For the Tempus-Fugitives Page 8

  Seek partial absolution in the small

  Though welcome chance that this was just a lapse

  Of discipline, or else try to forestall

  Our nagging conscience with the thought that chaps

  Like that have their own backs against the wall

  In hotspots missing from the moral maps

  Drawn up for those, like us, who find it all

  Too much and hope they’ll keep it under wraps

  Rather than let such brutal truths appal

  Our tender consciences. If something snaps

  In them from time to time, or what they call

  “Enhanced interrogation technique” taps

  Into some vein that otherwise we’d call

  Downright barbaric, then it’s just those gaps

  In our quiet lives that keep us lot in thrall

  (Or so we tell ourselves) to value-schemes

  Or moral codes that may be just the thing

  For bien-pensant couch liberals whose dreams

  Of pure, uncomplicated justice cling

  To past ideals and balk at any themes

  From a nightmarish present. Yet the sting

  In such an attitude (although it seems

  At least a half-way decent ruse to bring

  Relief from those soul-harrowing extremes)

  Is how it tempts our consciences to string

  Along with what the water-boarding teams

  Took as their ready-made excuse to wring

  Truth out of him as if the end redeems

  The chosen means by any trick to swing

  The calculus in ways that brute regimes

  Have always found most conscience-quieting

  Should doubts arise. Then comes the screwball bit

  That made the headlines: how his one desire—

  When word came through that now they’d better quit

  The rough stuff lest their prisoner expire—

  Was that his torturers provide the kit

  That Khalid Sheik Mohammed would require,

  Should time and straitened circumstance permit,

  In order to design what any buyer

  Of top-class vacuum-cleaners might think fit

  For purpose. So as further to inspire

  His wished-for change of heart the guards would sit

  Around, serve tea and biscuits, and enquire

  Respectfully what special features it

  Might have, or whether they could one day hire

  The thing, or: cleaners are a piece of shit,

  So why not give the world a new spin-drier?

  Still it’s worth asking what might lie behind

  His choice if not (as most reporters found

  It prudent to suppose) signs of a mind

  Either unhinged by guilt or losing ground

  To distant memories of tasks assigned

  Way back when his grad student skills were crowned

  With worldly recompense. This homely kind

  Of moral saw may strikingly resound

  With vox pop and yet leave us apt to find

  Its leaky vessel running hard aground

  On shallow sentiments we’re disinclined

  To take on board whoever may propound

  Them, whether pious editorials signed

  By lying hacks or journalists renowned

  For having their high principles defined

  By loyalty to the biggest crook around.

  So let’s admit the issue’s not just one

  Of blood-crazed lunatics, though this may suit

  The purposes of Daily Mail or Sun

  Reporters as a handy substitute

  For truthful headlines editors won’t run

  When jobs are on the line or suchlike brute

  Realities obtrude. One tale not spun

  By them concerns that episode en route

  To 9/11 when he’d first begun

  The plan to cleanse all things that might pollute

  His soul despite its fixed resolve to shun

  Each speck of dust like the forbidden fruit

  That, soon as tasted, left that soul undone

  And mocked its one vocation: to refute

  The infidel or show the world what’s won

  Simply by staying true to the pursuit

  Of spotless self-perfection. Then we might

  Find time and fresh incentive to re-think

  Those vacuum-sealed ideas of wrong and right

  That vetoed all our vain attempts to sync

  Two such brain-stunners: how Domestic Flight

  175 could vanish in a blink

  Of pure apocalypse, and how delight

  In cleaning dust and dirt from every chink

  In US homes could finally incite

  Such righteous zeal as pushed him to the brink

  Of mayhem and beyond. Thus black and white

  As moral colour-scheme looks prone to shrink

  The options down too far and leave it quite

  Beyond us to work out the Hoover link

  (Appliance, not J. Edgar). That’s the slight

  Though vital tweak that might undo the kink

  In our own moral wiring or the blight

  Of planks concealing motes that lets us wink

  At crimes near home yet turn the screws down tight

  On those kept under till they’re kept in clink.

  THE LINE OF DUTY (SESTINAS)

  Of the 11 undercover police officers publicly identified, nine had intimate sexual relations with activists. Most were long-term, meaningful relationships with women who believed they were in a loving partnership.…Jenner, who had a wife, appears to have lived more or less permanently with Alison, rarely leaving their shared flat in London.…It was an arrangement that caused personal problems for the Jenners. At one stage, he is known to have attended counselling to repair his relationship with his wife. Bizarrely, at about the same time, he was also consulting a second relationship counsellor with Alison.

  —The Guardian, March 1, 2013

  I sometimes wonder, but it doesn’t do

  To bring the topic up. In any case

  He rings me every three days while he’s gone

  And lets me know each time he’s coming back,

  So I can tell the kids and count the days

  And wonder where he went but never ask.

  His wife and kids, I wonder if they ask.

  I sometimes think about them, what they do

  When he’s away from home, how all the days

  And nights go by while he’s out on the case,

  Although our team’s devised all sorts of back-

  Up stories for the whole time he’s been gone.

  This time it’s seemed an age that he’s been gone

  But now he’s here again so let’s not ask

  Him awkward questions. Nice to have him back,

  Though my friends ask me: what does that guy do

  In his months off? Suppose it’s just a case

  Of needing other stuff to fill his days.

  He seems to be away much more these days,

  Although I checked the dates and he’s been gone

  Less than a month this time. Still, just in case

  He turns up suddenly, I thought I’d ask

  The kids to maybe think what they could do,

  The next time round, to welcome Daddy back.

  Routine report: informant says he’s back

  With her, the suspect, hanging out most days

  With that lot while they’re planning what to do

  For next week’s anti-fracking march. We’ve gone

  Out of our way so as not to have to ask

  How she fits in. Still it’s a dodgy case.

  I’ve come to the conclusion he’s a case

  Of chronic itchy feet. This time he’s back

  And beating all about the bush to ask

  If he can hang out for the next few days

  With my lot
. Better now than if he’d gone

  When there was that “who snitched on us?” to-do.

  No word for weeks now, and I find most days

  I know it’s just the case he’s upped and gone,

  Rather than ask “come back” as some might do.

  * * * * *

  Feel a bit shitty, but it doesn’t do

  To brood about it now that the whole case

  Looks like collapsing. If the thing had gone

  To plan and I’d brought all that info back,

  Then cut loose just before the court-room days

  No hack reporter would have thought to ask.

  Funny, she seemed too politic to ask,

  Or seemed to think the best thing she could do

  To stifle doubt was occupy her days

  With yet more eco-warrior stuff in case

  Her nights brought all the missing details back

  To frame the unasked question: where’s he gone?

  Or did she maybe figure where I’d gone

  And why, but play along because to ask

  The question squarely when I next came back

  Would have kicked off the kind of how-d’you-do

  That meant me being booted off the case

  And you left one guy short on demo days.

  Won’t say I don’t have rotten-feeling days,

  Now that it’s plain to see how things have gone

  All pear-shaped with the prosecution case

  As well as nearer home, or homes. Don’t ask

  Me stupid questions like “What will you do

  To make amends?” because I’ll bat them back.

  And yet I have these dreams of going back

  To her again, like on the magic days

  When we two really clicked, and then I do

  Some pretty stupid things. In one I’ve gone

  Back to her (our) old bedroom and I ask:

  Please take me back and then we’ll drop the case.

  Still, sentiment aside, if it’s the case

  That keeping my old job means going back

  To under-cover work, they needn’t ask

  Me twice. Truth is, most of my time these days

  Is spent just wondering where the passion’s gone

  And what those crazy friends of hers might do.

  I watch him thinking, like he used to do,

  Back then, about some case, but how it’s gone

  With this one I’ve not dared to ask for days.

  AN INTERMITTENCE

  Three years apart, and yet it might as well

  Have been three weeks, or days. Although the old

  Adage applied, that only time would tell,

  This time in truth the only truth it told

  Was of time’s self-undoing. For we fell

  Back into thoughts and word-ways put on hold

  Through all that time, and so conjured a spell

  That freed us, old lags suddenly paroled,

  To take the tale up just where I’d cut short

  Its proper term. I grant you, some stuff went

  On happening, we have it by report,

  And there’s some evidence that we two spent

  Those six years doing all the usual sort

  Of real-time filling things. Still no event

  From that blank interim’s the kind to thwart

  My time-sense like these signs of time’s intent

  To tweak our chronotope and so excise

  That merely clock-watch interval of vie

  Quotidienne. This might perchance advise

  Some love-struck onlooker, like Donne’s, that we

  Could perfectly embody his surmise

  As touching that atemporal ecstasy

  Of two that some few thirds may recognize

  By kindred gift although the rest agree

  With common sense in apperceiving small

  Change outwardly (here quoting Donne again)

  To mark where time’s hiatus might install

  That lapse of years. The seven sleepers’ den

  Is where the poet fancied it should fall

  With love’s long slumber broken now and then

  By waking dreams lest sleep too far enthrall

  His soul and still the motions of his pen.

  Long ways around I’ve gone so as not to dwell

  Too closely on that border-zone patrolled

  By time-lords every bit as keen to sell

  Us back into time-slavery as scold

  Time-wandering Proustians or threaten hell

  For Platonists who’d force time to their mold.

  Why, then, this temporizing last resort

  To theory-talk when really all I meant

  Was to convey how time-scales may distort

  In life-redemptive ways? Yet that’s the bent

  That launched me on this replay of Freud’s fort/

  Da game, and speculation may have lent

  The thing some real truth-content in the guise

  Of thoughts more abstract only in degree

  Than chunks of homely wisdom like “time flies,”

  Though with this complication: that to see

  The point, what you’d most need to analyse

  Was how time lacked or lost a master-key.

  Our vows said we were in for the long haul

  And if, though apostate, I say amen

  To that it’s not a prayer that should appall

  The faithful. Else no figuring how when,

  Six years on, chance contrived this curtain-call

  It looped our time-line like Proust’s madeleine.

  EPITHALAMION: FOR JENNY AND DAVE

  (Santorini, July 2015)

  Well, Jen, it’s time things went from good to bad,

  Or (if you’re dreading this) from bad to worse:

  Time for your big-occasion-wrecking Dad

  To do his father-of-the-bride in verse.

  How better celebrate the great event

  That brings your friends, your family and these

  Well-wishers here to bless the time they’ve spent

  With you and Dave as happy invitees

  To a match made in some place that’s as near

  Heaven as makes no difference. And you look

  So lyrical in all your wedding-gear

  (Not the best phrase, I know) that any book

  Of great epithalamia wouldn’t get

  Top marks unless it gave you pride of place,

  The two of you, and by so doing let

  The world know how things ought to be in case

  The world forgets.

  To Santorini we’ve

  Now come and it’s a knockout, just the spot

  For future hopes that aren’t just make-believe

  But tried and proved already through a lot

  Of shared life-history. Such a friendly bunch

  They are, these local people, though they’ve had

  To put up with a full-scale credit-crunch

  And economic ruin through a bad

  Conspiracy of nations they might well

  Have blamed on us. Then we’d seem just the kind

  Of visitors who turn up for a spell

  In paradise or great chance to unwind,

  Especially since exchange-rates make the whole

  Greek wedding-package currently a snip

  For bargain-seekers happy in the role

  Of roving creditors who’d asset-strip

  The glory that was Greece. Though that’s as far

  As could be from our wedding-plan, it speaks

  Well of these folk that nothing’s come to mar

  The entente cordiale between Brits and Greeks

  So that—whatever cynics say—one gets

  The feeling everyone’s somehow a part

  Of our rejoicing and the culture lets

  No shade of the economist’s black art

  Fall on our nuptials. Let’s not press too hard

>   On this but life’s hard locally, and there’s

  A sense I have that Jen and Dave regard

  Their choosing this place as a choice that bears

  As much on facing life with all the strength

  Their partnership affords as on the dream-

  World recollections that will last the length

  Of all their years together. It’s a theme

  Quite suitable for verse, I thought, and then,

  Why let so perfect an occasion go

  Unsung?, and anyway, good-hearted Jen

  Won’t mind if I come on and spoil the show.

  Of course it’s famously a time to dig

  Around for family anecdotes that make

  The speech sound like some chronic stand-up gig

  With brother-in-law stories (sorry Jake!)

  And tales of—let me pluck one from the air,

  Just one of many—how on the Sealink

  Ferry a bunch of stray kids asked us “Where

  Can we find Jenny Power?,” which made us think

  That maybe you were destined for great things.

  And so you were, and so I’m here to say

  In due course, once this speech of mine takes wings,

  Though first more anecdotes to clear the way

  For take-off.

  Jen, you always got my jokes

  Way back from early childhood, which struck me

  As a great virtue, since I’m one who pokes

  Fun when he can and dearly likes to see

  The point picked up at once, as on so many

  Occasions when some jest or other drew

  A welcome sign it wasn’t lost on Jenny,

  Or other times—I treasure them—when you

  Perceived the comic side of things that we’d

  All failed to grasp. That’s why no qualm deters