Roger G McDonald: Pilgrim’s postcards

Pilgrim’s postcards

 

1

Each feature of geography is vast.

The mountains munch the sky. They leave no gaps

Between their icing-sugared ridges, just

More hugeness. Saturated light entraps

My eyes, and elongates my shadow, floored

By this showy magnificence in Pride.

On one point, I confess I’m under-awed:

A flag-adoring population rides

Its boasts like broncos. “We’ve got what it takes!”

Blazes from the summits of blind belief.

You can’t have losers in these smugness stakes.

I’ve left Pride, not without a prim relief,

To head for Wrath, but pulled up to remind

Myself this is the way of humankind.

 

 

 

2

I’ve got to Wrath, the second of my stops.

In hindsight, it’s not one I should have planned.

It’s desolate. Rows of sad-faced, state-owned shops

Flog sour, official junk. All humour’s banned.

The angry streets within its feud-stained walls

Are unrepaired from endless civil wars.

A lost echo of mortar fire still falls.

I walk my curiosity outdoors

And wonder at the insubstantial care

The tourist boffins take. I know this place

Hosted tribal massacres in its square.

I hoped to find a photo-worthy trace

Of martyred blood. Of course, there wasn’t any.

I’m out of here. Expect my next from Envy.

 

 

3

In Envy. I’m subject to rejection—

A time-worn past that sports a uniform

Of arrogance and reverend pre-selection.

The buildings, trees, and skies, are cruciform.

My punting on the sighing water’s been

Unsuccessful. I put it down to fear

Of inferiority. An ancient screen

Mutes me from hymns I’m not allowed to hear.

I pretend I’ve kept up every faculty,

Denying the need for gaining any.

But my breeding’s wrong, my accent faulty.

They, politely, knock back my bent penny.

I never can belong. I s’pose I’ll just

Pack up my swag and try my luck in Lust.

 

 

 

4

A carnal goddess next door caterwauls

Not three feet from my head. She’s waking me

At midnight through the sex-conducting walls.

I’m in Lust, and I’m sleepless. Achingly.

Torment of the flesh was not included

In any of my plans, nor accidents

Of hotel-brothel bookings. They’ve intruded

Crudely on my traveller’s innocence,

Arousing what I thought were dormant zones.

I’m checking out for Gluttony, and soon.

There she goes again. My hyped brain groans

With every panted note of sex’s tune.

Floors pulse, beds shake, glass clinks, cries coincide.

When will her pleasure su … uhhh … uhhhhh … subside?

 

 

 

5

I’ve been in Gluttony and witnessed bliss.

They really hoe right into it down there.

There’s no anus in hunger’s Grand Abyss.

Those amber curves will serve you everywhere.

You start with burgers: ham that isn’t ham,

Amazonian beef, and steroid chicken.

This, from the stove that gave—still gives us—spam.

Confused? Just cross the freeway for a lickin’.

Continue with a double serve of fries

Sauced up with plastic sugar, super salt,

A lettuce leaf for health and … Yes! Upsize

Me or I’ll sue. Nothing’s ever my fault.

Now, though, I feel a tad cadaverous.

It’s time to move. I’m off to Avarice.

 

 

 

6

The monumental scale of Avarice

Defies belief. Everyone has wealth.

(Except the simple and the generous.

They’re thought to threaten economic health.)

In Avarice, your friend is market forces.

Buy cheap, sell dear’s a virtue, not a vice.

Everything’s for sale: marriages, divorces;

The cures for insufficient dosh; advice

On blood-stained loot and where the hell to put it;

How to get your share of milk and honey;

The easy bill to pay, and how to foot it,

Always using someone else’s money.

Sloth’s next. But I’ve learned real from what’s unreal

In Avarice. O man, I got a deal!

 

 

 

7

I hardly have the energy to write.

The heat’s too hot, the damp too wet. The town’s

A monument to boredom. It needs a fright

Like a freeway through it just in case it drowns

In the quicksand of its dozing apathy.

Idleness has caught up. A miasma

Of indolence has swept right over me.

I doubt a full transfusion of fresh plasma

Could get me off my bed. The flies in Sloth

Don’t bother flying. They fatten on your eyes.

I wish I had the liveliness of Wrath,

But that would need way too much enterprise.

My pilgrimage? You’d have to say I’ve tried.

Why did I bother? I’m off back to Pride.

Roger G. McDonald