Questions of Existence

Tonight I saw on telly
film-star beautiful Professor Brian Cox
asking, 'Why are we here?'

I could smell my skin,
bared by my scant sarong,
pungent in the heat.

I tasted in memory
the seafood risotto
Maureen bought me for lunch.

I saw that I had not answered adequately
when she asked, 'Do you believe in God?'
All I said was, 'Yes.'

I felt startled when she said she didn't.
She said she believes in Nature.
I would call that God, or part of God.

I listened to the restaurant chef
telling how much he loves
his two little daughters.

I observed, in the photo he showed,
the calmly radiant face of the 5-year-old
as she cradled her baby sister.

Now I am enjoying the taste of warm milk
and cocoa: my usual nightcap. A little earlier
I had a glass of red with the Professor.

And I remembered trying to explain
to Maureen my idea of God. That I was not
believing in the one she doesn't believe in.

I wanted to go back and simply say,
'I believe in God, and I don't know
what God is.' (Though I know God.)

I watched Brian Cox smile sweetly from the screen
as he told us, 'No-one knows why. It can be whatever
you choose.' (Science catches up with philosophy!)

It's a hot, sticky night tonight, in this little corner
of the ever-expanding Universe – where we are
because we must be, and I am because I am.


Written in a format suggested in Diane Lockward's The Crafty Poet II.

Linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #340

Last Time I Was Here

Last time I was here, I was maybe eleven

but I’d lived here since I was very small.

The lawn stretched, vast, down the back

to the summerhouse and a stand of bamboo,

and there were two willows.

In the front were roses my Dad planted.

I felt as if I was living in Heaven.

In bed at night I could hear the bell

chiming from the Town Hall clock

across the still air. It does now, too.

I hug the motel pillows,

and remember listening with my Dad.

Sometimes we’d hear it striking seven:

he sat up till morning if I wasn’t well,

telling me stories — not from a book

but his own inventions. (He did read to me too.)

Then he would breakfast, get into his clothes

and go to work sleepless — what a Dad!

Last time I was here, I was not alone.

Fairies were my friends. I only had to call

and they would surround me. I knew where to look

and how to look. No-one taught me; I just knew.

There was one in each willow and every rose.
‘You’ve got such imagination!’ my Mum said.

November Poem A Day Chapbook Challenge from Poetic Asides: Last time I was here

(The form is rimas dissolutas — not part of the PA prompt; I wanted to try it after reading Diane Lockward's latest Poetry Newsletter, so I combined the two prompts.)