Category: poetry

Artificial

Diagonal streams now  stripe the windowpane
And in them, tiny insects drown and die.
Unexpected ,sudden rain  has come.
Those escape who have  the wings to fly.

No angels were seen peering  at my  room
No doubt they have their  Sunday wings to press.
No  camera ,even with psychotic zoom,
Can catch an angel while she is undressed.

Now the rain has dried and all is sweet
I tend to houseplants standing by the door.
By good luck these houseplants never bleep.
Only in the real world do they flower.

Bleeps and pings are not a natural sound.
But to the artificial   we  will bound.

We turn to darkness

When tensions in our minds  harm our own souls
And into stranger's  ears   we  pour our woes.
When grief and sorrow  shudder through our   walls.
And whether all is lost we cannot know

When  what is in  or out we cannot tell
When fantasy and dream become confused.
When  spears of agony  maim  every cell.
When sensibility is utterly bemused.
.
He in  whom  we  trusted  wills us fail
For what  he said was love was mere  desire.
Now pain and disappointment make us frail;
With torment know   this  lover was a liar.

Then, having lost all other means  to live,
We turn to darkness where our consolation is.

All Day It Has Rained by Alun Lewis

 

All day it has rained, and we on the edge of the moors
Have sprawled in our bell-tents, moody and dull as boors,
Groundsheets and blankets spread on the muddy ground
And from the first grey wakening we have found
No refuge from the skirmishing fine rain
And the wind that made the canvas heave and flap
And the taut wet guy-ropes ravel out and snap.
All day the rain has glided, wave and mist and dream,
Drenching the gorse and heather, a gossamer stream
Too light to stir the acorns that suddenly
Snatched from their cups by the wild south-westerly
Pattered against the tent and our upturned dreaming faces.
And we stretched out, unbuttoning our braces,
Smoking a Woodbine, darning dirty socks,
Reading the Sunday papers – I saw a fox
And mentioned it in the note I scribbled home; –
And we talked of girls and dropping bombs on Rome,
And thought of the quiet dead and the loud celebrities
Exhorting us to slaughter, and the herded refugees:
Yet thought softly, morosely of them, and as indifferently
As of ourselves or those whom we
For years have loved, and will again
Tomorrow maybe love;but now it is the rain
Possesses us entirely, the twilight and the rain.
And I can remember nothing dearer or more to my heart
Than the children I watched in the woods on Saturday
Shaking down burning chestnuts for the schoolyard’s merry play,
Or the shaggy patient dog who followed me
By Sheet and Steep and up the wooded scree
To the Shoulder o’ Mutton where Edward Thomasbrooded long
On death and beauty – till a bullet stopped his song.

Till the logic’s heard

This form of poetry is beloved of me.
As Shakespeare wrote so I like writing too.
Free verse I like but with this, I can see.
And as I wrote thus, well my writing grew.

Thus and hence in mathematic’s  shared
Are also used in sonnets when I write.
They make connections till the logic’s heard
The logic of the heart makes love feel right.

To imitate the poets who’re  well renowned
Is impudent yet I refuse to stop.
I do not ask to get a  golden crown
Such satisfaction I get from my work.

If you think I’m conceited you are blind
I’m humbled by the treasures of the mind

 

Our ambivalence tortures us within

Do we choose what we perceive each hour?
Or are we automata clothed in skin
Which see the thorns and then ignore the flower?

Can we, like grass, be grateful for a shower.
Or is our store of gratitude too thin?
Can we choose what we perceive each hour?

 

Can we choose to smile instead of cower?
Can we  love the game  played not to win?
Who  sees  sharp thorns and then ignores the flower?

 

Do we   choose  to love or to play power;
Can we  choose   the virtue ,not  the sin?
Do we choose what we perceive each hour?

 

As we struggle inside Babel’s tower
Our ambivalence  tortures us within
Most see the thorns and then ignore the flowers

With   softened eyes, we see the entire bower
If we move ,  we see what is now dim
Do we choose what we perceive each hour?
Some  see the thorns and then ignore the flower

 

 

And make us friends without those games of chess

A villanelle  will trouble the obsessed
As ever scrupulous ,we want the best
So  in this mode   the manic are depressed

I once was  worn by scruples, mind undressed.
I did not view   them as a  holy test
A villanelle  will trouble the obsessed

God does not torment us,I confess.
Though delicate of mind I  failed to rest
And  in that mode,  the manic are depressed

Though God be mountain, he has interest
His cliffs have paths, with   demons unoppressed
Any words  will trouble the obsessed

In depression, truth is unrepressed
And so slowed down we have time to it ingest
In this mode   the manic are depressed

 

Yet, by  love, in our world, we invest
And make our friends without  those  games of chess
Any form   can trouble the obsessed
When  in this mode   the manic are depressed

Now it turns as rapid as dismay

The sky is now pale lilac edged with dark
The   trees where small birds sleep are almost black
A mystic may enjoy a vivid spark
Through having senses other mortals lack.

The sky’s more pale than  it is darker grey
I see a pink, a blue in clarity
Now it turns as rapid  as dismay
Until  devoid of  such variety.

And darker still ,in grey it edges down
Until it’s less distinct from those large trees.
But  with my words  to keep me from a frown
Darkness comes and so my words must cease.

A mirror to the outer world in verse
May save  us all from  wintering with a  curse.

Who thinks of death as weakness, is a liar

The sun sinks but it burns like a  great fire;
All the sky’s aflame with  fierce intent;
Who thinks of death as weakness, is a liar
Before the end  our glory must be spent.

The  graphics of the branches look Chinese
As  blackened brush is drawn across red silk
Infinite yet countable  my days
Running like a river without silt

Thus I am not transcendent in myself
But joined to all that lives I feel I am.
So in conjunction we will find our health
Ambivalence contains both lion and lamb.

The fire of  orange leaves me with a glow
As into night I with all creatures go

Imperceptibly like this we too will change

The sky is bright and yet behind  black trees
The dark orange of evening   has begun
This sight is free to all  without a fee
Yet we must wisely  choose or blind become.

Soon,too soon the whole sky will be dark
Incremental changes come to fruit
And then it will be black without a spark
Except  for stars whose light we cannot loot.

Imperceptibly  like this we too will change
From glossy youth to hunched and weary crones
And yet  we must refuse to be deranged
As  all our body weakens from its bones

As long as we can see or touch or feel
Life is  worth the eating in this meal

The Windhover by Gerard Manley Hopkins

  • Hopkins was a Jesuit and his training took place in St Asaph in Wales.He was much influenced by Welsh poetry and some of his innovatory techniques like sprung rhythym are thought to have come from that.

WINTER LOVE BIRD

To Christ our Lord
I caught this morning morning’s minion, kingdom
of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in
his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl
and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shèer plòd makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold vermilion.

 

If this be truth

No-one could have  told this state to me
Experience is needed which I lacked.
Just as the spider can’t live as a beee
A wife can’t  know of widowhood’s impact.

At first the pain is like a serious burn
Though stricken ,we must plan the funeral  rites
And, yes, that pain  does lessen in its time
Alas then other pains alight.

The grey confusion,  though it is not vile,
Makes one feel an isolation cold.
A puzzlement  of grief makes weakness  wild
And noone wants the story  to be told.

No longer human,I stare at the sky
If this be truth, then  where  is her ally?

I wrote this villanelle before I died

Could you write a poem if you tried?
It’s just a few black patterns on the page.
I  wrote this villanelle  before I died

Would you write free verse,  just on the side?
Or would the lack of form  make you enraged?
Could you write a poem if you tried?

Do you  know what manners like to hide?
Would you keep your black  dog in a cage?
I wrote this villanelle  before I died

Has your ink got all glued up and dried?
Does your handwriting  fit  on the page?
Could you write a poem if you tried?

Write all day and weep  when you decide
My cat and I have now become engaged
I wrote this villanelle  before I died

Do  not let the critics you deride
At the worst, you ‘ll start a brand new page
Could you write a poem if you tried?
I  wrote this villanelle  before I died

 

 

Tree under the new moon

Image

What  ceremonious geometry

Can describe the sympathy of the parts to the whole.

What self can contain the feelings engendered by

the response of the heartl of the tree

to the space and  light offered

and how the clouds float away on the wind

as I stand ,hand on my throat gazing

and the new moon points me out

She loved her adverb more than me

P1000324

My wife has left me for an adverb.
I don’t know which one it is!
Is it slowly,quickly, nearly?
Life should not be like a quiz.

She told me that she “nearly” loved me,
When “dearly” was what I had hoped.
Life is full of lost illusions…
How do deserted people cope?

I think I should have kept it secret,
For now I sit and sadly grieve.
Do you think my wife is cruel?
What a strange excuse to leave!

Would she leave me for a pronoun?
Would she leave for a full stop?
Would I leave you for a quote mark?
Would I fall into a dot?

Come back,darling for I love you.
I have learned I must take care.
I will go for grammar lessons.
I am sure I can learn flair!

We can write a poem together,
You can choose the topic,dear.
I will hold my pen and write for
They say true love drives out fear.

Did I fear her? Did I love her?
Was she worthy of my heart?
Did she dislike my hairy nostrils?
Was that why we had to part?

Come back Mary,come back Mavis.
Come back Sunny, come back Sue
Without my wife I feel quite lonely.
What is a poor man to do?

I admit I was unfaithful.
God made men to procreate.
Yet I loved my wife the best…
And how I loved her homemade cake

Title  : Boy in Blue Bandages Author : Larry Chamberlin

From Poetry and Quotes

wd950408
– – – – – – – – –

Along the boulevard medium
(we call it the neutral zone)
Lacy Blue Ribbons
mark each oak as being
aligned with children
fending off abuse.

Do people even know?
Or do they misinterpret,
not caring about message
or whether another child
ends up in the ER
wrapped in bandages?

Perhaps if the children
were encircled instead
in bright blue bandages
and set along the road
pitiful and helpless
passersby would get it.

You’d hear then
a momentary sigh;
“Oh well, what can be done?
I mean, there’s just so many”
and they, each and every,
will drive on by.

Riemann’s Mind

480Riemann had a very fine mind.
But he found it hard to unwind.
So he became very disturbed,
And his mind was perturbed
By his colleagues, who were very unkind.

He invented a new kind of geometry.
For surfaces convex with cacophony.
Euclid was  dethroned
Though it was not really known
Till we saw it all kaleidoscopically.

Until Riemann we believed in absolute truth.
Mathematics and theology called a truce,
It depends where you stand,
On the curvature of the land.
Our weak minds are undeniably uncouth.

Truth depends on the way that we look.
We can focus too much on our books.
We need new perspectives,
Which provide a corrective
To old views which now must be forsook

Look to the owl as he flies,
Like a god winging across the wide skies.
His broad yellow gaze
Lets attention be paid
To all that surrounds his fierce eyes.

Yet all human lovers

 

I didn’t know I’d love you

With both my heart and mind

Every love is different

Each is a special kind

I didn’t know I’d miss you

In quite the way I do.

For we can’t feel emotion

Before its time is due.

And are you missing me now

Despite angelic hosts?

They may care for you , my  sweet

But I think I cared the most.

Yet all human lovers

Must part and go their ways.

Some may die and fall to dust

Some may go astray.

I didn’t know I’d love you

And hurt invade my heart.

I didn’t know that you’d love me.

But we would have to part.

From mother and her bosom

From father and his strength

We lose and gain throughout our life

Whatever is its length.

I didn’t know I’d miss you

With all my loving heart.

But . as we’re made of fragile flesh.

We must sadly part.

If you had been a sadist

If you had been unkind.

I would not now be grieving

And losing my own mind.

So maybe I should be grateful

For being found and known.

I wish you were still sitting here.

And I were not alone.

When we feel so lonely

No-one else will do.

It’s not that I am just lonely.

I’m lonely, just for you.

In the wet and stony

Pathways we must go

We must keep on walking;

Be patient when we’re slow.

The inner force is working

To make new maps for me.

Wherever they shall guide my steps,

With you I’ll long to be.

Whom once you loved

 So you are gone  who once declared your love
For that phantasm conjured in your mind
For onto me you brought down from above
A torment bitter and   hard words unkind.

Used to  friendship from within your books

You did not understand that I was real
Irritation grew as you did look;
You threw your poisoned  arrow  at my heel.

Whom  once you loved you  then began to hate
If not perfect, then intolerable I must be
And then you cursed me with this  sorry fate
Our child was born and him you’ll never see.
Illegitimate and born in desert grey.
I carried him alone from death’s dark way.

I’ll have to give up writing villanelles

I’ll have to give up writing villanelles
My rhymes are strained so why not stop this game.
I’ll  write the  tales  of cats who went to hell

I thought if I wrote dozens in  a spell
I’d get  more skilful and  relax again
I’ll have to give up writing villanelles

My inner critic says we’re going to move to Hull
I don’t know if it’s Larkin   being  famed
I’ll  write the  tales  of cats who went to hell

I guess the housework made me feel unwell
I didn’t do it but I saw it, all the same.
I’ll have to give up writing villanelles

Maybe my ideas need to gell
And that’s not easy with a villanelle
I’ll  write the  tales  of cats who went to hell

I ought to write some words that I can sell.
Or letters to the  papers,  all insane
I’ll have to give up writing villanelles
I’ll  write  more  tales  of cats who went to hell!

A home for the Unknown

The “habit” of perfection   makes no sense
We may achieve perfection perhaps once.
It  hurts the doubtful minds of the intense.

Around our hearts we need to build a fence
To keep away such  spiritual cons
The “habit” of perfection   makes no sense

Even if we live as monks  or nuns
We   do not leave the world when robe we don
We hurt the painful minds of the intense

We may give away our gold and even pence
But find our narcissism’s  still  not gone
The “habit” of perfection   makes no sense

Work and  individual effort’s  part defence
We can    try to make  a  space for the Unknown
Otherwise we  harm the  stricken hearts of the intense

 

To claim   that we  live perfectlly  offends
And with it our salvation’s all but gone
The” habit” of perfection   makes no sense
It  hurts the doubtful minds of the intense

 

 

We walked the Cleveland Hills when love was new

The places I associate with you,
Durham in the  deepest, whitest frost
The places that I dream  of what we  knew

We walked  the Cleveland Hills when love was  new
Saw  icy windows in your parent’s house.
The places I associate with you

 

Lincoln floodlit,  threw  me  to my knees….
We crossed the Humber in midwinter lost
The places  that I dream  of, that we  knew

Christmas time  your mother  felt   the so blue
We  walked  the sea edge Redcar,Saltburn first .
The places I associate with you

But where’ve you gone and  why  is there no clue?
I travel in my dreams ,with you  impressed.
The places I associate with you,
The spaces   where we  travelled ,where are you?

I long to see your face just one more time.

I long to see your face just one more time.
I didn’t know that day  would be the last.
I can’t create the real by using rhyme.

You’d  smoke a cigarette  and write some lines
About the mountains that we’d  climbed or  passed
I long to see your face just one more time.

On Ingleborough  we had made designs
But heavy rain came down and we were lost
I can’t create the real by using rhyme.

We turned around as if it were a crime,
For we knew  such decisions have a cost
I long to see your face just one more time.

I teased you  on the muddy  slopes  in mime
I could not speak for I had seen  your ghost
I can’t create the real by using rhyme.

 

In Dent  or  up in Teesdale  will you come?
Or  by  scarred boats in Staithes,  eternal rest?
I long to see your face just one more time.
I can’t create the real by using rhyme.

 

 

 

I wear an apron aand a pretty dress

I wear an apron, though a feminist
I don’t believe I must forgo my dress
To keep it clean while    copying  Julia Child….
Yes,I wear an apron I confess.

And here’s my yeast so I can bake my bread
You say I  should not sink to women’s craft?
Did I not teach  to aid the working class?
To me, it’s you who sink  with words   so daft

I’ve no   to wish show  I’m equal to a man
Nor to a woman either,for you see
My wisdom  says my choice  is to pursue bents
And only doing this will make me free.

As I don my apron I connect
To all who like to cook,whatever  sex.

Amiri Baraka: Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide Note

 

Lately, I’ve become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus…

Things have come to that.

And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter’s room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there…
Only she on her knees, peeking into

Her own clasped hands

Poem: “The Advice,” by Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset.

The Advice

Wou’d you in Love succeed, be Brisk, be Gay,
Cast all dull Thoughts and serious Looks away;
Think not with down cast Eyes, and mournful Air,
To move to pity, the Relentless Fair,
Or draw from her bright Eyes a Christal Tear.
This Method Foreign is to your Affair,
Too formal for the Frolick you prepare:
Thus, when you think she yields to Love’s advance,
You’ll find ’tis no Consent, but Complaisance.
Whilst he who boldly rifles all her Charms,
Kisses and Ravishes her in his Arms,
Seizes the favour, stays not for a Grant,
Alarms her Blood, and makes her sigh and pant;
Gives her no time to speak, or think’t a Crime,
Enjoys his Wish, and well imploys his time.

I wish that I had kissed you ten more times

I wish that I had kissed you ten more times
I didn’t know  how soon you had to leave
I’d   draw upon your lips my best design

I tell my love in words,  which is no crime.
I didn’t show you all you might receive
I wish that I had kissed you ten more times

If I had  bought you  bottles of best wine
Would you have stayed and  kept me unbereaved?
I’d   draw upon your lips my best design.

I know you were perceptive and read signs
Eyes a-crinkle   green as sun washed  leaves
I wish that I had kissed you ten more times

I’d  hold your  mind and  weave  your thoughts to rhymes
Until  the  truest love poem  arrived
I’d   draw upon your lips my best design.

I’d write  you letters ,much love I would leave
With my mind and body I perceive.
I wish that I had kissed you ten more times
I’d   draw upon your lips our own design

Watercolour love

 

Like ancient watercolour paintings washed by rain,
Our hearts had mingled,yet our separate selves remained.
Two watercolour pictures without frames,
Became one picture over time;
Yet two of us still there.
Our colours blended  gradually
Till shades and hues were shared.
I loved your colours intermixed with mine:
Together they became a new design.
A watercolour image  made and stroked by rain
I, too, must go, yet our  Watercolour Love   ever remains

Can it be it measures you?

I am no less human   than before
The way you  speak does not true measure grant
Can it be it measures you  who score?

I  trusted you who begged me to adore.
Yet looking back the basis was too scant
Still I am no less human   than before

Moderation is a  better  core
Bewitching love is what you seemed to want
Can it be it measures you  who score?

What ever I gave, you always wished for more.
With criticisms you often me did  taunt
Still I am no less human   than before

When I saw your rage I  sought the  door
You took for granted I’d dwell in your haunts
Can it be it measures you  who score?

Though you might beg  while kneeling on the floor
I  wish for nothing but you be absent
I am no less human   than before
Can it be it measures you  who score?

 

 

 

 

 

 

A new thought about villanelles

The article I posted this morning points out that because of the repition o two of the lines a villanelle is especially suited to write about something that is bothering us a great deall.Dylan Thomas wrote “Do not go gentle into that goodnight”   when he learned hius father was dying.But his father did not know.
Because of the importance of the repetition they recommend writing the last two lines  before you write the body of the poem.So that is what I did with “I can’t believe,I wown’t believe you’re dead.” I think it is a very wise idea
Because of the strength of  repetition it would be suitable for writing about an unhappy love affair as well as death.Or maybe about breaking up with someone.

71ukmb5yzispw_l

Do not destroy the  joy of  all we  had
If you need space then take it and be glad.

I just wrote that but I don’t know if I can write a whole villanelle.
Well I managed it but I may want to edit it some more.And it does seem suited to strong feelings.Otherwise it’s   just an intellectual jigsaw puzzle as my friend said

DO NOT DESTROY

Do not destroy the  joy of  all we  had
The good need  not be lost when lovers part.
If you need space then take it and be glad.

Because I love you, I shall  now be  sad
But there’s no need to  stab me in  the heart
Do not destroy the  joy of  all we  had.

With your loving words I once was clad
Now naked to the winds, I must  depart
If you need space then take it and be glad.

The only constant love is that of God
No Eros is He with his arrowed darts
Do not destroy the  joy of  all we  had.

On these forlorn, faint tracks I have  once trod
In my mind I search for   ragged  charts
If you need space then take it and be glad.

I have my maps and now am fully clad.
With tenderness,farewell my dearest heart.
Do not destroy the  joy of  all we  had.
If you need space then take it and be glad.

 

 

 

I don’t believe,I won’t believe

 

It doesn’t matter what the doctors said.
I know you’d never leave me here alone.
I don’t believe , I  won’t believe you’re dead.

You’ve always like a nice lie down in bed
And never, ever answered your iphone
It doesn’t matter what the doctors said.

The doctors  scanned  those parts angels tread
The priest said that you’re going across to Rome
I don’t believe ,I  won’t believe you’re dead.

I know your friends  are pleased I keep you fed
And snatch an hour  or more for  writing poems
It doesn’t matter what the doctors said.

My cousins  told me that I should be glad.
I have free time and all the world  to roam
I don’t believe,I  won’t believe you’re dead.

They say to  find another man instead.
That nearly made me  lose my funny bone
It doesn’t matter what the doctors said.
I don’t believe , I  won’t believe you’re dead.

Our shared human vulnerability

 A day of sudden changes.Clouds

cross the sky

like whales swimming North in rows.

The sun was bright,dazzled my eyes

with gold and silver.

Wind cut across my face

like a slap from an angry father..

Those who love can also seem to hate us too..

The lure of that small childish body

tempts them to divert their anger towards it.

When the ones who hurt you

are also the ones you love,

it’s hard to know which direction to run in;

but it usually turns into a circle.

Retreating turns into a new arrival.

Straight lines might be better. though

On a spherical earth

difficult to find.

Even parallel lines meet

In their Riemannian geometry.

So we can never get away

Sometimes the best we manage

Is to increase the circle’s radius.

Though how is hard to know.

Do you love me or hate me?

Do you want me to stay or go?

What do I want?Do I have a me?

The memory of warmth draws me back

Like a cold lonely beast leaving the jungle

To lie down with a what appears to be a lamb,

Surprising the farmer up early to milk his animals

Finding a strange new one

Looking with tender,puzzled eyes

into His Human Face.