‘The years teach much which the days never know.’
Ralph Emerson
Half a century has passed,
of my oblivious education:
Valves glowed behind Bakelite,
those wireless invocations,
mail was flap-rattled –
some bore oddity stamps,
wearing cent-priced strangers,
sent from inky confidantes.
My search was inherited,
in spine-bust encyclopaedias:
I learnt the word ‘concentric’,
and skipped the Roman Empire.
Turn off the news,
shut down the feeds,
silence the radio,
unplug your TV,
look beyond bylines,
avoid the shouts,
blank out the posts,
turn from the crowd,
reduce all exposure,
pull down the blinds,
this day is yours,
remain safe in your mind.
As youth we spoke
against political fear,
now in our dotage we only
SIGN HERE:_________
A petition easier
than kettled-streets,
thus avoid confrontation,
except in tweets.
“OK Google,”
please turn off,
you know too much
’bout my choices in life;
what I looked at,
for how long,
it’s a dead-end relationship,
your snooping is done.
If I need a map,
I’ll A to Z,
navigate my life
with no traces left;
I’ll use a brick phone,
and Duck Duck Go,
then avoid Facebook,
or just stay at home.
You read a world
from so little,
said John Clare
to the Gypsy,
a time before
the handset
ripped our books;
now enquiry
is removed
from our heads
by devices,
on which we write
and find –
no store of poems
in our minds.
