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About Alan Reynolds

Poet born and raised in North Carolina and now after a sojourn in England a long-time resident of the Netherlands. More than 4,000 poems, many published in US and UK literary magazines and on CD and in books.

Pi in the Sky

Once upon a time, long ago, before all elected officials were knowledgeable, wise, and dedicated to serving the people who elected them, a majority of elected politicians decided to ease the lives of their children by simplifying the arithmetic that they were forced to learn. They legislated that from now on that pesky mysterious number known as pi would be equal to the nice round number 3. No more fractions! Especially no more fractions that were also irrational and transcendental and quite probably the work of the Devil.

The ignorant rejoiced and granted their legislators the power to enrich themselves. Homework became a dawdle. Everything went swimmingly until the older expert builders and engineers died off. The new builders started erecting beautiful circular towers, calculating tower dimensions with the new, politically correct whole number 3: the ‘PC Pi.’

The new buildings collapsed. The economy collapsed. The government shut down. Only the elected officials kept benefits, money, and a semblance of well-being. The people arose and voted them out of office.

But that was all long ago, before all elected officials became knowledgeable, wise, and dedicated to serving the people who elected them.

Obsessive Inertia

Badger, a large and proud example of his species, supposed he could help himself. He tried. It did not work. He tried again, and again.

He should let it go. He knew he should. Other badgers did not act worried. They pointed out to him that the Leader brought them no harm he could name. They said the fellowship of badgers might re-elect their Leader for another term. They might turn over more of their lives to the Leader, to live for them.

So why couldn’t Badger go along? He shook himself. He ate an earthworm. He asked himself, ‘If I can’t forget how the world is going, can I somehow use my worrying to reach any goals?’

He laughed cynically at his question. He knew his neighbours accepted the New Security their nearly-enough elected Leader promised them. Things and thinking frightened his neighbours, thinking most of all. The Leader relieved them of the need to think. The Leader provided slogans they substituted for thought. Why couldn’t Badger relax and be like them?

Why was he obsessed?

He laid out his thoughts, and found them meagre. So he laid them out again. He found them paltry.

‘As far as talent goes,’ he said, ‘I could be the Leader. Neither of us has the sense to come in out of the reign.’

Then he, a badger who by definition and nature should be biting, felt his conscience bite him. The pain was ferocious. He stood it, because he had to. The pain was horrendous. He withstood it. He was by nature and experience a stoic. His conscience bit him again, harder. Badger rolled in the dirt in front of his sett, and he cried.

Guards noted Badger’s crying. They looked around to learn what else they they could report to the Leader. No one helped Badger. He ran out of tears and went below.

He felt blank, and relieved. And no wiser.

‘It’s the fault of the bagpipes,’ Badger told himself. ‘That music wipes me out. It is the sound of a reason for living, left over even now.’

‘Was it my conscience?’

His obsession resurged. It chafed him for not doing what he should. It berated him with fully-orchestrated, over-the-top remonstrance against his Not Doing Anything.

‘I do not know enough. I have no proof. I must be cautious and well-grounded …’

No good. His conscience held him fast but not kindly. He could not block out knowing what he knew: Bagpipes played less frequently. People sang protest songs less often. More people stopped protesting as Leader’s henchmen dismantled old laws protecting Earth from human greed.

‘I know too little to act,’ thought Badger. ‘I know too much to sleep.’

‘Maybe I am starting at shadows,’ he thought. No one had threatened him. Guards had asked him to join Secure Church. They told him the Leader tolerated bagpipe players if they joined Secure Church. They showed him the Leader’s Executive Orders protecting Secure Church members even if they towelled off oil-downed seabirds. They left him copies of Executive Orders protecting silent Secure Church members who attended no services.

Badger heard something, a far-away baying. It got louder. He remembered that sound. He ran up out of his sett to warn his neighbours. Baiters!

Badger felt strangely relieved. Dogs could not hurt him as much or as long as his conscience and suspicions and fears did. He was the size of a spaniel and twice as strong. He had claws.

‘I am looking forward to fighting, and to dying,’ he said.

Security Dogs and Guards surrounded Badger. The Guards kept the Security Dogs leashed. The Guards shocked him with cattle prods, and shocked him again each time he moved.

Each time they shocked him, he moved.

This went on for some time.

That evening’s Security News showed Badger flinging himself from side to side. Security Dogs in the video were restrained. No Guards were in sight. The video showed colour close-ups of the badger’s teeth with blood on them. His black, swollen tongue. His powerful claws trembling inches from the cameraman. Inches!

The Security News announcer intoned: ‘Not only loud protestors, but also the silent minority can be dangerous. Dangerous to our norms and values. Exercise Lightning unearthed and neutralised one of the dangerous today. The war on nature will be a long one, but we will not quit until we have won.’

As far as watchers could tell, Badger’s conscience no longer troubled him.

Calm

After doing enough of this and that we die;
the life on Earth that continues is not ours.
Snows alternate with seasons of bright flowers.
The things we thought we’d get to by and by
remain undone, unsaid. Erosion scours
the minds of those who knew or knew about us.
The calm we had contemplated as a dream
becomes for us reality. We sleep.

What about Space Then?

‘It was Time,’ they said at the front desk. They were right.
Time had come down, turned in the room key, and gone out.
‘What about Space then?’ they said at the front desk. Second sight
would have helped them understand what was about
to happen, or had happened, as the thin red line
between conflicting realities unravelled.

In the mirror-filled hotel restaurant, Death took a shine
to his own reflection marvelling how he’d travelled
from a There to a Here in a fraction of a Now.
Waitresses turned grey. The head waiter waived
the wait-to-be-seated rule and gave a bow
to Death. ‘They all do,’ Death thought, ‘as if it saved

them answering when I call.’ He ordered toast
and wondered which – Time or Space? – missed him the most.

Categorically Mistaking

‘What colour is the duck’s quack?’ ‘Which questions are untrue?’
Poetically appealing, these are examples
of the error of ascribing characteristics
to categories which can’t harbour them.

A question can be neither true nor false.
A sound cannot have colour as long as words
mean anything. Mistakes of category
misrepresent reality which is elusive

enough without a versifier’s abusive
insistence that the drake’s spring quack is green
and that in itself a question must be false
if it asks him what he’s doing or where he’s been.

Flameout

Agitated dreams pursue the night
then it is turnabout and night consumes lost daydreams
that stayed out too late and stumbled into darkness.
Thoughts of benediction snap and crackle
as they give their all and more to the dark flame.
We walk in trepidation hand in hand
in circles that seem larger as they shrink.

Morpheus Himself is Restive

It’s 3 AM. The therapy: hold a book
that I can read but won’t if I turn on the light
is working, is that therapy, although it took
at 2:45 all of my will and might
to keep the room too dark to read or write.
I ride loose thoughts that float to where it’s day,
to Tokyo, Seoul, Rangoon, Bombay:
so many places and people, a gazillion flies.
It’s 3:45. Morpheus tells me it’s okay,
and that he can’t sleep no matter what he tries.