What manner of man am I

that I love adventure

but to whom the day to day, the subtle whisper

of understanding how everything

outside books, music and sport

and the odd moment of anger

when a political fool stands up to face the nation

and who asks us with greasy thought

and hand over fist embarrassment

to trust them, a rant at the radio

always good for the soul;

how anything outside all of this

matters a jot.

 

What manner of man am I

that I could happily face down

a line of soldiers willing to open

fire on me or use others

for target practice, to whom

the thought of raging against Dylan’s light,

of travelling to a far of country

and without hesitation ordering

in broken English and experiencing

all that holds delight

and yet the simple things, the day to day,

the plainly innocent,

are beyond me.

 

What manner of man am I who helped deliver

a cow into the world and watched in awe

on a Staffordshire hillside

as it took a tentative step being licked

clean and yet I cannot confront

a person who has done me wrong,

who has taken me apart and the undertone

to become a Tsunami…

I am just a man who perhaps lives in a world

of my own, who finds the day to day shrouded in boredom

and who has forgotten to live with clarity,

a man of destitute folly.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015