Robin Upton's Poetry - Poems about Growing Up, Moving On

On Proving That God is Dead (1998)

One man said "God is dead. I can prove that might is right."
Another "Prove that black is black and white is white."

One man sought beauty in a young woman's body.
Another found it in the lines of an old woman's face.

One man saw some lines on a page.
Another stopped and read these words.

No one proved that this is a poem.

Unanswered Questions (1995)

I am here today and I have many questions and no answers.
How can I know more?

How did my body get old so fast,
While my mind is not yet young?

My friends are many and my foes are few,
So why do I feel the whole world is against me?

Why do the objects that surround me
Seem only pale reflections of their shadows in my mind?

If I can never know myself,
How then can I ever know others?

Do the stars above me and the earth beneath my feet know me better that I know myself,
Since they treat me more fairly?

How can so many uncertainties spring 
From the same unanswered question?

How can I explain my certainty
That when I am gone, life will go on?

I hear the sound of supermarkets,
Upbeat and fast-paced,
But with the distinctive whiff of cheap coffee.
 
For every goodbye that is said,
There are ten left unsaid,
For every ten that are said,
There is one that is meant.
 
There is only one that is meant.
Strange,
That three years can end in a single night.

My Pilgrimage To Hurst (1997)

I don't know what I am looking for,
So how will I know it if I find it?
Amongst the bottles, the cans,
and the will o' the wisps,
I left a part of myself,
So many years ago.

But now it's half light.
Now I can see where I am looking.
So many restless figures around me.
Yes, I am glad I did not come here in company,
Because I know now I would have left alone.

To understand this better, see the small explanation I wrote of the themes of this poem. (Written 7 years after the poem itself, in 2004)

The hum of the centralised airconditioning system
Dulls but does not drown out
The drone of the American voiceover
I wish, that I didn't understand English.

An eagerness of Bengalis, betrousered and besuited,
Fretfully tap their boarding cards.
Firmly grasping their tickets
To the new world.

A corner piece of a beautiful jigsaw,
I am content only to be face up,
Playing quietly by different rules,
As if in a world of my own.

A tourist not in Bangladesh but the world,
Here to wish it well every day I am given,
Yet as veterans recount the bravado of Midway,
I still wish, that I didn't understand English.

Ode to Illums Bolighus (2001)

Groomed and uniformed sphinxes stand erect,
Beaming sartorial smiles through invisible glass showcases.
So trained, so professional that one might wonder
For whose benefit they all sport explanatory labels.

Don't be dazzled by the explosion of faces, races and languages.
Behind the display stands, promotions and crazy offers
Computers and barcoded security staff are in perfect harmony,
Ensuring that entropy works backwards here.

Consumers sucked in by arrows, up walkways, from floor to opulent floor,
Patterned, channeled, sensualised into the grand design.
Sheer exposure to images and labels,
Lulling them into socialising with old friends.

Bags and wallets open,
Paper and plastic shake hands,
A smile flashes "Yes of course..."
Strange that sterility can be so seductive.