I won't look

"Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of humankind pass by.” — Oliver Goldsmith, "The Traveler" (1764)

Human consciousness is dreaming

—dreaming, but coerced by seeming;

Chance is much the will of Heaven—

Luck, I think, the future's leaven;

Unsure whether to grasp or gaze,

We draw conclusions in a haze,

Taking our chances in the maze.*

Though we live out lives of feeling

Guilty gratitude for being

Subalterns of this sublunar world,

Out of whose arms we'll soon be whirled,

We "I won't look!" are not as blind

As those proud lords of humankind.

Or so it seems, and you may find.

*"[W]aking consciousness is dreaming—but dreaming constrained by external reality."—Oliver Sacks, "The Last Hippie," in An Anthropologist on Mars (New York: Vintage Books, 1996), 57n7. "It is insufficient to see; one must look as well."—id., "To See and Not See," ibid., 117–18n3.

Oh, tell me those things are all done!

Oh, tell me those things are all done!

Snacks temptingly set out on tables.

Guests welcomed and served up a drink.

Old Nastiness consigned to the clink.

Photos admired in an album,

Complete with archival labels.

Ethical investments made

(a morsel for charitable aid).

Books on the bookshelves arrayed,

By author—or whatever style.

Newspapers? A bonfire pile!

Exonerating documents sorted.

Bad moves well and truly aborted.

Weeded the ground wrongly planted

In the neighbors' part of the garden.

Forgiveness not taken for granted—

Some wrongs conceded for pardon.

Banners conclusively furled,

Peace zipping along through the world.

What, then, if these things were all done?

Meeting with a Viper on the Banks of the Brakrivier

A puff adder (Bitis arietans)*

I met a fine fat viper one Sunday,

barefoot on the banks of the Brakrivier,

desiccated at that early season,

we on our bikes, home far away.

Curled up tidy in the sun it lay.

It had little chance to flee:

I slew it, like Saint George, heroically—

delivering the final coup de grace

my Christmas-present hunting knife.

Later, back home in De Aar,

I pickled the snake in a jar of purple methylated spirits—I fancied myself

a natural scientist then,

like many a veld-despoiling man.

Aged eleven or twelve—this happened some seventy-three years ago—

overweening, I'd taken the adder's life.

I don't forgive myself the thing today,

even amid all the wars and murders of which you know.

We're stuck on Earth, it seems, trading guilt for strife,

attesting our uncognized right of way.

*"This species is responsible for more snakebite fatalities than any other African snake, due to a combination of factors, including its wide distribution, common occurrence, large size, potent venom that is produced in large amounts, long fangs, and their habit of basking by footpaths and sitting quietly when approached."—https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Puff_adder