Certainly the common idea of the “soul” or “psyche”, as brought down to us
through monotheistic religion, is too simple.  There is hardly a universal
soul or psyche that one can refer to or pattern oneself on.

At the opposite side of the analysis, I would not go along with
postmodernism either, which asserts that we are clever machines.  I am sure
that some people are happy to be clever machines, but they tend to get in my

If we lose the humanness side of us, but remember having had it, even if the
memory is not exact, we feel a tremendous loss.


There is a river called Lesapi
From whose bedrock, like ghost of weeds,
Passion’s flames vainly yearn to surface,
To rise
To bolt-burst
And retire, confirmed by the sparkling-clear Air.

And this London-returned ghoul
Withdraw his live-coal tears
Into his stone-hewn eyes.

Here, childhood drowned never to rise
No bloated floating corpse ever was seen:
Only these flameweeds on the bedrock of a river
Known as Lesapi.

Rome:Lullaby For Georgie

At the first light of dawn
I’ll get my clothes out of pawn
For as we grow older
The rats grow bolder
And when they sound the retreat
I’ll get you out of this heat
For they might sent us alone
Into what won’t be home

O, Rhodesia, were you ever mine?
I thought you should know that we
Are now guiltily wolfing your poetry
Oh, Rhodesia, buried in the sands of time
I thought you should know that we
Are now hastily chasing each memory

Always guarded by another man’s sons
We felt it dishonorable for one
To stay out of it and how could it be wrong?
But we were fighting on the wrong side of a losing war and time
Has made orphans of us all
Has made cripples of us all

I just won’t flee down south
Where the oceans collide
To die a broken man
To die a sorry man


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