This is a development of an exercise undertaken as part of a tutorial for A215. It didn't amount to much in the form in which I found it in a long-forgotten file. Now, though, I am quite pleased with it. This is part of the the value of NaPoWriMo, isn't it? Roll on next year!
My grandmother told me she fought and screamed
through two red days and white nights;
recalled how her shrinking flesh was racked,
hacked opened like so much meat.
She described how she cursed and scratched and spat,
and thrashed and wrestled and swore.
'You drop your pride with your drawers,' she said.
'That was my first mistake.
She survived the birth but with what sad weight
my father tipped the balance of her life;
for her ten-pound, laughing, blue-eyed boy
she was stripped of all her bloom.
Though love flowed through and about her still,
all the warmth and the wanting had fled.
The lamplight threw shadows that mocked her youth
and the bedlinen crawled with her fear.
Friday, 30 April 2010
Thursday, 29 April 2010
Thursday, 29th April, 2010 Out There
Out There
If you are out there somewhere,
leaning in, straining your ear;
if you hold the night like a whorled shell
to hear the past's small roar;
then you must know -
I have to tell you -
how to go about finding me;
only open your golden mouth
and let your song swell.
I will seek you out;
though your song may be small,
the wind will carry it to me.
From the winking edge
of the desert dark
I will turn my steps
where you call.
If you are out there somewhere,
leaning in, straining your ear;
if you hold the night like a whorled shell
to hear the past's small roar;
then you must know -
I have to tell you -
how to go about finding me;
only open your golden mouth
and let your song swell.
I will seek you out;
though your song may be small,
the wind will carry it to me.
From the winking edge
of the desert dark
I will turn my steps
where you call.
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
Wednesday, 28th April Momento Mori
For R. C, A Passing Thought
Here, under glass, the words of one long-missed,
a dozen lines concluded with a kiss.
How tenderly those artful figers traced
the lineaments of passion in this face.
Here, under glass, the words of one long-missed,
a dozen lines concluded with a kiss.
How tenderly those artful figers traced
the lineaments of passion in this face.
Tuesday, 27 April 2010
Tuesday, 27th April, 2010 A Fear
I had a fear of solitude;
perhaps I guessed my fate
and feared I could not bear the risk
of mortage to estate.
Then, one day, came a spider by,
a lodger and a friend;
all fears dismissed accordingly,
debts paid - and coin to spend.
perhaps I guessed my fate
and feared I could not bear the risk
of mortage to estate.
Then, one day, came a spider by,
a lodger and a friend;
all fears dismissed accordingly,
debts paid - and coin to spend.
Monday, 26 April 2010
Monday, 26th April, 2010 Guided Meditation
Guided Meditation
Dream a gift, they said.
Ok, I replied.
I closed my eyes,
tried to let the river take me,
hoping for something rare and rich
to rise up out of the mist.
Some received crystals,
a fountain, a key,
a fistful of stars, an acorn;
in my hand only
a scrap of paper,
one way permission
to ride,
Dream a gift, they said.
Ok, I replied.
I closed my eyes,
tried to let the river take me,
hoping for something rare and rich
to rise up out of the mist.
Some received crystals,
a fountain, a key,
a fistful of stars, an acorn;
in my hand only
a scrap of paper,
one way permission
to ride,
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Sunday, 25th April, 2010 Boots
Boots
Pink calf-skin and line with fleece,
once, they were tied at the ankle;
now they hang together
from faded laces,
knotted fast over time.
Even the paper
where they lay at rest
crackles, is pale
and bloodless.
It is hard to picture
the angel-child
who once walked
in these
my shoes.
Pink calf-skin and line with fleece,
once, they were tied at the ankle;
now they hang together
from faded laces,
knotted fast over time.
Even the paper
where they lay at rest
crackles, is pale
and bloodless.
It is hard to picture
the angel-child
who once walked
in these
my shoes.
Saturday, 24 April 2010
Saturday, 24th April, 2010 Before a Storm
We had rain here in the early evening and that odd stillness that sometimes heralds a storm. I cannot see or hear a wren without thinking of my beloved Emily Dickinson who, with that mix of true and false modesty that is so characteristic of her, liked to refer to herself as 'Jenny Wren'.
Before a Storm
Among the trees a silence stirs
that seems to haunt my passing steps;
a hush descends to grip the air
but, on some bough, a wren sings yet.
A trinity of notes she swells
to make a modest song.
A storm is brewing, thunder rolls
but Jenny warbles on.
What moves her is a mystery
but I am much impressed;
her song reminds that songs ring true
where nature is expressed.
Before a Storm
Among the trees a silence stirs
that seems to haunt my passing steps;
a hush descends to grip the air
but, on some bough, a wren sings yet.
A trinity of notes she swells
to make a modest song.
A storm is brewing, thunder rolls
but Jenny warbles on.
What moves her is a mystery
but I am much impressed;
her song reminds that songs ring true
where nature is expressed.
Friday, 23 April 2010
Friday, 23rd April, 2010
When pain strikes
it is hard to think,
harder to care.
What does it matter
that children starve
and young men die,
day by day
blown to bits
without ever
knowing why?
When pain strikes,
it drives out dreams;
tomorrow
is an impulse undone.
Clamped in the jaws
of demon dark,
what is the power
of a dawn?
When pain strikes,
pain strikes.
There are no
ideals then;
no literature
or cultured arts;
just the wolf
that slinks and calls.
Only the anodyne
blossoms and blooms
when pain,
pain strikes.
When pain strikes
it is hard
to think;
we tilt and tremble
on the edge.
Will three swift fingers,
a stab in the dark,
deliver us,
reeling,
to our rest?
it is hard to think,
harder to care.
What does it matter
that children starve
and young men die,
day by day
blown to bits
without ever
knowing why?
When pain strikes,
it drives out dreams;
tomorrow
is an impulse undone.
Clamped in the jaws
of demon dark,
what is the power
of a dawn?
When pain strikes,
pain strikes.
There are no
ideals then;
no literature
or cultured arts;
just the wolf
that slinks and calls.
Only the anodyne
blossoms and blooms
when pain,
pain strikes.
When pain strikes
it is hard
to think;
we tilt and tremble
on the edge.
Will three swift fingers,
a stab in the dark,
deliver us,
reeling,
to our rest?
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Thursday, 22nd April, 2010
House clearance
Now the wall's stripped bare;
a naked space marks the place
where a life has passed.
Now the wall's stripped bare;
a naked space marks the place
where a life has passed.
Wednesday, 21 April 2010
Wednesday, 21st April, 2010 Imperfect Triolet - with apologies to any honest gentleman reading this
Good husbands aren't easy to find;
I know this; I've tried three or four.
To the facts of the case I'm resigned:
good husbands are so hard to find.
By some flaw in man's basic design
his sense of direction's quite poor
and the truth is just too hard to find.
I should know; I have shown them the door.
I know this; I've tried three or four.
To the facts of the case I'm resigned:
good husbands are so hard to find.
By some flaw in man's basic design
his sense of direction's quite poor
and the truth is just too hard to find.
I should know; I have shown them the door.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Tuesday, 20th April, 2010
Pain is a transformation,
to travel there from here;
in shuffling off our outworn selves
we put aside our fears.
Process is priority;
to be is to become.
Hekate is Priestess;
inspiration, Moon.
to travel there from here;
in shuffling off our outworn selves
we put aside our fears.
Process is priority;
to be is to become.
Hekate is Priestess;
inspiration, Moon.
Monday, 19 April 2010
Monday, 19th April, 2010
This was written for my mother who today celebrated her 81st birthday. For the first time in more than sixty years, my father was not there to share it.
Anniversary of a Loss
Love can't be lost or chased away;
it's magic's not undone;
it cannot shrink, or rust, or fade
but shines as bright as it began;
and, through the years and over miles,
love keeps a constant pace
however far you travel from
the sweetness of that place
when love first smiled
and breathed your name
and you gazed on love's face.
For love is with you constantly;
be still and you will hear
a breath that stirs the silence
saying, Love, your love is near.
Anniversary of a Loss
Love can't be lost or chased away;
it's magic's not undone;
it cannot shrink, or rust, or fade
but shines as bright as it began;
and, through the years and over miles,
love keeps a constant pace
however far you travel from
the sweetness of that place
when love first smiled
and breathed your name
and you gazed on love's face.
For love is with you constantly;
be still and you will hear
a breath that stirs the silence
saying, Love, your love is near.
Sunday, 18 April 2010
Sunday, 18th April, 2010 An Observation
Today is Good Intention;
tomorrow is Best Hope;
yesterday was Error made
for want of faith and scope.
Future is - Horizon -
where an Earth encounters Sky,
perceived from here as Mystery,
unravelled by and by-
tomorrow is Best Hope;
yesterday was Error made
for want of faith and scope.
Future is - Horizon -
where an Earth encounters Sky,
perceived from here as Mystery,
unravelled by and by-
Saturday, 17 April 2010
Saturday, 17th April, 2010 +ve Thinking
+ve Thinking
A thought, if I had one
that wasn't a sad one,
might, indeed, shed some
light in this dark;
though enchantment's undone
and gladness is gone,
conflagrations are born
from mere sparks.
A thought, if I had one
that wasn't a sad one,
might, indeed, shed some
light in this dark;
though enchantment's undone
and gladness is gone,
conflagrations are born
from mere sparks.
Thursday, 15 April 2010
Friday, 16th April, 2010 Bit Parts
She is more, she hopes
than the sum of her parts
but she lacks much faith
in that wholeness.
As a child she was taught -
and was quick to learn -
the importance of
of covering the flaw.
It's a useful strategy,
this 'normalisation'
of that which must
otherwise sicken
though a life-time
churns to sick despair
as her assets dwindle
with the years.
She was not quite taught
but she grew well aware
of the parts that loomed
in importance:
breasts should be full
but pert and firm,
high on the wall
of the chest;
legs, tapered,
hairless, long,
golden or sheathed
in sheer nylon;
eyes, child-like,
adoring, wide,
smouldering
or wild.
Necks, swan-like,
skin, scented;
hair, thick
and glossy;
bottoms, small,
tight and round;
lips, pouting,
moist;
hands, dainty;
bellies, flat;
wrists and ankles,
slender;
noses, freckled,
sun-kissed, cute,
snub or
just upturned.
But tongues are wagging,
probing, sharp,
shrewish and
often unbridled;
wombs, which are
too apt to fall,
have little
lasting use.
Vaginas have more merit
but must be snug;
and labia, neat
and unobtrusive;
ovaries are neither
sexy nor smart,
and the clitoris
just an excuse.
So, though she tries
to integrate herself,
experience mitigates
against it;
life teaches her
to conceal those flaws
in the absence of which
she is unreal.
Her one good eye
may see well enough
the irony of her
predicament;
but her blind eye sees
what she might have been
and turns its dull gaze
to the wall.
than the sum of her parts
but she lacks much faith
in that wholeness.
As a child she was taught -
and was quick to learn -
the importance of
of covering the flaw.
It's a useful strategy,
this 'normalisation'
of that which must
otherwise sicken
though a life-time
churns to sick despair
as her assets dwindle
with the years.
She was not quite taught
but she grew well aware
of the parts that loomed
in importance:
breasts should be full
but pert and firm,
high on the wall
of the chest;
legs, tapered,
hairless, long,
golden or sheathed
in sheer nylon;
eyes, child-like,
adoring, wide,
smouldering
or wild.
Necks, swan-like,
skin, scented;
hair, thick
and glossy;
bottoms, small,
tight and round;
lips, pouting,
moist;
hands, dainty;
bellies, flat;
wrists and ankles,
slender;
noses, freckled,
sun-kissed, cute,
snub or
just upturned.
But tongues are wagging,
probing, sharp,
shrewish and
often unbridled;
wombs, which are
too apt to fall,
have little
lasting use.
Vaginas have more merit
but must be snug;
and labia, neat
and unobtrusive;
ovaries are neither
sexy nor smart,
and the clitoris
just an excuse.
So, though she tries
to integrate herself,
experience mitigates
against it;
life teaches her
to conceal those flaws
in the absence of which
she is unreal.
Her one good eye
may see well enough
the irony of her
predicament;
but her blind eye sees
what she might have been
and turns its dull gaze
to the wall.
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
Thursday, 15th April, 2010 For Estefania Maria Garcia Poole
For Estefania Maria Garcia Poole
Audacious me, to catch at stars
who always crawled upon the ground.
I never was so bold before
to dare where glory's found.
But there was such a light I had
as burned to show my way;
from her I learned to sparkle;
now I leap at galaxies.
Audacious me, to catch at stars
who always crawled upon the ground.
I never was so bold before
to dare where glory's found.
But there was such a light I had
as burned to show my way;
from her I learned to sparkle;
now I leap at galaxies.
Wednesday, 14th April, 2010 The Bell
The Bell
A bell hangs in a silence
till a celebration's due;
or else some soul must travel
where, in solemn retinue,
process all those who learned
to care but now must softly weep
to think how brief a time may pass
between a waking and a sleep.
Where faith is follows comfort;
but, in truth, there's also fear.
The bellman speaks that we may find
some purpose in despair.
Rehearsal of mortality
may prompt a soul to recollect
its origin in mystery -
and destiny elect.
A bell hangs in a silence
till a celebration's due;
or else some soul must travel
where, in solemn retinue,
process all those who learned
to care but now must softly weep
to think how brief a time may pass
between a waking and a sleep.
Where faith is follows comfort;
but, in truth, there's also fear.
The bellman speaks that we may find
some purpose in despair.
Rehearsal of mortality
may prompt a soul to recollect
its origin in mystery -
and destiny elect.
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Tuesday, 13th April, 2010 Smoke
Smoke
Never mistake this
this stillness for peace;
don't tell me I must
'take things easy';
spare me, too, your crass
remarks on the sweet
satisfactions of old age.
There are
none of these;
nothing compensates us
for the loss of all
we have tasted;
nor do we wait
for death's cool touch
serene, clear-eyed,
composed.
There are no pleasures
to match those past;
now we look for them
only in memory;
we do not measure
out 'simple joys'
as our season limps
to a close;
rather, there is fire;
it leaps in our hearts
and we curse
the bare bones
that are wasted;
we rage and rail
as slow disease
impedes us,
renders us frail.
We are no more 'at peace'
than we were
in our prime;
forever on fire,
we are tempered.
We die as we live,
in the furnace
of our hearts.
All life is our fuel
so we burn.
Never mistake this
this stillness for peace;
don't tell me I must
'take things easy';
spare me, too, your crass
remarks on the sweet
satisfactions of old age.
There are
none of these;
nothing compensates us
for the loss of all
we have tasted;
nor do we wait
for death's cool touch
serene, clear-eyed,
composed.
There are no pleasures
to match those past;
now we look for them
only in memory;
we do not measure
out 'simple joys'
as our season limps
to a close;
rather, there is fire;
it leaps in our hearts
and we curse
the bare bones
that are wasted;
we rage and rail
as slow disease
impedes us,
renders us frail.
We are no more 'at peace'
than we were
in our prime;
forever on fire,
we are tempered.
We die as we live,
in the furnace
of our hearts.
All life is our fuel
so we burn.
Monday, 12 April 2010
Monday, 12th April, 2010 Fishing
Fishing
Say, my pretty ones, my gay little fish,
won't you follow this way;
leap and flash where I dandle my net
at the sun-shallow shelf of the deep?
Here your colours may sing and be safe:
no treachery baits this hook;
no lie waits to flap and gape
in the burning, fathoming air.
If the worm turns, a fish-eye fades,
fastens and fixes to a stare;
and such a net will fester and stink
till it quickens to crawl anew.
My silver sweets, only follow this way
and turn your sad faces to the sun.
My jewelled darlings, my pretty fish,
what awaits you in the down-dark deep?
Say, my pretty ones, my gay little fish,
won't you follow this way;
leap and flash where I dandle my net
at the sun-shallow shelf of the deep?
Here your colours may sing and be safe:
no treachery baits this hook;
no lie waits to flap and gape
in the burning, fathoming air.
If the worm turns, a fish-eye fades,
fastens and fixes to a stare;
and such a net will fester and stink
till it quickens to crawl anew.
My silver sweets, only follow this way
and turn your sad faces to the sun.
My jewelled darlings, my pretty fish,
what awaits you in the down-dark deep?
Monday, 12th April, 2010 Self-Help
Self-Help
I'd alter all or nothing. What's amiss
cannot be healed by changing that or this.
Though I'm deep-flawed and faulted to the core,
yet I am whole - and neither less, nor more.
I'd alter all or nothing. What's amiss
cannot be healed by changing that or this.
Though I'm deep-flawed and faulted to the core,
yet I am whole - and neither less, nor more.
Sunday, 11 April 2010
Sunday, 11th April, 2010 Greeting
Greeting
All the earth is golden
as winter takes a bow;
broom puts on her yellow frock
and primrose makes a show.
Robin casts an eye about,
anticipating worms;
bees stir from their slumber;
Persephone returns.
All the earth is golden
as winter takes a bow;
broom puts on her yellow frock
and primrose makes a show.
Robin casts an eye about,
anticipating worms;
bees stir from their slumber;
Persephone returns.
Saturday, 10 April 2010
Saturday, 10th April, 2010 Time
Time
She said, 'It's always later than you think.'
Despite her smile, her eyes were full of fear.
'They're calling time; let's have another drink.'
She told me fate had brought her to the brink,
left all her hopes undone, her path unclear.
She said, 'It takes more balls than you might think.'
At midnight, she would still be in the pink.
'Last orders' were two words she'd seldom hear.
'Come on,' she'd laugh, 'I need another drink.'
She was sharp and sassy, quicker than a wink;
though I loved her, she was there and never here.
Once she said, 'You're so much duller than you think.'
She behaved as if her armour had no chink;
still, the mask she wore was just a slick veneer.
'Life's a bitch - so please shut up and have a drink.'
Then her laughter and her spirit seemed to shrink;
I would plead and she would snarl, 'Don't interfere.'
In the end, I couldn't cry, I couldn't think;
so I left her - in a bar with one last drink.
She said, 'It's always later than you think.'
Despite her smile, her eyes were full of fear.
'They're calling time; let's have another drink.'
She told me fate had brought her to the brink,
left all her hopes undone, her path unclear.
She said, 'It takes more balls than you might think.'
At midnight, she would still be in the pink.
'Last orders' were two words she'd seldom hear.
'Come on,' she'd laugh, 'I need another drink.'
She was sharp and sassy, quicker than a wink;
though I loved her, she was there and never here.
Once she said, 'You're so much duller than you think.'
She behaved as if her armour had no chink;
still, the mask she wore was just a slick veneer.
'Life's a bitch - so please shut up and have a drink.'
Then her laughter and her spirit seemed to shrink;
I would plead and she would snarl, 'Don't interfere.'
In the end, I couldn't cry, I couldn't think;
so I left her - in a bar with one last drink.
Friday, 9 April 2010
Friday, 9th April, 2010 Tock
Tock
Time tonight is a blank face
where the fingers are
ripped away
but still and always
its tock ticks,
pointless,
relentless,
absurd.
There is no mechanism now
to measure these silences
or the spaces
that fall between them,
no neat graduations
to show how life
lapses by minutes
and degrees.
When a chime
strikes the ear
its long note
whirs and winds
at random,
divides silence
to make then
and now
but leaves
no mark
or sign.
Time tonight is a blank face
where the fingers are
ripped away
but still and always
its tock ticks,
pointless,
relentless,
absurd.
There is no mechanism now
to measure these silences
or the spaces
that fall between them,
no neat graduations
to show how life
lapses by minutes
and degrees.
When a chime
strikes the ear
its long note
whirs and winds
at random,
divides silence
to make then
and now
but leaves
no mark
or sign.
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Thursday, 8th April on Spells and Spelling & Of Birds and Bees
On Spells and Spelling
In words resides a subtle power
to conjure spirits with.
A chant invokes a daimon;
a prayer stirs up a god.
The pen is but the priestess
who attends that sacred tree;
inscription speaks its oracle
from shrouds of mystery.
Of Birds and Bees
A meadow is a-buzz with bees,
and butterflies, and worms;
but robin, wiser, waits and sees
that worms are slow to turn.
.
In words resides a subtle power
to conjure spirits with.
A chant invokes a daimon;
a prayer stirs up a god.
The pen is but the priestess
who attends that sacred tree;
inscription speaks its oracle
from shrouds of mystery.
Of Birds and Bees
A meadow is a-buzz with bees,
and butterflies, and worms;
but robin, wiser, waits and sees
that worms are slow to turn.
.
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
Wednesday, 7th April, 2010 Prayer
Made it with a whole six minutes to spare. :0)
I speak a prayer and hear a hush;
but, though I stand quite still,
a silence in an emptiness
is all the grace that hush reveals.
My feeble faith can only wait
through nights of bleak despair;
how cruel to stand at heaven's gate
if no-one's home to care.
Time passes. Now my temper's tried:
St Peter's out of town,
the angels all much occupied,
and Jesus can't be found.
No option then, no other course -
the situation's grave -
despair has but this last resource -
that she herself her self might save.
Assembled: courage, dignity,
and remnant scraps of hope;
a friend adds expectation; she
exhorts to greater, brighter scope.
Then days limp by: at painful cost
I push my frail intent
to grasp how so much hurtling loss
aspires to high ascent.
Until, at length, breaks that new day
when skies are still and clear.
In that sweet hush, knows straightway
that peace that comes with prayer.
I speak a prayer and hear a hush;
but, though I stand quite still,
a silence in an emptiness
is all the grace that hush reveals.
My feeble faith can only wait
through nights of bleak despair;
how cruel to stand at heaven's gate
if no-one's home to care.
Time passes. Now my temper's tried:
St Peter's out of town,
the angels all much occupied,
and Jesus can't be found.
No option then, no other course -
the situation's grave -
despair has but this last resource -
that she herself her self might save.
Assembled: courage, dignity,
and remnant scraps of hope;
a friend adds expectation; she
exhorts to greater, brighter scope.
Then days limp by: at painful cost
I push my frail intent
to grasp how so much hurtling loss
aspires to high ascent.
Until, at length, breaks that new day
when skies are still and clear.
In that sweet hush, knows straightway
that peace that comes with prayer.
Monday, 5 April 2010
Tuesday, 6th April The Crone's Lament
The Crone's Lament
Prophecy is a baleful curse.
What is the wisdom of tomorrow?
Already, a fat, hot pig in a poke,
a cow slung astride the moon;
in the nursery tears and grim despair
for the dish and the spoon are long parted;
the owl lost his life to save the cat
that anyway sank like a stone.
The dame has skinned and butchered the babes
she dandled, crooned and cradled;
in the great black pot she brews the bones
that whistle and simmer and hiss.
Here's a good rich stock for tomorrow's stew -
and Polly has promised us dumplings;
then the devil comes to dip his spoon
where the sweet fat pools and gleams.
Prophecy is a baleful curse.
What is the wisdom of tomorrow?
Already, a fat, hot pig in a poke,
a cow slung astride the moon;
in the nursery tears and grim despair
for the dish and the spoon are long parted;
the owl lost his life to save the cat
that anyway sank like a stone.
The dame has skinned and butchered the babes
she dandled, crooned and cradled;
in the great black pot she brews the bones
that whistle and simmer and hiss.
Here's a good rich stock for tomorrow's stew -
and Polly has promised us dumplings;
then the devil comes to dip his spoon
where the sweet fat pools and gleams.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
Monday, 5th April, 2010 Exercise
This was written in repsonse to an exercise. The task was to write - as quickly as possible - a poem using the format 'I used to ______ but now I _________. Mine came in at twelve minutes - though I have no idea whether that is good or bad.
I used to float but now I sink.
I used to hurt but now I drink.
I used to walk but now I fly.
I used to succeed but now I try.
I used to hope but now I dream.
I used to whisper but now I scream.
I used to remember but now I've forgot.
I used to be - but now I'm not.
I used to float but now I sink.
I used to hurt but now I drink.
I used to walk but now I fly.
I used to succeed but now I try.
I used to hope but now I dream.
I used to whisper but now I scream.
I used to remember but now I've forgot.
I used to be - but now I'm not.
Monday, 5th April, 2010 Heart's Grail
I need to get ahead. I have TMA06 to finish, not to mention the piffling matter of an ECA.
Heart's Grail
I begged a Robin yesterday
if he had seen a Rose.
He cocked his head
and wryly said
that I should not suppose
a feathered creature
such as he must know
where Beauty grows.
Today, I stopped a Bumble Bee
for surely he would see,
from buzzing back
and forth all day,
where rose-buds grace a tree.
But Bumble Bee
just looked aslant
and would not tell me why.
He only said
he'd search the Earth
if I would the Sky.
Heart's Grail
I begged a Robin yesterday
if he had seen a Rose.
He cocked his head
and wryly said
that I should not suppose
a feathered creature
such as he must know
where Beauty grows.
Today, I stopped a Bumble Bee
for surely he would see,
from buzzing back
and forth all day,
where rose-buds grace a tree.
But Bumble Bee
just looked aslant
and would not tell me why.
He only said
he'd search the Earth
if I would the Sky.
Sunday, 4th April, 2010 Head Count
And now for something completely different...
Head Count
Despair lays out her sorrows
like a miser in the dark
who calculates trhe currency
that weighs upon her heart.
A bankrupt in her blessings,
she takes stock of grief and pain.
All these are assets mined at cost
but kept for little gain.
Head Count
Despair lays out her sorrows
like a miser in the dark
who calculates trhe currency
that weighs upon her heart.
A bankrupt in her blessings,
she takes stock of grief and pain.
All these are assets mined at cost
but kept for little gain.
Saturday, 3 April 2010
Saturday, 3rd April Act of Remembrance
Day three - only twenty-seven to go. This is based on a news item I saw yesterday,
Act of Remembrance
It's a dull, wet day, not driving rain
but the kind that comes sideways
in the wind, soaking her hair, her coat
her skirt, her new pig-skin boots.
The camera-man scans the brooding sky
to catch a crack in the clouds;
the sound engineer sips scalding tea;
the mason lies out his tools.
She watches and waits. She has no choice.
This is something she knows how to do:
the long wait for letters, calls,
for the briefest, gladdest news.
She waited again when the last news came
for the solemn drone of the plane.
Cameras will role as they carve his name;
in the wind and the rain, she waits.
Act of Remembrance
It's a dull, wet day, not driving rain
but the kind that comes sideways
in the wind, soaking her hair, her coat
her skirt, her new pig-skin boots.
The camera-man scans the brooding sky
to catch a crack in the clouds;
the sound engineer sips scalding tea;
the mason lies out his tools.
She watches and waits. She has no choice.
This is something she knows how to do:
the long wait for letters, calls,
for the briefest, gladdest news.
She waited again when the last news came
for the solemn drone of the plane.
Cameras will role as they carve his name;
in the wind and the rain, she waits.
Friday, 2 April 2010
Friday, 2nd April, 2010 Ends and Means
Ends and Means
A tower that's tumbled to the floor,
a painted horse un-rocked,
sizzle and spit of an unwatched fire,
an ormolu clock, long-stopped;
houselights as the credits roll,
the final brick in the wall,
the brushing away
of a handful of crumbs
that follows a farewell meal;
a whistle that blows
to close the game,
a flower that nods and falls;
the bottom line
and total sum,
to the winner
the loser's spoils;
the rising whine
of the sweet all-clear,
the encore and the bow,
a canvas signed,
a hope resigned
in the heart
of the here and now;
the balloon that pops,
the bomb that drops,
a trust that's shared
then broke;
a bubble burst,
a heart long cursed -
a hearse that concludes
the joke.
A tower that's tumbled to the floor,
a painted horse un-rocked,
sizzle and spit of an unwatched fire,
an ormolu clock, long-stopped;
houselights as the credits roll,
the final brick in the wall,
the brushing away
of a handful of crumbs
that follows a farewell meal;
a whistle that blows
to close the game,
a flower that nods and falls;
the bottom line
and total sum,
to the winner
the loser's spoils;
the rising whine
of the sweet all-clear,
the encore and the bow,
a canvas signed,
a hope resigned
in the heart
of the here and now;
the balloon that pops,
the bomb that drops,
a trust that's shared
then broke;
a bubble burst,
a heart long cursed -
a hearse that concludes
the joke.
Thursday, 1 April 2010
Thursday 1st April, 2010: A Scar on the Landscape
One down - and twenty-nine to go. I have a feeling this is going to be tough...
A Scar on the Landscape
If I am your claim,
then let it be known
that all my wealth is robbed:
my diamond pain
that gleams and cuts,
my lustrous opal tears;
my heart's remains -
pearls of grief
and rubies like
brilliant clots -
even these
are plundered away
from the grasp
of my granite seams.
If I am your claim,
then let it be known
that my veins
are stripped
of their jewels;
my nuggets of hope
are ground to dust,
my sapphire sighs long past.
My emeralds all
have been cast away
and the last of my silver spent.
If I am your claim,
then close me up;
let new grass grow
and heal.
A Scar on the Landscape
If I am your claim,
then let it be known
that all my wealth is robbed:
my diamond pain
that gleams and cuts,
my lustrous opal tears;
my heart's remains -
pearls of grief
and rubies like
brilliant clots -
even these
are plundered away
from the grasp
of my granite seams.
If I am your claim,
then let it be known
that my veins
are stripped
of their jewels;
my nuggets of hope
are ground to dust,
my sapphire sighs long past.
My emeralds all
have been cast away
and the last of my silver spent.
If I am your claim,
then close me up;
let new grass grow
and heal.
Thursday 1st April, 2010
This is the first entry in a new blog page, one that I have set up in order to participate in the Open University's NaPoWriMo 2010. The commitment here is to write a poem every day throughout the month of April. Now, I am quite sure that a great deal of what I write here is likely to be of little literary value; however, my hope is that the discipline involved in producing a poem a day will throw up some interesting material for future work. Well, that's the theory; whether or not it works in practice remains to be seen. So, on with the show...
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