A motor torpedo boat covered in giant bubbles
silently appeared through the early morning mists.
It was only when it was almost upon us that
we could hear the muffled roar of its engines,
and then only faintly.
I have as much knowledge of myself as I do of
why I was adrift in that rubber dinghy
in the Malay Straits.
All the books and maps and knowledges give us too little,
leave large blank spaces, "terra incognita".
"... citizens who work and find no peace in pain. I am chains."
In chained numbers
In chained numbers, not confusion, the war boat bears
down on me on us where Educated Summaries are not
worth a spit in hell. The Cambridge Marxists, with
large houses, cars and incomes, can shove it.
"Anarchist Fieldmarshalls, Socialist Judges, Dialectic
Fuzz, Switched-on Hangmen, and all other benefits of
Correct Revolutionary Practice."
I don't need patronage --- I need something else.
The mists clear before the burning sun, the sea empty
and flat as a sheet of polished metal. The long day
Copyright Lee Harwood 1980
also by Lee Harwood: A Poem For Writers