Category: poetry

A fever and intensity of will

After many hours of patient  thought
An image  of bright power  came to my mind
Enabled by  techniques  my study bought
Without such language, anyone is blind.

A fever and intensity  of will
Made my brain catch fire and flash, ignite.
And yet the image glowing was quite still
As if to demonstrate perpetual light.

As I lay in bed the vision came
Unprovoked, not known of, gave me sight
Many years of patient study  gained
The power of signs and symbols, their delight.

The vision came inspired by will and art
To motivate  me for the travails of the heart

Political poems

P1000268

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/69857/political-poems

Extract:

Plato wanted to banish poets from his Republic because they can make lies seem like truth. Shelley thought poets were “the unacknowledged legislators of the world,” and Auden insisted that “poetry makes nothing happen.” This collection of poems point to the many different kinds of political poems, and the reasons for writing them.

 

Ushering In: U.S. Inaugural Poems
JFK requested Frost, Clinton invited Angelou and Miller, and Obama asked Alexander: read the four poems that have been read at presidential inaugurations.

“Praise Song for the Day” by Elizabeth Alexander

I know there’s something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

from “On the Pulse of Morning” by Maya Angelou

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,

“The Gift Outright” by Robert Frost

Something we were withholding made us weak
Until we found out that it was ourselves

“Of History and Hope” by Miller Williams

But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how
except in the minds of those who will call it Now?

 

In the Science Museum, the mirror cracked

Watching Plato shining torches into blackness,
Wandering through the galleries,
Sepia paintings of pines,
Pain came to the emptiness once my heart,
I sat picturing screaming Popes and babies.
Eastward, looking for fresh instruction,
My mind unpleated, like a pair of curtains
~Hung out to dry in equinoxal gales.
The bells of Satan’s cell phone
Rang again, startling in this silence.
“You had your smear done yet?”
“It’s me, hinny”
“I’m having coffee here in “Costa’s.”
Then I awoke, a man appeared.
How apposite,I need you, Ludwig!
I can’t fly my kite.

In the Science Museum, the mirror cracked
And from it stars flew out,
Adorning cars and bicycles and buses.
The building gently fell into its own reflection.
People flew out like gasping rockets,
Illuminating the blankness,
Calling “Is today the day?.”

Who decodes the angels’ wings, now crushed?

If you’d like to write a villanelle
Try simple rhyming verse to start you off
You need two lines that rhyme and scan as well.

I like Dylan Thomas Celtic’  soul
Do not go gentle, go out very rough
If you’d like to write a villanelle

What’s the topic, whose the need to tell?
Penetrating words like bullets rush
You need good lines that rhyme and scan as well.

In your writing, do the words compel?
You need to read, then haunt a  burning  bush
If you’d like to write a villanelle

Reading feeds you words that shape and mould
While songs  fine music  time will never crush
You need good lines that rhyme and scan as well.

Who can see the fire in god’s  real love?
Who decode the angels’ wings, now crushed.
If you’d like to write a villanelle
You need two lines that rhyme and scan as well.

Elusive inner presence, other me 2

Elusive inner presence, other me,
Those bubbles on the water surface tell
Of life we cannot  speak about  nor see

We have many layers, currents pulled
Dynamic, swaying, living, dark unquelled.
Elusive inner presence, other me.

The philosophers like Langer will agree
A symbol is as deep as any well.
With life we barely  speak about  or see

A mermaid’s tail may flicker from the sea
The  rhythm of waves our senses well compelled
Elusive inner presence, other me.

 

Humanity is like  a living tree
If one leaf falls there is no plangent bell
For what  we cannot  speak about  nor see

A coat embroidered three dimensionally
Will seize our eye and heart and soul as well
Elusive inner presence, other me.

The inner one  must live in privacy,
Betrayed by none in marvelled secrecy.
Elusive inner presence, other me,
A life we  barely speak about  or see

 

 

I had the perfect avocado pear

I had the perfect avocado pear
My loved  one used to love them more than I
In olive oil, but otherwise quite bare.

I hate dead fish; their eyes so coldly stare
My loved one always had an eager eye
I had the perfect avocado pear.

I won’t eat fish not even for a dare.
I like a salad, which benignly lies
In olive oil, but otherwise quite bare.

My husband took me  some place Super Mare
The ice cream booth was home to MI 5
I ate that perfect avocado pear.

I don’t know  just what a  woman spy can  wear
A bathing suit might be a risk too far
Bathed in olive oil, but almost bare.

I wish I were mature while still alive
Like Stilton cheese or port beatified
I had the perfect avocado pear
In olive oil, but otherwise quite bare.

 

 

Which of us desires to dress for war?

My polyester trench coat  looks real swell
But inside it, I feel as hot as hell.
And when the storm hit, I found out
It is no raincoat, I have no more doubts.

Which of us desires to dress for war
This is what the trench coat was made for.
British soldiers  on the battlefields
Died in mud locked trenches for what yield?

Do we want to know the Middle East
Was divided by the conquerors at their feast
France and Britain split the old Empire
We see from that the rise of Herr Hitler.

The war to end all wars is on stage yet.
Go hang these trench coats  round the scapegoat’s neck

Moral lacks

Now Camden Town is emptying 5  more tower blocks
Exactly what did the government cut back?
Austerity led  them onto  evil tracks

We ought to put our “leaders” on the rack
Yet they are well defended from all flak
Now Camden Town is emptying 5 more tower blocks

If we look around, our politicians  flock
Round a ” leader ” who would turn the sunshine black
Austerity led  us onto  dangerous tracks

 

The farmers say the fruit cannot be picked
The “migrant” labourers  will not now come back
And Camden Town is emptying 5  more tower blocks

The children here must feel very perplexed
As adults   run like lemmings on hot bricks
The tracks led to short voyage and shipwreck

I wonder what Ms May does when she’s vexed
Her face will split apart and her wits crack
Now Camden Town is emptying 5  more tower blocks
Austerity ,forced on us, was  moral lack

Acupuncture

The lithium battery shone in innocence.
I nearly hit it with the hammer  in dismay
I’d put it in the wrong way up, I was too tense.
To get it out was nothing like child’s play.

Why are those instruction books so wee?
I looked on youtube, at a simpler one
I nearly stuck the knife into my knee
A kind of acupuncture overdone

Yes, wee is what we Irish say for small
I’m not English since  they voted  to withdraw
I could be Danish, Swedish, Dutch or naught at all.
Since the  Tories smashed the common law.

As  I wept while mending the doorbell
A man called out, you’re clever, I can tell!

In the bitter, dark blue morning hours

Jesus’ body burned in Grenfell Tower
And many others died along with him
In the bitter, dark blue morning hours

The Government and Council, how they cowered
The volunteers made beds up in a gym
Still Jesus’ body burned in Grenfell Tower

With love and kindness, common people  flowered
While  ministers were  too afraid  to come
In the bitter, dark blue morning hours

The  half elected leader with  shame showered
Saw   the drama,  then withdrew shrunken
While Jesus’  hung and burned in Grenfell Tower

Now will  lambs rise,well will  lions roar
As we see our ruined kingdom done
In the bitter, dark blue morning hours,

Human rights to tragedy fearsome
Will show the world what horror we’ve become
Jesus  died with those in Grenfell Tower
In that bitter, dark blue morning hour

 

If I did not write

If I did not write  I could clean house
Wash the curtains, hang them on the line
Polish my small table and my mouse
Make  a chocolate cat and drink more wine

If I did not write I could go shop
Buy elegance and  amber  with old pearls
Go to  a hairdresser, buy a frock
Write a poem in a cursive swirl

If I did not write then I might read
George Herbert and  the  metaphysicals again
The Guardian Review and that would lead
To  rambling perplexed down a dale in rain

Yes, writing  gives me happiness most times
Despite the loss of metre and slant  rhymes

I miss you, love, so slow the seconds wind.

It seemed to me  my vision and  my mind
A template to project into the world
Brought you into being by my side.

I miss you, love, so slow the seconds wind.
I crept into the space between the words
I  made you in  my vision and  my mind

Is there only chaos, no design?
Are we dust around the spaces whirled?
I bring you into being by these lines

I smell your skin and see your eyes alive
I move my head but you have disappeared
It seems  both from my vision and  my mind

Why did all the pit props fall down blind?
I crept under  black  coal, with darkness smeared
A  person alien to humankind

Where is my death, when it’s no longer feared?
Where is my love when no-one else is here.
I imagined  you in  vision and in mind
I  pulled you into being, now you’ve died

 

 

 

You  porcupine, he shouted out, I prefer a seal

My lover went to Lapland as he found  me rather warm
You  porcupine, he shouted out, I prefer a seal
Are you sure.I questioned him, for I did not wish him harm
I have to get away from you, I  prefer my conger eel.

He set off in his motor car, the ferry was quite late
He  was a little angry then but soon he became calm
He got talking to a mermaid and  now she is his mate
She lives deep in the icy sea and he loves her frigid arms

I don’t know how you would feel, if after twenty years
Of being called a porcupine, when swaddled iin his arms
Your lover went  to the North Pole, and left you only tears
At least I can enjoy my bed without  his wild alarms

The melody is not the words but how they are combined
I  have lost all faith in men , unless their names form rhymes
I  know we have got clocks today but meter bends the time.
As dancing bends the space around the movers  rapt, sublime

 

Outside the Lamb and Flag

Flung into the heights by a fast car
I had a feeling time had gone  too slow
I  fluttered like an unsmoked black cigar
No fear nor anguish  gave me any blow

As I flew I looked down at the earth
I saw a screen where Einstein turned the wheel
The world’s a film and this is a new birth
There are dimensions peril makes us feel

Them I turned geometric in my flight
I reached the apex, fell to earth like stone
A flash of golden stars entered my sight
I lay upon St Giles; it thrashed my bones.

What we see is not all that is here.
Where’s the Lamb who runs the pub revered?

 

 

To love well  is an art we can enact

To love well is an art and is an act
Yet we must bear in mind this valued truth
We need a little space in love for hate

We also will not leave outside our tact
Indeed, of love,  that is the final proof
To love well is an art and is an act

A love match is not where we check our mate
Nor do we leave the imprint of a hoof
We need a little space in love for hate

A fight, a quarrel, disagreement, fate
At times we both appear  to be uncouth
To love well is an art we learn to act

When frenzy fades and wonder’s a  mere hint
We long  for that once honeyed sweet ,sweet mouth
We need a little space in love for hate

To love forever we must take an oath
That we will not, of our power, go boast
To love well  is an art we can  enact
Oh, leave a  home there for our wild, wild hate

 

Intent with purpose,scarcely is life real

Intent with purpose,  we  don’t see life whole
We see the figure but ignore its ground
We have one thought, to reach our  chosen goal

This way of life destroys  our life and soul
So shadows, shades penumbra lie unfound
Intent with purpose,  we don’t see life whole.

Outside our  mind,  our thoughts like brothers brawl
Leading  to conclusions  quite unsound
We  only wish to reach our  chosen goal

Yet beauty, love and wisdom come to call
We ignore  the universe unbound
Intent with purpose,  we don’t see life whole.

Moreover, sudden danger may befall.
We need the owl’s view, broad and narrowed down
We   wish  for nothing but our  chosen goal

The hawk too sees both focussed and in whole
To be  far too intense makes us a clown
Intent with purpose,  we see not those who maul

 

We see not the bridegroom as we drown
In disconnected fragments lose our crowns
Intent with purpose,   scarcely is life real
We have our thoughts; we’ll die  rather than feel

Why is modern poetry so bad?

Scillies-StMartin's.jpg

 

https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/arts-and-entertainment/wp/2013/06/20/why-is-modern-poetry-so-bad/?utm_term=.58189c0d2410

 

“Our poets today are too timid to say, “‘we,’ to go plural and try to strike a major note . . .  on any fundamental truth of human experience.” Unimpressed by or unaware of any poets who might contradict his blanket condemnations, he claims that in the face of war, environmental destruction and economic collapse, “they write as though the great public crises were over and the most pressing business we had were self-cultivation and the fending off of boredom.” All that matters to these narcissistic singers is the creation of a “unique voice.”

Wouldn’t you know it: The old hobgoblins are to blame for this failure. MFA programs force brave young students to stoop and shuffle to please their worn out masters. “You must play the game that is there to be played,” Edmundson writes. To get the fellowship, the first book, the teaching job, the new poet “had best play it safe, offend none.”

And then, naturally, there’s the toxic effect of literary theorists working right “down the hall from the poets.” With their insistence on the impermeable barriers of race, gender and class, these liberal post-modernists keep anyone from saying anything about anything but his own private world. “How dare a white male poet speak for anyone but himself. . . . How can he raise his voice above a self-subverting whisper?””

London 1802 by Wm Wordsworth

Two

  • This is an apostrophe poem as it addresses Milton

Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour;
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life’s common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

With my body, I thee worshipped well,

The extraction of  love’s deepest  roots  was free
Anaesthetised  and numbed, I did not  guess
On wakening, I feel loss bitterly

In the mirror, nothing I can see.
But in your note, you surely would confess
The extraction of love’s deepest roots , be free!

Shall I compare this to the winter’s fee?
Where ghouls and spirits seek for their redress
On wakening, I feel loss bitterly

There was a holy spirit, you and me
The inter self is ripped and I am less
The extraction of  love’s deepest  roots  was free

The trinity of love  made its own plea
But only  the  unknown  and darkness  tells
On wakening, I feel loss bitterly

 

With my body, I thee worshipped well,
From my skin to every living cell.
The extraction of  love’s deepest  roots  was free
On wakening, I feel loss bitterly

 

The reading of a fundamental scoop?

The heart in grief feels like an abscessed tooth
Too pained to sleep or chatter with the group
We fear a dark acquaintance with the truth

What savage way shall be our burdened proof;
The reading of a fundamental scoop?
The heart in grief throbs like an abscessed tooth

What innocence was left for us to lose?
Our faces pale, see how the eyes still weep!
We fear a deep acquaintance with the truth

And if we meet it, how shall that be used?
From our  hearts where does sorrow creep?
The heart in grief throbs like an abscessed tooth

We need to lie, to live while still confused
The  algebra  of logic’s sieved unsent
We die from  our acquaintance with the truth

Where the mind and soul who has this dreamt?
Where is God, if that sentence makes sense?
The heart in grief feels like an abscessed tooth
Yet we are on poor terms with the cost

G-d himself was shattered, without skin

And did you see the sparks of light within
The hidden wood where watches the bright dove
The darkness which to human soul’s akin

God himself was shattered, without skin
Each part a  broken light of what was love
But did you see the sparks of light within?

And round the whole world, mystics  then began
To seek the little jewels that once were G-d
The darkness which to human soul’s akin

Each fragment was eternal  in its span
And yet was helpless as on it man trod
Though some might see the sparks of light within

Hidden from the  world of human sin
Afflicted by G-d’s death; now weeps the dove
Why is darkness where we must begin?

Can we bear Reality or Love?
Can we  live, survive the coming flood?
Yet we  see the sparks of light within
The darkness which to human soul’s akin

 

Into this green dream, its world is hauled

From being a cliche, lawn, flowers, boring shrubs
My years of sickness grew the garden wild
Now a meld of birdsong, wind, and wood
I yearn to enter, yes, I am beguiled.

Like an island in the suburb’s sprawl
The penetrating focus of owl’s eye
Into this green dream,  its world is hauled
For survival, wildness has turned spy.

Even if, at  last, survives one  tree
One leaf, one branch, one root, one  seeded pod
There  a nest of singing birds shall be
There shall be a presence of the good.

Until  our world’s destroyed by burning lies,
Poets shall sing and chant until all dies.

A confession to a friend in trouble Thomas Hardy

  • YOUR troubles shrink not, though I feel them less
    Here, far away, than when I tarried near;
    I even smile old smiles–with listlessness–
    Yet smiles they are, not ghastly mockeries mere.

    A thought too strange to house within my brain
    Haunting its outer precincts I discern:
    –That I will not show zeal again to learn
    Your griefs, and, sharing them, renew my pain….

    It goes, like murky bird or buccaneer
    That shapes its lawless figure on the main,
    And each new impulse tends to make outflee
    The unseemly instinct that had lodgment here;
    Yet, comrade old, can bitterer knowledge be
    Than that, though banned, such instinct was in me!

From being wise, a fool I am now grown

Although I cared for my old one alone
It seems now he is gone I need advice
From being wise, a fool I am now grown
So I am given orders; oh, surprise!

Do I sleep or eat or wash my bras
Do I wear clean knickers in the morn?
Intrusive,disrespectful ,tra,la lah!
On these cheeky folks, I pour my scorn

If I turn to gypsy ways of life
A wooden caravan and my own horse
I will be troubled by the heat of strife
I fear I shall become an alien coarse

Where were  they when I travailed alone,
Carrying in my breast a heavy stone?

More subtle is the need to do no harm

What love and friendship can at once entail
Are boundaries elastic and yet firm.
Yet even that is but a mere detail
More subtle is the need to do .no harm

For in the flush of youthful spirits strong
We do not like to know that all love fades
nor when it does a lover may do wrong
So to evil, he may find out he has paid
And with the stone-faced demons, he belongs.

Thus friendship love and joy involve the will
To take the other as she comes to be
For all our goodness there may be a bill
Acknowledge this, it follows truth we’ll see.

Accepting that perfection is remote
We play our tunes and suffer every note

Complaining at the absence of sweet rain

Complaining at the absence of  sweet rain
Complaining  now dull clouds keep out the sun
Who is it that we will seek to blame,
Complaining at the absence of our rain?
Too much  water  flows straight down the drains
The  front flower beds, the  soft green lawns have gone
Complaining at the absence of sweet rain
Complaining now grey clouds keep out the sun.

 

Complaining at the absence of  sweet rain
We park our cars in gardens paved and cold
The  lawns  once soaked now what goes down the drains
The paving stones con’t take the water in.
So we grumble and we constantly proclaim
The government must take some action bold
Complaining at the absence of  sweet rain
We park our cars on gardens paved and cold

 

Complaining at the absence of  sweet rain
We  notice not just what our cars have done
We think of our own wishes in the main
Do not see that nature’s not to blame
The worms and beetles knew they’d not remain;
Made exit in a lengthy night parade.
Complaining at the absence of  sweet rain
We never see the world our cars have made.

Little Tin Key

Photo0674
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/118557
BY LAURA KASISCHKE
Little tin key
lost somewhere in my memory, returned to me in a dream.
Like the blue-burning match blowing over the surface of
some drunk girl’s sweet, flaming party drink. Happy
birthday. Lucky
coin rubbed away to nothing, turned back into invisibility.
Back into its first atomic energy. Both
lost forever now and all around me. I’ve
rendered it, it seems, back into its
first longing — to keep
safe the loved ones on the plane, or on the freeway, or
strapped to the gurney, opened for the surgery, wheeled
into the lobby, being
screened for the journey, or stamped with the date
at the entrance to the pool, the portal, the nightclub, or
any spot where one might pull to the curb, drop
off a soft target, kiss it, make
with it a plan to fetch it later —
unbloodied, still breathing, in no hurry. This
talisman with no magic. I’ve made it for you
out of your own flesh, teeth, hair.

Who will navigate my life, if not myself?

Photo0648 12

Who will navigate my life, if not myself?
Evasion of the truth is best at times
Who will venture to the hidden depths?

In the depths lie darkness and great wealth
We cannot linger long with the divine
Who will navigate my life, if not myself?

Use a ladder with its sturdy steps
Go down slowly  looking not behind
Who will venture to the hidden depths?

Return and take the tiller, safely kept
Look across the ocean fierce, sublime
Who will navigate our lives, if not ourselves?

Sleep when you have fixed the stars bereft
We will get there when we know the lines
Must we venture to the hidden depths?

Trust and strength, humility they test
Only those who trust can truly rest
Who will navigate my life, if not myself?
Who  will love inverted mountain depths?

 

We misuse reason, rationalise and blend

Perception by itself is not enough
A psychopath can use it for bad ends
Truth itself may make a conman laugh

When we’re targets of the cold and tough
We must hide our truths, and lies defend
Perception by itself is not enough

To the naive soul, the world seems rough.
We misuse  reason, rationalise and blend
Truth alone may make a conman laugh.

Be sparing with the private and its glut
Boundaries need armour which won’t bend
Perception by itself is not enough

To live we need our common sense and pluck.
We need  our wisdom, learned as we ascend
Truth alone may make a conman laugh.

So with the weather, we can now contend
Our senses vital show us what portends
Perception by itself is not enough
Truth alone may make a conman rough

 

We tolerate what once we could not bear

The pain of loss grows gentler by the year
Less jagged and destructive to the heart
We  tolerate what once we could not bear

We soothe ourselves by satisfying care
We let the dear one’s image separate.
The pain of loss grows gentler by the year

Sometimes grief feels like a panic fear.
We wonder if we chose the best of charts
We  tolerate what once we could not bear

There are folk of whom we must beware.
Gossips and audacious, head-less tarts
The pain of loss grows gentler by the year

Do not let the wolves boast of their lair
Evade the poisonous and their arrowed darts
We  tolerate what once we could not bear

Without will, the healing process starts
Slowly  pain and anguish will depart
The pain of loss grows gentler by the year
We  tolerate what once we could not bear

Balletic,geometric 2

Dense blossom makes the branches take new shape
They’re  curving down now, wanting to be touched
Balletic, geometric, how they drape

Like pamphleteers, the  shrubs disseminate
Their petals propaganda newly hatched.
Dense blossom makes the branches make new shapes.

The way they alter is a change innate
We see those silent curves within a church
Balletic, geometric, how they drape.

The richness of this vision celebrates
The patterned fruiting trees or silver birch
Dense blossom makes the branches take new shapes.

How vibrantly the colours decorate.
The tears run from my eyes as my heart’s touched.
Balletic, geometric, see them drape.

With excess of love, the human heart may lurch
How is it shapes possess a power so rich?
Dense blossom makes the branches take new shapes
Balletic, geometric, love  escapes