My Love said my Muse was faithless
And her fair words, being but a sham
Would turn in time to bitter fruitlessness
Leaving me no better off than I am
My Love said my Muse would desert me
And now my fate has confirmed her fears
Far away my Love can weep
Clear, exonerating, righteous tears
But since her predictions have proved so just
I hope all her maybes also turn to must
Looking down the barrel of Chapman's gun
Lennon was unaccountably struck
By a surge of happiness for this world
No two moments the same no two things
The hydrants outside the Plaza, pigeons
In Central Park, the magnificence
Lost, found or made, the way
Two guitars can sing together and alone.
Life. Beauty. Music. The tracks he had to cut.
Lennon was in love with all of it.
And then the bullet hit.
Peter Jukes 1988
The following images are some slightly faded snaps from my year living in India in the early 80s
Now a windless haze suppresses
The accolade of the streets
Sacred cows graze in traffic
Battered buses, rickshaws, bikes
An elephant lit up with electric bulbs
A man balancing aluminium chairs on his head
In the fields the chorus of mud-frogs never cease
The ears are filled but not with noise
Peter Jukes India 1983