LEO AYLEN - POEMS

Leo Aylen: Born KwaZulu, South Africa 9 collections,(Latest “A triumph” Melvyn Bragg.) 5 prizes, 100 poems in anthologies, 100 broadcast. Performed BBC Radio & TV, Albert Hall, St Paul’s Cathedral, 100 universities Britain, USA, Canada, theatres, schools, hospitals, prisons, 4000 Zulus, 3 solo CBS shows.

The stupid story-teller
​

​He’d frequently say “I know nothing.”
Then stories bounded out of him
Like galloping deer across a moor,
Or sparkled like .. pearls on a string
Of silver thread .. or seemed to skim
Duck-an’-drake-like over water
 
Which stretched out from him wide as the sea
On a sleepy day of cloud-free sky.                            
Those stories .. animals chasing their tails,
Taking no notice of him, it seemed.
Were they fantasy? Were they lies?
They often had points which neatly impaled
 
His listeners, pinned them down, helpless
With laughter or tears. He could be a clown,
A preacher, but never a politician. 
His lies were truth in fancy-dress.
One of them might dare nick a crown 
From a king, or a mitre from the head of a bishop,
 
And strut round, preening in best dressed
Bravado daring hands to unmask it,
Not at all like politician-lies             
Which steal bread out of beggar-dishes,
A widow’s jam from a shopping-basket,      
Or the coloured string of a lame kid’s kite,
 
His story-teller lies were true,
Too true for the rulers of the nation.
They locked him in a cage stained bright blue,
And charged tourists ten pounds admission
To a prison yard painted with red
Letters declaring “Story-teller dead.”                         

The New Planning Officer
Who Suffered from Depression
​

​He did seem odd. It was as if,
When he walked in, nightingale song
Floated down; then from under his feet
Dotty laughter-music seemed to drift                        
Up over his head and dance on his tongue.
The cleaning ladies declared “He’s sweet.”                          
 
He joked with the drivers. How they laughed.
The electricians called him “Sparks!”
He’d bound upstairs like a hunting dog.
His thoughts jumped over his colleagues’ stuffed
Wheelie-bin minds, and soared like larks                 
In springtime over rotten logs.
 
The Council declared him “problematic;
Far too prone to .. think out of the box.”
They promoted him “Head of Blue Sky
Thinking,” converted the building’s attic
Into his office, fixed special locks,
Shut him in there, and hoped he’d die
 
From nervous frustration. Instead he jumped
Out of the window.  Where he fell
They erected a plinth, having first dumped
Him into a Failure Funeral,
Then, after a minute’s manicured sighing,
Resumed their profession of well-placed lying.

The Niqab
​

​A Muslim teaching assistant whose job was teaching languages to small children insisted on wearing a niqab (the veil which covers the face) though this prevented the children from seeing her lips move.
 
“Don’t treat me as some sort of alien creature.
I'm an accredited professional, a teacher
Of huge experience in top girls’ schools,
Known as a stickler for keeping the rules.
My pupils nearly always get straight A’s,
My methods have reaped universal praise.
Agreed, your staff are women except for me.
As the sole male, I help pupils to see
Things from a different viewpoint. and shed light
On problems which a female teacher might
Not have the experience to bring to bear.
Are men, p’rhaps, more direct?
                                                Of course I care
Very much for my classes. I resent
The implication I am somehow mocking
Your system, which some people do find shocking.
But that’s your faith, and this is a Faith School.
I respect you. I don’t call you a fool
For wearing your niqabs. ‘Live and let live’
Is my motto. We both have lots to give
Each other. If we can show toleration
For what seems alien, we’ll inspire the nation.
Be careful. You might start a racial feud
If you banned me from teaching in the nude.”