Category: poetry

I thanked him for being so intensely unkind.

I went to the doctor, he said I’d pre-flu.
I said “My dear doctor, what shall I do?”
Next time I went, he said “It’s pre- shock.”
And then I had pre measles,pre mumps and pre-pox
I ran to the doctor,he said ” You’re pre-well”
I said “Are you sure it’s not just a pre-quel?”
Next time I turned up,he’d gone out for a walk
It’s hard for a doctor who wants to pre-talk.
I went to the optician, who said I’m pre-blind
I thanked him for being so intensely unkind.
I went back to the doctor,and these words I said
“I’m pre -blind, pre-deaf,pre-ill and pre-dead!

In proud confusion

When red sun  drops and  cooling night  rolls in
Darkness masks both danger and our vision
Ancient minds fear   day won’t come again

Courage for the  delicate   seems thin
We  wrestle  with  our horrid indecision
When   sun  drops deep and   night   rolls  softly in

But now , new stricken by   a dread of sin
Who shall doubt  the soul’s   derision?
Our  ancient minds fear   day won’t come again

When  we sleep we’re entertained within
Dark dreams squander all   illusion
When  deep sun  drops and   gentle night  rolls in

In reverie we’re loved  and  so our hearts open
Then  fancy turns to full communion
While ancient minds fear   day won’t come again

And so  it was that our own life began
When sperm leaped up in  proud confusion.
When  deep sun  dropped and  a   new night  rolled in
When  ancient  hearts cried  “Day  shall come again”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Smoke all day and make sure that they’re tipped

Movement helps the mind by sorrow  gripped
New thoughts  help us  leap from out  the rut
Exercise  and kiss your  own red  lips

Smoke all day and make sure  your cigs  are tipped
Drink some whiskey,beer and grow  a gut
Movement helps the mind by sorrow  gripped

Beat your walls and bedclothes with a whip
Move out now and buy  a hermit’s hut
Exercise ,why! Kiss  your lover’s lips

Walk ten miles and  write a thousand quips
Decorate your place with  smokey soot
Movement helps the mind by sorrow  gripped

Go to port and snap the line of ships
Keep your chin up,even make it jut!
Movement helps the mind by sorrow  gripped
Exercise   and kiss    a thousand lips!

Horatius at the bridge

Without boasting [!] I  will reveal I got a bag of sweets for writing a  long  compostion on this when ~I was 6 years old and in the Infants’ School

Bliss Carman, et al., eds.  The World’s Best Poetry.
Volume VII. Descriptive: Narrative.  1904.
Narrative Poems: II. Rome
Horatius at the Bridge
Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay (1800–1859)
LARS PORSENA of Clusium,
  By the Nine Gods he swore
That the great house of Tarquin
  Should suffer wrong no more.
By the Nine Gods he swore it,         5
  And named a trysting-day,
And bade his messengers ride forth,
East and west and south and north,
  To summon his array.
East and west and south and north         10
  The messengers ride fast,
And tower and town and cottage
  Have heard the trumpet’s blast.
Shame on the false Etruscan
  Who lingers in his home,         15
When Porsena of Clusium
  Is on the march for Rome!
The horsemen and the footmen
  Are pouring in amain
From many a stately market-place,         20
  From many a fruitful plain,
From many a lonely hamlet,
  Which, hid by beech and pine,
Like an eagle’s nest hangs on the crest
  Of purple Apennine:         25
From lordly Volaterræ,
  Where scowls the far-famed hold
Piled by the hands of giants
  For godlike kings of old;
From sea-girt Populonia,         30
  Whose sentinels descry
Sardinia’s snowy mountain-tops
  Fringing the southern sky;
From the proud mart of Pisæ,
  Queen of the western waves,         35
Where ride Massilia’s triremes,
  Heavy with fair-haired slaves;
From where sweet Clanis wanders
  Through corn and vines and flowers,
From where Cortona lifts to heaven         40
  Her diadem of towers.
Tall are the oaks whose acorns
  Drop in dark Auser’s rill;
Fat are the stags that champ the boughs
  Of the Ciminian hill;         45
Beyond all streams, Clitumnus
  Is to the herdsman dear;
Best of all pools the fowler loves
  The great Volsinian mere.
But now no stroke of woodman         50
  Is heard by Auser’s rill;
No hunter tracks the stag’s green path
  Up the Ciminian hill;
Unwatched along Clitumnus
  Grazes the milk-white steer;         55
Unharmed the water-fowl may dip
  In the Volsinian mere.
The harvests of Arretium,
  This year, old men shall reap;
This year, young boys in Umbro         60
  Shall plunge the struggling sheep;
And in the vats of Luna,
  This year, the must shall foam
Round the white feet of laughing girls
  Whose sires have marched to Rome.         65
There be thirty chosen prophets,
  The wisest of the land,
Who always by Lars Porsena
  Both morn and evening stand.
Evening and morn the Thirty         70
  Have turned the verses o’er,
Traced from the right on linen white
  By mighty seers of yore;
And with one voice the Thirty
  Have their glad answer given:         75
“Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena,—
  Go forth, beloved of Heaven!
Go, and return in glory
  To Clusium’s royal dome,
And hang round Nurscia’s altars         80
  The golden shields of Rome!”
And now hath every city
  Sent up her tale of men;
The foot are fourscore thousand,
  The horse are thousands ten.         85
Before the gates of Sutrium
  Is met the great array;
A proud man was Lars Porsena
  Upon the trysting-day.
For all the Etruscan armies         90
  Were ranged beneath his eye,
And many a banished Roman,
  And many a stout ally;
And with a mighty following,
  To join the muster, came         95
The Tusculan Mamilius,
  Prince of the Latian name.
But by the yellow Tiber
  Was tumult and affright;
From all the spacious champaign         100
  To Rome men took their flight.
A mile around the city
  The throng stopped up the ways;
A fearful sight it was to see
  Through two long nights and days.         105
For aged folk on crutches,
  And women great with child,
And mothers, sobbing over babes
  That clung to them and smiled,
And sick men borne in litters         110
  High on the necks of slaves,
And troops of sunburned husbandmen
  With reaping-hooks and staves,
And droves of mules and asses
  Laden with skins of wine,         115
And endless flocks of goats and sheep,
  And endless herds of kine,
And endless trains of wagons,
  That creaked beneath the weight
Of corn-sacks and of household goods,         120
  Choked every roaring gate.
Now, from the rock Tarpeian,
  Could the wan burghers spy
The line of blazing villages
  Red in the midnight sky.         125
The Fathers of the City,
  They sat all night and day,
For every hour some horseman came
  With tidings of dismay.
To eastward and to westward         130
  Have spread the Tuscan bands,
Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote
  In Crustumerium stands.
Verbenna down to Ostia
  Hath wasted all the plain;         135
Astur hath stormed Janiculum,
  And the stout guards are slain.
I wis, in all the Senate
  There was no heart so bold
But sore it ached, and fast it beat,         140
  When that ill news was told.
Forthwith up rose the Consul,
  Up rose the Fathers all;
In haste they girded up their gowns,
  And hied them to the wall.         145
They held a council, standing
  Before the River-gate;
Short time was there, ye well may guess,
  For musing or debate.
Out spake the Consul roundly:         150
  “The bridge must straight go down;
For, since Janiculum is lost,
  Naught else can save the town.”
Just then a scout came flying,
  All wild with haste and fear:         155
“To arms! to arms! Sir Consul,—
  Lars Porsena is here.”
On the low hills to westward
  The Consul fixed his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm of dust         160
  Rise fast along the sky.
And nearer fast and nearer
  Doth the red whirlwind come;
And louder still, and still more loud,
From underneath that rolling cloud,         165
Is heard the trumpets’ war-note proud,
  The trampling and the hum.
And plainly and more plainly
  Now through the gloom appears,
Far to left and far to right,         170
In broken gleams of dark-blue light,
The long array of helmets bright,
  The long array of spears.
And plainly and more plainly,
  Above that glimmering line,         175
Now might ye see the banners
  Of twelve fair cities shine;
But the banner of proud Clusium
  Was highest of them all,—
The terror of the Umbrian,         180
  The terror of the Gaul.
And plainly and more plainly
  Now might the burghers know,
By port and vest, by horse and crest,
  Each warlike Lucumo:         185
There Cilnius of Arretium
  On his fleet roan was seen;
And Astur of the fourfold shield,
Girt with the brand none else may wield;
Tolumnius with the belt of gold,         190
And dark Verbenna from the hold
  By reedy Thrasymene.
Fast by the royal standard,
  O’erlooking all the war,
Lars Porsena of Clusium         195
  Sat in his ivory car.
By the right wheel rode Mamilius,
  Prince of the Latian name;
And by the left false Sextus,
  That wrought the deed of shame.         200
But when the face of Sextus
  Was seen among the foes,
A yell that rent the firmament
  From all the town arose.
On the house-tops was no woman         205
  But spat towards him and hissed,
No child but screamed out curses,
  And shook its little fist.
But the Consul’s brow was sad,
  And the Consul’s speech was low,         210
And darkly looked he at the wall,
  And darkly at the foe;
“Their van will be upon us
  Before the bridge goes down;
And if they once may win the bridge,         215
  What hope to save the town?”
Then out spake brave Horatius,
  The Captain of the gate:
“To every man upon this earth
  Death cometh soon or late.         220
And how can man die better
  Than facing fearful odds
For the ashes of his fathers
  And the temples of his gods,
“And for the tender mother         225
  Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses
  His baby at her breast,
And for the holy maidens
  Who feed the eternal flame,—         230
To save them from false Sextus
  That wrought the deed of shame?
“Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
  With all the speed ye may;
I, with two more to help me,         235
  Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand
  May well be stopped by three:
Now who will stand on either hand,
  And keep the bridge with me?”         240
Then out spake Spurius Lartius,—
  A Ramnian proud was he:
“Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
  And keep the bridge with thee.”
And out spake strong Herminius,—         245
  Of Titian blood was he:
“I will abide on thy left side,
  And keep the bridge with thee.”
“Horatius,” quoth the Consul,
  “As thou sayest so let it be,”         250
And straight against that great array
  Went forth the dauntless three.
For Romans in Rome’s quarrel
  Spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life,         255
  In the brave days of old.
Then none was for a party—
  Then all were for the state;
Then the great man helped the poor,
  And the poor man loved the great;         260
Then lands were fairly portioned!
  Then spoils were fairly sold:
The Romans were like brothers
  In the brave days of old.
Now Roman is to Roman         265
  More hateful than a foe,
And the tribunes beard the high,
  And the fathers grind the low.
As we wax hot in faction,
  In battle we wax cold;         270
Wherefore men fight not as they fought
  In the brave days of old.
Now while the three were tightening
  Their harness on their backs,
The Consul was the foremost man         275
  To take in hand an axe;
And fathers, mixed with commons,
  Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,
And smote upon the planks above,
  And loosed the props below.         280
Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
  Right glorious to behold,
Came flashing back the noonday light,
Rank behind rank, like surges bright
  Of a broad sea of gold.         285
Four hundred trumpets sounded
  A peal of warlike glee,
As that great host with measured tread,
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,
Rolled slowly toward the bridge’s head,         290
  Where stood the dauntless three.
The three stood calm and silent,
  And looked upon the foes,
And a great shout of laughter
  From all the vanguard rose;         295
And forth three chiefs came spurring
  Before that deep array;
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,
And lifted high their shields, and flew
  To win the narrow way.         300
Aunus, from green Tifernum,
  Lord of the Hill of Vines;
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves
  Sicken in Ilva’s mines;
And Picus, long to Clusium         305
  Vassal in peace and war,
Who led to fight his Umbrian powers
From that gray crag where, girt with towers,
The fortress of Nequinum lowers
  O’er the pale waves of Nar.         310
Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus
  Into the stream beneath;
Herminius struck at Seius,
  And clove him to the teeth;
At Picus brave Horatius         315
  Darted one fiery thrust,
And the proud Umbrian’s gilded arms
  Clashed in the bloody dust.
Then Ocnus of Falerii
  Rushed on the Roman three;         320
And Lausulus of Urgo,
  The rover of the sea;
And Aruns of Volsinium,
  Who slew the great wild boar,—
The great wild boar that had his den         325
Amidst the reeds of Cosa’s fen,
And wasted fields, and slaughtered men,
  Along Albinia’s shore.
Herminius smote down Aruns;
  Lartius laid Ocnus low;         330
Right to the heart of Lausulus
  Horatius sent a blow:
“Lie there,” he cried, “fell pirate!
  No more, aghast and pale,
From Ostia’s walls the crowd shall mark         335
The track of thy destroying bark;
No more Campania’s hinds shall fly
To woods and caverns, when they spy
  Thy thrice-accursèd sail!”
But now no sound of laughter         340
  Was heard among the foes;
A wild and wrathful clamor
  From all the vanguard rose.
Six spears’ length from the entrance,
  Halted that mighty mass,         345
And for a space no man came forth
  To win the narrow pass.
But, hark! the cry is Astur:
  And lo! the ranks divide;
And the great lord of Luna         350
  Comes with his stately stride.
Upon his ample shoulders
  Clangs loud the fourfold shield,
And in his hand he shakes the brand
  Which none but he can wield.         355
He smiled on those bold Romans,
  A smile serene and high;
He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
  And scorn was in his eye.
Quoth he, “The she-wolf’s litter         360
  Stand savagely at bay;
But will ye dare to follow,
  If Astur clears the way?”
Then, whirling up his broadsword
  With both hands to the height,         365
He rushed against Horatius,
  And smote with all his might.
With shield and blade Horatius
  Right deftly turned the blow.
The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;         370
It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh.
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry
  To see the red blood flow.
He reeled, and on Herminius
  He leaned one breathing-space,         375
Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds,
  Sprang right at Astur’s face.
Through teeth and skull and helmet
  So fierce a thrust he sped,
The good sword stood a handbreadth out         380
  Behind the Tuscan’s head.
And the great lord of Luna
  Fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Mount Avernus
  A thunder-smitten oak.         385
Far o’er the crashing forest
  The giant arms lie spread;
And the pale augurs, muttering low
  Gaze on the blasted head.
On Astur’s throat Horatius         390
  Right firmly pressed his heel,
And thrice and four times tugged amain,
  Ere he wrenched out the steel.
And “See,” he cried, “the welcome,
  Fair guests, that waits you here!         395
What noble Lucumo comes next
  To taste our Roman cheer?”
But at his haughty challenge
  A sullen murmur ran,
Mingled with wrath and shame and dread,         400
  Along that glittering van.
There lacked not men of prowess,
  Nor men of lordly race,
For all Etruria’s noblest
  Were round the fatal place.         405
But all Etruria’s noblest
  Felt their hearts sink to see
On the earth the bloody corpses,
  In the path the dauntless three;
And from the ghastly entrance,         410
  Where those bold Romans stood,
All shrank,—like boys who, unaware,
Ranging the woods to start a hare,
Come to the mouth of the dark lair
Where, growling low, a fierce old bear         415
  Lies amidst bones and blood.
Was none who would be foremost
  To lead such dire attack;
But those behind cried “Forward!”
  And those before cried “Back!”         420
And backward now and forward
  Wavers the deep array;
And on the tossing sea of steel
To and fro the standards reel,
And the victorious trumpet-peal         425
  Dies fitfully away.
Yet one man for one moment
  Strode out before the crowd;
Well known was he to all the three,
  And they gave him greeting loud:         430
“Now welcome, welcome, Sextus!
  Now welcome to thy home!
Why dost thou stay, and turn away?
  Here lies the road to Rome.”
Thrice looked he at the city;         435
  Thrice looked he at the dead:
And thrice came on in fury,
  And thrice turned back in dread;
And, white with fear and hatred,
  Scowled at the narrow way         440
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood,
  The bravest Tuscans lay.
But meanwhile axe and lever
  Have manfully been plied:
And now the bridge hangs tottering         445
  Above the boiling tide.
“Come back, come back, Horatius!”
  Loud cried the Fathers all,—
“Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!
  Back, ere the ruin fall!”         450
Back darted Spurius Lartius,—
  Herminius darted back;
And, as they passed, beneath their feet
  They felt the timbers crack.
But when they turned their faces,         455
  And on the farther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone,
  They would have crossed once more;
But with a crash like thunder
  Fell every loosened beam,         460
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck
  Lay right athwart the stream;
And a long shout of triumph
  Rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret-tops         465
  Was splashed the yellow foam.
And like a horse unbroken,
  When first he feels the rein,
The furious river struggled hard,
  And tossed his tawny mane,         470
And burst the curb, and bounded,
  Rejoicing to be free;
And whirling down, in fierce career,
Battlement and plank and pier,
  Rushed headlong to the sea.         475
Alone stood brave Horatius,
  But constant still in mind,—
Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
  And the broad flood behind.
“Down with him!” cried false Sextus,         480
  With a smile on his pale face;
“Now yield thee,” cried Lars Porsena,
  “Now yield thee to our grace!”
Round turned he, as not deigning
  Those craven ranks to see;         485
Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,
  To Sextus naught spake he;
But he saw on Palatinus
  The white porch of his home;
And he spake to the noble river         490
  That rolls by the towers of Rome:
“O Tiber! Father Tiber!
  To whom the Romans pray,
A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms,
  Take thou in charge this day!”         495
So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed
  The good sword by his side,
And, with his harness on his back,
  Plunged headlong in the tide.
No sound of joy or sorrow         500
  Was heard from either bank,
But friends and foes in dumb surprise,
With parted lips and straining eyes,
  Stood gazing where he sank;
And when above the surges         505
  They saw his crest appear,
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,
And even the ranks of Tuscany
  Could scarce forbear to cheer.
But fiercely ran the current,         510
  Swollen high by months of rain;
And fast his blood was flowing,
  And he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armor,
  And spent with changing blows;         515
And oft they thought him sinking,
  But still again he rose.
Never, I ween, did swimmer.
  In such an evil case,
Struggle through such a raging flood         520
  Safe to the landing-place;
But his limbs were borne up bravely
  By the brave heart within,
And our good Father Tiber
  Bare bravely up his chin.         525
“Curse on him!” quoth false Sextus,—
  “Will not the villain drown?
But for this stay, ere close of day
  We should have sacked the town!”
“Heaven help him!” quoth Lars Porsena,         530
  “And bring him safe to shore;
For such a gallant feat of arms
  Was never seen before.”
And now he feels the bottom;
  Now on dry earth he stands;         535
Now round him throng the Fathers
  To press his gory hands;
And now, with shouts and clapping,
  And noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the River-gate,         540
  Borne by the joyous crowd.
They gave him of the corn-land,
  That was of public right,
As much as two strong oxen
  Could plough from morn till night;         545
And they made a molten image,
  And set it up on high,—
And there it stands unto this day
  To witness if I lie.
It stands in the Comitium,         550
  Plain for all folk to see,—
Horatius in his harness,
  Halting upon one knee;
And underneath is written,
  In letters all of gold,         555
How valiantly he kept the bridge
  In the brave days of old.
And still his name sounds stirring
  Unto the men of Rome,
As the trumpet-blast that cries to them         560
  To charge the Volscian home;
And wives still pray to Juno
  For boys with hearts as bold
As his who kept the bridge so well
  In the brave days of old.         565
And in the nights of winter,
  When the cold north-winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves
  Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage         570
  Roars loud the tempest’s din,
And the good logs of Algidus
  Roar louder yet within;
When the oldest cask is opened,
  And the largest lamp is lit;         575
When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
  And the kid turns on the spit;
When young and old in circle
  Around the firebrands close;
When the girls are weaving baskets,         580
  And the lads are shaping bows;
When the goodman mends his armor,
  And trims his helmet’s plume;
When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily
  Goes flashing through the loom;         585
With weeping and with laughter
  Still is the story told,
How well Horatius kept the bridge
  In the brave days of old.

When crazy ,tinted,wild blow all the leaves

Of all the seasons, I love most the Fall
When crazy ,tinted,wild blow all the leaves
They love to  toast themselves in summer sun
And want no shelter from the Western wind.
While squirrels   hide their  nuts and batten down
For winter on this  European isle.

For  those who wish there is the Shopping Mall
Where they forget  thin nature now bereaved.
For children  playing ball is joy and fun,
With grazed  legs and knees forever skinned
Meanwhile the rich put on their evening gowns
And after dinner, dance  and woo a  while.

But many like myself  desire the call
Of  knotted hedge  and bent aslant small trees
Of damp long grass and hares wild on the hunt
For  winter   madness  makes all  beasts grow  thin
We in  old wool coats   will crouch and frown
In camera,  waiting with our hearts docile.

Yet,there is a threat in    hearing, Fall
As if our forebears could  have lived quite free
Unclothed and loving,   dreams  of human’   haunt
As if we could wind back the reel and  film again.
Knowing this impossible we’re drawn
To  fall ourselves and sleep  and never smile.

The world itself is dance,  it is a Ball
If we lose our thoughts  and merry be
Give ourselves what we most truly want
This world was made for us to span and scan
Every plant for you  and me is grown
And so we smile and smile on Europe’s  isle

The cheque book

I got a  cheque book  after you had died
With only my name  printed on the page
I  lost this new one even though I tried
To keep apart from life, my grief and rage .

I do not like that statements  come to me
They emphasis what I’d like to forget
There is no “us,”  it’s sadly” I “not “we”
These little signs, emotions  sad beget

Though I hate arithmetic and rules
I always  cooked  the finance and the meal
You didn’t want to suffer as at school
Mostly   you left me to do  these deals

I rarely use a  paper cheque today
I find  impersonal,nameless ways to pay

Can we break the rules of grammar in poetry?

good_luck_sign

 

Breaking Grammar Rules in Poetry Writing

 

Quote:As the poetry canon grows beyond measure, poets increasingly reach for creative devices to make their work stand out.

Toying with grammar rules is one such device, but it is not something that can be approached carelessly. If you choose to forgo the rules because you don’t know them rather than as a creative technique, your lack of knowledge will show and the poem will present as amateurish. Of course, that’s true for all types of writing: learn the rules, and only after you have learned them, go ahead and break them.

I salute anyone who breaks the rules in the interest of art and great poetry writing just as much as I admire poets who craft meter and verse within the confines of grammar. So for this language-loving poet, either way is the right way. Walk the tight rope or jump from it and see if you can fly.

How like a dream

How like a dream this world appears to me
My mind unfocussed spreads itself about..
No details, just an outline I can see.
And  this vague dimness fills my mind with doubt.

The early sun made joy rise in my heart
As I looked out upon the gardens gold.
Of nature and each season we’re a part.
As with patience we let all our self unfold.

We are as nothing in the vast space of this sky
Where stars send light from deeps of long ago.
And yet despite my nightmares I shall try
As fears make fences if we don’t say “No.”

We have to make our dreams a home on earth;
From there creative thoughts are given birth

I’ve lost the cordless handset and my specs.

I’ve lost the cordless handset  and my specs.
I   put them down   right when the doorbell rang
I  can’t phone out nor read a message  texted

To lose more than a partner makes me vexed
Already in my heart I feel a pang
I’ve lost the cordless handset  and my specs.

I wonder what possession I’ll lose next
The knell is waiting anxious to be rung
I can’t moan nor read a message  texted

I’ll have to go next door on some pretext
But must not keep them talking for too long
I’ve lost the cordless handset  and my specs.

I feel if I continue I’ll be wrecked
But all us humans need to use our tongue
I  can’t weep nor read a message  texted

I must not rumimate nor thoughts dissect
I ‘ve been careless but I ‘ve done no wrong
I’ve lost the cordless handset  and my specs.
I  can’t speak nor read a message  texted

Oh,my dear sister, what see you there?

She’d never seem rainwater deeper than eyes
Mystery undisguised.
Round the rain puddle she ran and ran;
Too much for her dolly’s pan.
By reflections of trees ,she was hypnotised.
Curiousity’s often so wise
Oh,my dear sister what  see  you there?
I hope it’s a vision fair.
What are these ships and the tugs and the tide?
Where are the sailors who died?
This is an ocean and I’m in my boat
Come sisters dear,let us float.
We’ll never see Daddy again, ‘cos he’s here
and down her face travelled one tear.
I see him afar off, he’s meeting the Lord
There’s the archangel with his sharpest sword.
We cannot follow,no, we must go back
We each must stay on our own track.
Three little children with long  light  brown hair
On this road going to where?
Once three small sisters ,but now only two;
Eyes of one green and one  blue
By the park gate  side a pool of sea rain
We shall be three again.
One in a pushchair and one gripping tight.
I push my dear sisters into the light.
Keep hold of the handle and never let go
However the East wind does blow
Keep hold of my hands as Dad crosses the sea
Don’t hope for what cannot be.
I told her it’s only a rainwater pool,
Held in God’s hand like a jewel.
But she saw the patterns and she saw the tides
Which all human beings must ride.
For nothing is “only” and nothing is “just”.
Nothing and everything’s passed

The cello has a tender singing voice

The cello has a tender singing voice
Allows the feelings which we cannot say.
Among composers  Bach might be our choice
The cello sings   rich lyrics  with her voice.
Rostropovich, Proms ;  he played, of course.
Soviet armies  marched, the Czechs were   dazed.
The cello has a sorrowing truthful voice;
Speaks our feelings when we cannot pray.

Then we shall learn the limits of our will

When soft winds blow and air strokes our bare skin.
When days are long like melodies of youth,
when light wakes up the soul from out her sin
Then shall we know when this sweet life is truth?

When flowers droop and leaves are dried and brown;
When water’s short and all  plants are forlorn’
Then do not meet disaster with a frown,
For out of heartfelt sorrow new life’s born.

When winter’s here and all is quiet and still
And nothing seems to move or grow or speak
Then we shall learn the limits of our will
for through the soil the first green shoots will break.

For seasons change and actors come and go.
Yet through such changes, life is what we know

The Seasons

The seasons alter imperceptibly;
No point exact which demonstrates the turn.
Yet soon come changes which our eyes can see
Leaves dry and crack,;the acers seem to burn.
And so it is with human creatures too.
Each day our loved one looks unchanged to us
And yet the body alters like leaves do.
Small changes made with neither noise nor fuss.
We  are  transparent ghosts of  our old selves
And  struggle down the avenue of life
Soon death approaches with its common stealth.
And separates the husband and the wife.
In winter all is black and we despair
Yet, deep in earth,worms silently prepare.

Geese fly by

It’s Autumn weather, geese fly by,
Autumn rust,red,gold,so gay
Drystone walls edging fields,
Apples gathered,holly berries
Flash so brightly
Look like flowers
Sun shines sideways,shadows long
Of trees appear.I dwell among
Woods  where gentle beeches sing,
Swaying with the sideward wind.
See their roots, all intertwined.
Feel their geometry in the mind.
Look up now into the sky,
See the V formation high.
Geese fly home at end of day.
My heart is moved by patterned dance
In this peace and great silence
My mind widens like the sky
And in this moment I would die,
So I would stay with this still vision
Of geese set out on autumn mission.
Snails in rain pools slither near
My feet upon the terrace here
And look,upon their whorled backs
All the sense of life is packed.
And yet so easily Life’s destroyed
When blind foot steps into the void.

In kindly leaves

The sun is glaring hotly at the earth
And birds sleep deep in hidden, secret  leaves
Too much good we  know becomes a curse
The sun is staring fiercely at the earth.
Of fire and ice, which  is ,in truth, the   worse?
Which scientific theories  to believe?
The sun is glaring hotly at the earth
And birds have hidden  deep in kindly  leaves

 

I see a light fuzz of hair

 

  • I see a light fuzz of hair on your head

    like the softness of just opening leaf buds in spring.
    The chemo is over,and you wait relieved and letting that
    take you for a while before you start to face the next stage.
    Will your Spring turn to a warm enchanting Summer
    or has the cancer,as they say “spread.”
    Just for now,you’re in that lull
    so in three weeks time you will not be
    arriving for another session of drugs
    and days of sickness.

    I see the light fuzz which reminds me
    of how the cat’s fur grew back after her surgery
    and she,being unable to reflect or question,
    leaped from the fence top onto next door’s kitchen roof;
    no thought in her mind of stitches breaking.
    How beautifully the patterned fur returned
    and the vulnerable skin was covered again.
    Oh,to look into those eyes and see you dream
    about mice that live behind the shed
    and how you sat watching for hours
    and how you were alive till the very last moment.
    Then , all of a sudden,you were gone.

    Pray it will not be so forthe fragile,loving human
    now waiting and living,hoping for what you took for granted…
    a “normal” life span Or maybe just three quarters of one
    would be satisfactory;would be a beneficence
    such as trees feel when the sap turns and begins to flow back.
    bringing life out of the darkness of earth and soil.
    And another Summer comes at the right time
    and we find it,shall we say,satisfactory?

Fear of poetry

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https://www.theguardian.com/higher-education-network/blog/2013/mar/21/world-poetry-day-student-occupy

Quote:

It strikes me now as singularly and politically prescient that Harrison chose to express his determination to write poetry as a form of occupation: he declares he will “occupy” the “lousy leasehold” of an elite literary tradition.Harrison’s statement anticipates the contemporary Occupy movement, with its targeting of political and social inequality, exclusion and hierarchy. The occupation of spaces of power is an attempt to level the playing field, enacting change from the bottom up.

Harrison refuses to ‘squat’ in the space of poetry, a phrase that would acknowledge his unbelonging. He occupies; he makes the space his own. And what is more, having read the poetry of Tony Harrison, my 18-year-old self was no longer frightened of this supposedly difficult form with its metrical lines, suffused with metaphor and locked in rhyme. Instead, I was also determined to wrest back and occupy poetry.

The corner of the eye

Subtle emotions ; sidelong glances
The  corner of the eye, the view of you
Noone else can see.
The rolling ego,the raising of the brow
The humorous glimpse, the grasp
The  network of our eyes
We’re spies
We’re in touch already
Some poet introduces you.
A sign of being ,say,  a late reactor
But the explosion is  on the way
We don’t know ;  our eyes work
Some  are lit ; candles in a window
I think you know; stop it and start; again

The History of Ideas, 1973-2012: Authority

BY BRIAN BLANCHFIELD
Where the correlative of reason was conviction and where the correlative
of power was obedience, the correlative of authority was trust
Your job—she gives another to the child
hip-high—is to heat the money in your hands
to the optimum warmth for purchase. Cagey,
the diversion in the same coin as his want.
It buys her time, enough that once
they round the corner, she might break into a sprint,
as one might with a pet who can keep up. But
the prophet makes eyes in his open fists
of the nickels’ glint, and we see he forbears
our guess her hector gets lost in the flash
when as if by swale we all give way to expel
a customer from the clench of us without her.
For what beneath the moths who have all night
to live do we brace ourselves as we approach?
We lean to find again the boy’s outguess of us.
Demand is double at the walk-up window, where
punishment for paltry want is to tell it again
into plexiglass the color of slobber, so others
in the bleach of halogen light may deal
their disparagement forward. For what if not
dishonor are we braced, rehearsing what to ask?
Repetition is a machine, a machine
for converting request into appeal; and
commerce, then, the window’s byproduct or
balm, depending. Red hot cashews, yellow bag.
Only because we visit by day do we know
at night what to call at the walk-up window
where two aisles of open merchandise end at
the sacral plates of clerks before us who, if
on pulleys they were carts instead or vending claws,
would be by now concussed and dented by
lever malevolence outright.
                                                    The prophet stands eye level
with the vending plunge, a here and now mechanism
he would need to invent to operate, and stands
between it and his mother. Yellow bag.
                              Because there is not enough money in the world, people steal;…                                                           because there is not enough recognition, they make art

Observe the patterns ,hidden and unread

It doesn’t matter what the teachers said
They don’t know as much as we might think
We can learn to deal with x,y,z.

These letters ,used as numbers, are not dead
But in the mind’s eye, glow  like  golden ink
It doesn’t matter what the teacher said

I learned that once when I was ill in bed
I saw a screen with  letters which were linked
We can  learn to deal with x,y,z.

The letters moved  to stand in two lines wed
Then ratios formed and thus caused me to think
It doesn’t matter what the teacher said

I saw the answer  glitter as I read
Pascal  solved it once, and then I did
We can learn to deal with x,y,z.

Observe the patterns ,hidden and unread;
Like music  which  has  scores and does their bid
I doesn’t matter what the teacher said
We can learn to deal with x,y,z.

 

 

Cut apart

Since you died ,my language  is curtailed
Can one cut a part,  and not kill all?
Since  you  left, my  wish to speak has failed.
Since you died ,my language  is curtailed
I have lost the main,not mere detail.
As Eve lost Eden after the great Fall.
Since you died ,my language  is curtailed
Can one cut just part, yet not kill  all?

Now the Devil’s comin’ out as grey.

 

There are no hours and minutes in a day
Whatever Nokia Lumias  might display
Babylonian  clocktowers hover;
Cracked a wall , now built in Dover,
There are     sixty cuckoos to gainsay.

Day and night, or hey, what black and white
People range in hues of  fruits delight
I like  olive  and    Greenpeacers
Wearing  hats  from crowns off steeples
Day and night,oh  shall we take a  flight?

I see the Berlin Wall is coming back
Mexico   has  ordered   ten sick    plaques
Trump has  promised work forever:
Dangerous walls  from Hell to Dover
Even God has  been electro-shocked

No ,these demons cannot get across
They’re stuck in an inferno; what is worse……….
God  now  can’t  be  omnipresent.
He has  high  walls   around Grace Crescent.
Holy Moses,who  can take this flak?

If you miss yer dinner,don’t it hurt?
Same as if yer finger gets a cut
Refugees with their  feet   bleeding–
Christ,we’re underwhelmed in feelings
Get a barbed wire fence, and kick them back.

The Lord’s THEIR shepherd, so we’re gonna pay.
He  watches  US  like  NEVER  from today
We’re   ex-colonial criminals
We’re Self-esteem Unlimited.
Now the Devil’s comin’ out as grey.

Oh,someone jumped the Central Line today
Could not take this life so  full  of play
Oxford Street was blocked by walls
Of vehicles  sent to the Call.
What is my vocation,what my Play?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Smile at me

I miss the hand that used to hold  my hand
I miss the eyes that  used  to  comfort me
The needs of love don’t  feel like a demand
I miss the hand that  caressed  my  held hand
I miss your love  and miss you as a  friend.
When you gazed , your eyes lit what you’d see.
I miss the hand that used to warm  my hand
I miss the eyes that  used  to smile at me.

I miss your arms around me in the dark
I miss the early morning,  thoughts unspoke
On Purbeck Hills; the  Easter singing lark
I miss your arms around me in the park
Poole Harbour’s beauty is a living spark
Sharing silent glances as we walked
I miss your arms around me in the dark
I miss the mornings, though we   rarely spoke

Silent sharing ;  company in  love.
With strangers,  we must  manufacture talk.
To be silent ;the dome of sky above
To be silent ;  the  spaciousness of    love.
With strangers, how their talk can jolt and shove
I held your hand and stroked it when we walked
Silent   caring;  sympathy of  love.
Not strangers blindly   snatching in the dark.

Can we find the space between the words?

How like a prison is this cubicle
So small I’m like a fish inside  a net

My heart beats with a rhythm unmusical
As with sharp terror, I am now beset.
–
We humans were not made to be en-walled
Our ancestors were gatherers in the woods.
Now  industry  demands freedom be stalled
For production and  consumption of  their goods.

And  executives in advertising   work
In  offices  where they  combine their words
Religiously like members of the Kirk
Yet envying the freedom of wild birds.

Can we  be ourselves in such a world?
Can we find the space between the words?

The uncanny is a space which I avoid

 

The uncanny is a space which I avoid
I do not wish to meet with spirits  vile.
Though with a man ,it’s true that I have toyed.
I  dropped them all and sane was I the while.

Yet when I met your eyes so dark  and strange
A force more strong than my own pulled me in.
A   premonition that my life would change,
Before I knew your double,your dark twin.

In dreams and  in my nightmares he will come
To capture me and take me  to his land.
I do not know what choice to make of man
Nor how to count infinity by hand

The double is an augury of death
Yet in this space uncanny is a path

It may not be this me

The  small birds are singing above me
Two  hearts are entwined in my dreams
I shall need  to be here when you call
For I have a vocation for life.
And I need to write  at  least fifty poems
Before    autumn weather arrives

The  man in the raincoat  bereaved
Had a large parcel for me.
It was the  book of your mother’s   new poems
Just as I saw in my dreams
There were sonnets and tercets of sorts
I did not recognise others  at all


I wonder will my  cousin  call
I so  want  to see him arrive
After   a meta- journey by horse and by cart
Is  the poetry reminiscent of me?
My nightmare and all of my dreams
Contribute to the themes of my poems

 

The illusions I create in my  dreams
Have their voices and they play  their part
But illusions are not aimed to  decide
They are soporific   nightmares on TV
I roam all around in my rhymes
Till a metaphor arrives to oblige.

 

I wonder if the schema of dreams,
More often our wishes distort;
So it  is transcribed in our poem
What possibility drives
The collection of folk I call me?
But it may not be this me at all.

Ode to My Socks

Pablo Neruda, 1904 – 1973

Maru Mori brought me
a pair
of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder’s hands,
two socks as soft
as rabbits.
I slipped my feet
into them
as though into
two
cases
knitted
with threads of
twilight
and goatskin.
Violent socks,
my feet were
two fish made
of wool,
two long sharks
sea-blue, shot
through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons:
my feet
were honored
in this way
by
these
heavenly
socks.
They were
so handsome
for the first time
my feet seemed to me
unacceptable
like two decrepit
firemen, firemen
unworthy
of that woven
fire,
of those glowing
socks.

Nevertheless
I resisted
the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere
as schoolboys
keep
fireflies,
as learned men
collect
sacred texts,
I resisted
the mad impulse
to put them
into a golden
cage
and each day give them
birdseed
and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers
in the jungle who hand
over the very rare
green deer
to the spit
and eat it
with remorse,
I stretched out
my feet
and pulled on
the magnificent
socks
and then my shoes.

The moral
of my ode is this:
beauty is twice
beauty
and what is good is doubly
good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool
in winter.

If I no longer love you

 
If I no longer  love you when you die
And quickly fill your space with a new man
Then perhaps my  claiming love was  but a lie
And I can fill  you place  with anyone.
Are not our  friends unique and therefore lost
When death pulls them away to darker shores?
Yet we  will love each one despite the cost.
And when we weep,  is this not  what life’s for?
Loss and gain and loss and gain again
A pattern from the infant to the sage
So joy and pain and joy and pain remain.
Who knows what is inscribed on the page?
To feel,to suffer, then feel joy once more
Will open up  to show us Heaven’s door