me, my son – I’ll see you right.

Why, you look undernourished, poor wee mite!

Ebisu’s got you covered – guaranteed!

I’ll sort you out a mammoth, cracking feed:

we’ll feast and fart into the blessed night!

And when this jolly blowout’s at its height,

you’ll say a prayer, and give me thanks – agreed?

    And fish! Oh boy! just think about the fish!

The carp, the codfish, shark (tho just the fin –

I’ll fix a soup if that’s the way you roll).

I’m here to grant your every hungered wish,

and then I’ll leave you, with contented grin,

a bursting belly, and one sated soul.

AWB

#16 - Bitter Poisonpie

Warning 

After Bitter Poisonpie (Hebeloma sinapizans)

 

All parts are poisonous. The stem and root,

the toxic leaves and flowers, blushing red.

The faint outline of skulls on every fruit;

inviting you to taste and be misled. 

These fatal blossoms, gathered from the verge

are willing you to eat and meet your end.

Your heart will quicken and your blood will surge;

you might not even last till next weekend.

What hurt could come from eating foraged food?

How can the woodland seek to cause us harm? 

Yes, nature can be fierce and cruel and shrewd –

this greenery is dangerously armed.

Don’t mess with toxic flowers, blushing red;

just spring for fish and chips for tea instead. 

LM

Listen to the poet perform the poem here.

Image via unsplash.com 

#4 - Lemon Disco

Synesthesia 

After Lemon Disco (Bisporella citrina)

 

On nights like these, we chase the sultry beat,

our bodies soft and yielding to the sound.

The citrus-scented rhythm guides our feet;

we trace our secret sigils on the ground. 

 

We conjure lemon groves with rolling hips;

a reckless incantation, wild and pure. 

The music tastes like sunshine on our lips –

this movement is the symptom and the cure. 

 

All sharpness soothed, all apprehension eased,

all doubt surrendered to the sultry beat.

When bad times bruise, when obligations squeeze,

this dance can make those sour fruits taste sweet. 

 

Our music makes our brokenness feel whole – 

we move to shake the anguish from our souls. 

 

LM

Listen to the poet perform the poem here.

Image via unsplash.com 

#25 - The Proper Paperwork

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy is a sci-fi novel by Douglas Adams. It follows Arthur Dent, the last surviving human man, and his adventures after the Earth is demolished by aliens (to make way for a hyperspace bypass). It’s one of the most bureaucratic, frustrating and unnecessary ways for the world to end, which is why I’m quite fond of it. 

 

The Proper Paperwork 

I understand why you’re a tad annoyed,

but there’s no need to whine and be a jerk.

I’m sorry that your planet’s been destroyed;

you should’ve filed the proper paperwork.

The bypass has to go through hyperspace.

Now, surely, we can all agree on that?

It looked like such a dreadful little place – 

your planet wasn’t even on the map! 

You’ll have to find another spot to live.

(It’s not like you can settle locally.) 

You’ll have to learn to hitchhike and forgive:

it’s not as bad as Vogon poetry. 

So, try to find the bright sky in your scowl.

Get on your way, and don’t forget your towel.

LM 

#12 - Ilmatar to Väinämöinen

The Kalevala is a 19th-century work of epic poetry compiled from Karelian and Finnish oral folklore and mythology, telling of the Creation of the Earth. The Earth is created from the shards of the egg of a goldeneye and the first man Väinämöinen is born to the goddess Ilmatar. Väinämöinen brings trees and life to the barren world.

Suspended in the sea – I’ve been here years,
or months or weeks or decades, hard to say –
awaiting your arrival, son. This day –
foreseen but not foretold – at last appears,
with burning thighs and shattered hemispheres.
Breathe now, and carve on through the spray;
inspire the land with laughter, song, and play –
too soon will springtide joys be raked by tears.
 
Remember me as one who gave you air,
and blessings uterine and manifold;
remember as you scan the primal swell,
recall a mother’s words that float like prayer:
youth’s curse forgets the wisdom of the old;
the curse of age is knowing this too well.

AWB

#2 - Further Revelations

 The Book of Revelation. It's in the Bible, depending on who you ask.

I sing, deluded mortals, of my dreams –
the woeful strain of this distempered lyre:
of seas of blood, and trumpet-tortured screams;
of War and Famine, Pestilence and Fire.
Of broken seals, and Judgement’s endless day:
the Beast unleashed, the lost denied a heaven;
betraying in each sign along the way,
my strange obsession with the number seven.
 
Now listen, John, mate (if that is your name) –
we’re not accusing you of telling lies,
or disbelieving owt that you proclaim.
It’s just… We wonder– don’t you realise?
that no one cares what happens while you’re snoring,
cuz other people’s dreams are fucking boring.

AWB