Category: villanelle

The Nightmare Complex

To write a poem I dream an undreamed dream
The woods in France  where float the dead young men
A nightmare complex in its perplexed themes

In our dream the narrative has means
To  make those killed communicate again
To write a poem I dream an undreamed dream

Later, in another war, trains  steamed
To take the insect Jew, no longer man.
A nightmare complex in its evil themes

The little pearls we half see  as we scheme;
The evasions we ignored but which remained.
We read a poem,  we dream an undreamed dream

Who we are and who we might have been
At 4 am  in isolated pain
The Nightmare Complex,  come to share our screams

Can any see the woods as Dante aimed
To recreate the paths where we might change?
To write a poem embodies  soldiers’  dreams
Nightmares dark  with piercing warlike themes

A hundred years and still the forests bleed

We, human, learned the power of words and signs
For economics, fighting and parlay.
We loved, in abstract, symbols strange, malign.

There is wrought beauty, patterned in design
Yet to see the  actual one is how we pray
Which humans saw the power of disguised signs?

We like  the half familiar,  the foreign
For we were nomads once and  we’re unnamed.
The move towards abstraction , why malign?

We love each unique person unconfined.
We cannot love “mankind” although God may.
We, human, feel the power of words and signs

The  tree has roots and God is unresigned
So  begins the knowledge in his clay
The abstract tree bears fruits rich and malign.

When God smiled, she said the seventh day.
Is  one on which each little child should play
Despite  that humans saw the  power of sign
And cultivated woods for wars malign.

Perhaps life’s real answers will prove to be dietary

Modern society; oh, what notoriety!
A dress  one can see through; they make sure we do, do, do
I wonder  what I can  say  writing my poetry

Some folks are models of total sobriety
From the top  of the head to the well-heeled  big toe too
Modern society  creates much notoriety

I wanted to  practise medicine and psychiatry
But my unconscious mind  caught  that  terrible swine flu
I wonder what one can achieve by learning poetry?

I studied the foot and learned much “podiatry”
How to cut corns off   or   stick them  back: superglue
Modern society  maims  with notoriety

Perhaps life’s  real answers will prove to be dietary
Stop all this writing and run to the Super Zoo
What I can achieve just making this poetry?

When you phone me up  you say “is that you, Lou”
I’ll  say  I felt bitter but now I’m just” Boo Hoo”!
Modern society  creates notoriety
I wonder  where I   can live  with my poetry

I could not measure justice nor what’s fair

When I was burning with  the fire of rage
Or speaking in a voice emotion bare
I did not find escape from my small cage

When I misused the knowledge of my age
And for another did not feel much care
I was burning  bright with  fire enraged

When I  with my  own mind did not engage
I could not   measure justice nor what’s fair
I could not find escape from my small cage

But when I saw the view from off the page
At this right angle  placed, I knew  to say:
I  shall not fight a friend ,when trapped in rage

Now I thank the metaphoric trade
Which symbolises feelings’ higher ways
I found   at last the exit from my cage

Looking  with the broad view of  child’s play,
I found the path   which seems to be my way
No longer burning with  the fires of rage
I  found escape from my unholy cage

An ancient ,holy sound begins the Spring.

Although it’s dark out there the blackbird sings
His territory  is the same as in the past
An ancient ,holy sound begins the Spring.

These birds are little dinosaurs with wings
Like the spider they adapted and so last
Although it’s dark, out there my blackbird sings.

What other pleasures will the season bring?
Alas the seasons come and too soon pass
An ancient ,holy sound begins the Spring.

In my leafy wood, birds wisely throng.
We have no cat nor greenhouse with its glass
Although it’s dark, out there my blackbird sings.

In my heart, for Northern moors I long;
The heather where we loved, the sheep shorn grass
As ancient ,holy sounds began the Spring.

Yet I am never mournful for the past
God lives in each small moment,life’s our Mass
Although it’s dark out there the blackbird sings
An ancient ,holy sound begins the Spring.

Despite the scent of spring we sense in air

The scent of  growth , of spring, is in the air
It urges us to wait for life is near
Despite the flowerbeds empty  with despair

Yet winter  left the trees and shrubs so bare.
With that emptiness  we have a common fear
The scent of  growth , of spring, is in the air

To emptiness and lowness we bring care.
Despite the vision bringing us to tears
Despite the flowerbeds empty  with despair

We too have seasons  miserable or fair.
In our darkness monsters may appear
Despite the  scent  of spring  we sense in air

Like faces children see when they long stare.
From the patterned wall paper they leer
We need the  faith that growth comes from despair

Now we shed a  handful of salt tears
For memories that slide down all our years
The scent of  growth , of spring, is in the air
To tempt the flowerbeds empty  with despair.

Letting go at last, becoming still.

Gently  giving in to nature’s will
Your struggle’s finished ,you  now want to leave
Letting go of all, becoming  still.

Like a stone which tumbles by the rill
With wit and gravity ,with grace received
At last accepting God  or nature’s will

We live exultant then we pay in full
The dying and their lovers, we  are grieved
Letting go of all, becoming  still

The soul  prepares just as the body chills
Ripe with vision,willing, undeceived
Humble,  daring, this is God’s anvil.

Flying like the lark from  heathered hills
Near the lakes whose  plangent waters breathe
Letting go at last, becoming still.

Companions to your end, we’re now bereaved
Yet by  the beauty of that end  we’re pleased
Gently  drifting off  by nature’s will
Letting go of  life, becoming  still.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night by Dylan Thomas.

 

The most famous villanelle of all time, I believe.He wrote it when his father was very ill

songthrush_otmoor2014

 

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightening they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Courage helps the heart and helps perceive

After loss comes shock then  follows grief
We  learn in little steps the loved one’s gone
Unless we  want to lie and make believe

Courage helps the heart and helps perceive
The wounding  blows  that hit us one by one
After loss comes shock and, later, grief

Unless we wish  to spurn and not   receive.
The  grace  which comes with truth can be foregone
When we  like to lie and make believe

Without mourning, no-one  can conceive
Creative living   may  have  been and  gone
After loss comes shock and, later, grief

Forgo  your friendship with  those who  deceive
Find  the  source of love which dwells within
Do we  wish to lie and make believe?

Misperception is the home of sin
Attacked,deceived , wrapped up in   virtual din
But after loss , we must digest  our grief
Unless we  wish to live in make belief

The sun flew

Yesterday the sun was fearsome gold
The sky of cerulean blue was   summer warm
Yet now I tremble in the dreaded cold

Where are those arms in which I  once was held;
Where the smile and where the loving balm?
Yesterday the sun was fierce with gold

Once, with  love I was made  kind yet bold
I rested on the strength within his arms
Yet now I tremble in the stealthy cold

My heart is crying. for  love now seems withheld.
And no protection shields me from dread harm
Yesterday the sun was warm and gold

With his body I once wished to meld
I gave myself to hold him  then so warm
Yet now I tremble in the stealthy cold

Grief can cause both tears and wild alarm
Yet music or the song of birds  is balm
Yesterday the sun  flew starred with gold
Yet now I clothe myself to live  with cold

I talk about the weather like a fool

When I cannot tell you how I feel
When I want to see you ,not  to speak,
I talk about the weather like a  fool

Sometimes when I’m tired I feel unreal
Or life seems lost and  meaning seems to leak
Then I  can not  tell you how I feel.

Some months have their winds to make misrule
Others  throttle  throats and freeze the cheeks
I talk about the weather ,as its cool.

We must keep moving or our blood congeals
So sheep must  on moorland  frosty, bleak
I don’t want to  lie for  life is real

When winter mocks our age I find it cruel
Yet you are old and for amusement look
I talk about  the sunshine like a  fool

Oh,happy   snowfalls keeping us from school
As on the ice we tumbled with loud shrieks
When I  cannor   tell you how I feel
The weather  stands for  what  I   have concealed

The underpinnings now are foundering

He is dead,I am not self deceived.
He smiled,I smiled, and then  he closed his eyes
There’s the coffin with its boundaries

How does death affect the ones bereaved?
Some despair  some speak in fatal lies
He is dead,I am not self deceived.

My underpinnings now are foundering
I cannot help myself ,though I will try
There’s the coffin with its boundaries

He’s gone,he’s gone and cannot be retrieved.
I knew I had to  watch him on his way
He is dead, I will not sense deceive.

What is my world when he is not perceived?
I will  lose my voice unless I pray
The wooden coffin brings me to my knees

To God’s own grace, I open to receive
He’s the green force underneath  our play
My lover’s dead, I will not sense deceive.

Tomorrow and tomorrow I shall pay
As in the enriched ground his form will lie
He is dead,I am not self deceived.
Here’s  his coffin with  closed boundaries

What will be a flower,what a mere weed?

Unshed tears will make our innards bleed
The agony disguised  will find its way,
Destroy our life and kill the growing seed

On this topic many’ ve disagreed
Stiff upper lips and  eyes that look like prey
The unshed tears will make  their innards bleed

We must surely ask for what we need
Not tomorrow, we must act today
Protect our life and all  its growing seeds

What will be a flower,what a mere weed?
We must use our wisdom to convey
The unshed tears  that make our innards bleed

Only our own soul knows all our needs
And once we seek, we must not  more delay
Employ our life and help the growing seed

Seek the owl and not the donkey’s bray
What it tells you none but you can say
For unshed tears will make our innards bleed
Destroy our life and kill the growing seed

No remedy exists for hidden grief

No remedy exists for hidden grief
A blank face and a voice that does not speak
Expression  is the route to our relief

The caterpillar gnaws the new green leaf
And actions are the place where meaning leaks
No remedy exists for hidden grief

Emotions are all clouded and bereft
We look around and all the world seems bleak
Expression  is the pathway to relief

Song or dance or paint or words can leave
A form wherein our agony is Greek
No remedy exists for hidden grief

We trust the dark,continue to believe
Though all we hear at first are our own shrieks
Expression  is the way to  true relief.

The heart and soul   are patient and are meek.
For the unknown God,  they darkness seek
No remedy exists for hidden grief
Expression   gives us comfort and relief

A word that’s spoken by a friend can reach

A word  that’s spoken by a friend can  reach
Can touch, can move, can  embrace in its sounds
The inner soul where its vibrations teach.

When cut off, silent,after   sad defeat
Such gentle words can break our sullen bonds
A word  that’s spoken by a friend can  reach.

We must not  torture nor torment  in speech
Our heart, the centre of our  morbid wounds
The inner soul with its vibrations speaks..

From our eye, a tear  springs  with  relief
From imprisoned sulking, jump with a great bound!
A word  that’s spoken by a friend can  reach.

Muscles weaken,but the mind stays fleet
Humour and its cousins are our clowns
The inner soul  by its athletics speaks.

I smile and smile and rarely do I frown
For I will rise up, even when low down
A word  that’s spoken by a friend can  reach
The inner soul ,deep  memories  are evoked

A gentle touch can help the sad at heart

Cutting hair is like   creating art
My kind hairdresser said this to me once.
Her loving touch can help the sorry heart

 

If I were cutting hair, where would I start?
I smiled at her and gave firm response
Cutting hair is  a  creative  art

 

Upon which side do you desire to part?
I was day- dreaming,my mind was in a trance
A gentle touch can help the sad at heart

 

Another lover’s not what I have sought
I can’t withstand the  torments of the dance
Looking good  is  a  creative  art

I  never enjoyed the way men talked and fought
I am a  stranger to  the rules of a romance
A gentle touch can help the sad at heart

I kissed a man but it was self defence!
I  never let him get a second chance
Cutting hair is like   creating art
A loving touch can help the lonesome  heart

I tried to make a pie crust from a bell

They say that we enclose our soul in shell.
But then we are cut off from our true self
It keeps away the demons loose from hell

We may keep our hearts that way as well
And so we are cut off from inner wealth
Today we all  enclose our souls in shell.

Sometimes trifles will not set or gell
Some may gain advantages by stealth
I blame those  wicked demons loose from hell

I tried  to make a pie crust from a  bell
The copper is not good for human health
They say that we enjoy our souls in shell.

A symbol is like water from the well
The meaning can be dug out by himself
I like those  wicked demons   hot  as hell

We petrify, we ossify our selves.
We try to buy our  grace from  off  the shelves
They say that we enclose our soul in shell.
It keeps away the demons  and all else,

As all too soon each little day is done

I sat  on your old wall to see the sun
The wall is cold and makes my  rear end chill
As all too soon each little day is done

The day is ending and I ‘ve not  begun
To do my writing , let my mind be still
I sat  on your old wall  in winter sun

If we were younger we might have more fun
But  we  allow now  what we cannot will
As all too soon each little day is done

Must we finish what we have begun?
We gazed at  rampant water by the mill.
I sat  on your old wall  in winter sun

As a woman, I can love a  man
Them to their rest with singing I may lull
As all too soon each little day is done

Today my heart with love is very full
And happy tears  my  features like to swill
I sat  on your  stone wall to  eye the sun
As all too soon each little day is done

And wished instead of flesh, I was hard wood

The sunshine fluctuates as do my moods
My inner landscape’s clouded like the sky
And  anxious thoughts  into my mind intrude

I  disdain phone calls with impatience rude
For connections only make me want to cry.
The weather fluctuates as do my moods

Strange and lonely thoughts await in queues
I tell them they are foolish and they lie
More  anxious thoughts  into my mind intrude

I understand why people quarrel and are rude
I understand why imprecations fly.
The sunshine fluctuates as do my moods

But  dark clouds pass and   feelings change to good.
When self respect and love are each nearby
I shall befriend the  thoughts   which now intrude

I  panicked as  bad thoughts became a flood
And wished instead of flesh, I was hard wood
The sunshine fluctuates as do my moods
Those anxious thoughts  with love are now  endured.

He has no self at all, if all’s his wish.

No mirror for reflection in his mind
He says whatever suits  that moment’s wish
Thus he is to truth  disabled,  blind

Pride and power  make human beings  unkind.
But  reflecting   can  point to what’s amiss.
There’s no mirror for reflection in his mind

In phantasy, we obtain what we  design.
But  fancied love won’t give  a fleshly kiss
We are  to truth  and  justice surreal,blind

To  find  the  truth  we  cannot be malign
Must view  again the  images  dismissed
Who can use the mirrors  in   their minds?

Judging of our leaders is no crime;
For we judge our selves and that is less than bliss
When  leaders lie, the world is undermined

He has no self at all,  if  all’s his wish.
Inevitable  the fall to  the abyss
He has no space for mirrors in his mind
Thus he is to danger doubly blind.

Day shall come again

When red sun  drops and  cooling night  rolls in
Darkness masks both danger and  vision
Ancient minds fear    day won’t come again
Courage for the  delicate   seems thin
We  wrestle  with  our indecision
When  sun  drops and the night  rolls in
But now , new stricken by   a sense of sin
Who shall aid  the soul’s   derision?
Our  ancient minds fear   day won’t come again
When  we sleep, we’re entertained within
Deft dreams squander all   illusion
When  sun  drops and  black night  rolls in.
In reverie we’re loved  and  so  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 , creative night rolled in
When  ancient  hearts cried  “Day  shall come again”

Like music or the menace of Al-gebra.

The art of  loving’s likely going to cost you;
Like  music or the menace of al-gebra.
Will you pay the price,I  need to ask you?

Remember all the lovers who have tossed you!
They say for stress ,to imitate the zebra
The art of  loving’s surely going to cost you

Will you let me , now I need to grasp you?
I remember your first  girl,that minx called Debra
Will you eat my food,I   have to ask you?

I wonder how I’d  feel if I had lost you.
Can I  save your image  on my camera?
The art of  loving, what’s it going to cost you?

I recognise,I know your shape and posture.
I want to steal your kisses;may I rob you?
Will you pay  full  price,I   have  to ask you?

I’ve  loved a million men but not a cobra.
Do I need a permit if I love you?
The tact of  living’s likely to  bypass you;.
Will you pay the piper, when I frisk you?

I store that image in the web within

Slowly sleep unwraps itself from  me
I pull the curtain back and see the sun,
I waken  taken by dream’s  imagery.

Once we stayed in Aldeburgh by the sea.
The sunrise  showed the fishermen begin.
As slowly sleep unwrapped itself from  me

The coloured boats looked  beautiful and  free
I store that image in  the web within
I waken  taken by dream’s  imagery.

My  peaceful eyes were washed by  coloured sea.
The image murmured to its inner kin
Slowly sleep unwrapped itself from  me

I sing of joy and sorrow and am free.
I hold no thoughts of conquest,death or sin
I waken  taken by dream’s  imagery.

That which is without is yet within.
As day ended so day shall begin.
Slowly sleep unwraps itself from  me.
I waken  glorified by  imagery.

Where nude police with guns strut stiffly by.

 

He says we’re going to bed this afternoon
As melancholy  clouds  droop from the sky
I like the sun to  fry, to heat my womb

I like the flowers each with its  dull dead blooms
On burning   grass with him, I sinned to  fly.
He says we’re getting bail this afternoon

If there is no sun, there is no  moon.
If  we cannot stalk, then we can lie.
I out my sins  to  thrive, to bring  down Rome

I    scorn the  beach, where Europe showed it’s ruined
Nude starched police with guns strut  stiffly by.
He says we’ll have  the climax   S & hemmed,

I sing in tunes invented by my clones
I would be dumb  yet how the grey ghosts sigh
I  hear the sunbeams screaming in the Zone

 

If  it’s   very hot I have  clothes my own
Burkinis  are  the   big hits of today
They says we’re going to Jail this afternoon
I  hope that God will speak  and  throw us down

Nature, though deceptive, cannot lie.

The sun  took down the grey cloaks  from the  sky.
Those clouds deprived  us of her brilliant light
This light will please my spirit and my eye

The  branches of the  trees gleam from on high
And on the shrubs the leaves shine  in my sight
The sun dismissed the grey cloaks of the  sky.

Nature, though deceptive, cannot lie.
She ,like us, swings from  the dark to bright
Her light has pleased my spirit and my eye.

An artist paints, her picture poetry.
Through her work, the hidden world delights
For sun dismissed the grey clouds from the  sky.

A sculptor plays with  marble  till it  cries
The truth we need to feel and then to write
Creation   raises spirits and   our eyes.

 

Yet even in the darkness,poets write
Maybe  like the past, by candle light
The sun   has dried the  grey clouds in the  sky.
New light  caresses  spirits prone to sigh.

 

With trepidation

 

To write a poem will take our entire heart
Our mind and soul, our body and our dreams.
With trepidation, take a pen and start

Let preconceptions, though well meant, depart
Creative work evades such plans and schemes
To write a poem will shake the entire heart

We travel lands unknown without a chart.
With our courage, trust the dark unseen
For inspiration, take a pen and write

We bite the apple, bitter, hard and tart
Knowledge enters in its dream -like streams
To write a poem will move each living heart

No logic, reasoning, signs, however wrought
Will bring to life the holy pattern’s themes
With each image, still your dreaming hear

The earth, the oceans, seas, the sacred scenes
Where humans live out daily what life means
To write a poem, we need the mystic heart.
In emptiness, we fill our pens, we start

We’d hoped to see those roses very soon

 

We ‘d  hoped to see the rose gardens in June
But on the 1st he died and travelled on
We  both enjoyed   the roses in  full  bloom

We used the dark to see the stars and moon
But by the 1st  I found that he was gone
We hoped to see the rose gardens in June

As  I tell,  this death arrived  too soon
And  took away  the  life of   a  dear man
We  wished to see the  flowers in full bloom

As he  lay, I sang  remembered  psalms
I  knew before the doctors he was gone
We meant to see the rose gardens in June

Then  there with me he  re-encountered calm
I had not gone there with a plan
We  longed to see the  flowers’  enchanting blooms

May was cold and bitter with alarm
That was when he fell , yet was unarmed.
We’d  hoped to see  those roses  very soon
We    love the  scent of roses in full bloom

I have wandered off the sacred track

I have wandered down a long and ill made track.
Down footpaths that seemed intriguing,  yet were  stark
I have wandered,  wondering at my lack.

 

I wandered, crossed the dry earth and its cracks
I   passed through corn fields hidden in the dark
I have wandered off  the preplanned track

I am like a gypsy with no pack
In the sky ,I hear the little lark
I have wandered, blaming my ill luck

I am lost and never shall get back
Despite the sun, I feel  the thump of dark
I have wandered off the  sacred  track

My heavy  thoughts have often  turned near  black;
Lured the dog which torments with its bark.
I have trembled as the bullets snack.

Were we flooded, I could take the Ark
Were I braver, I’d with generals talk.
I have wandered off the map and track
I have walked unknowing  what we lack

The world is not a womb and cannot be.

Oh, hands so painful, why do you test me?
I need to write so God must cure me here!
From the world of ills, I wish to flee.

I  feel I am a small boat on a sea.
infirmities  like mine hurt like a spear
Oh,  dainty-fingered hands, why test you me?

The world is not a womb and cannot be.
Within by good and ill we need to steer
Oh, hands so painful, why do you test me?

I hope to turn my face to better see.
Away from this built world where strangers leer
Oh hands, oh heart, oh God, no more test me

To join the club of pain there is no fee.
So for no one human is the price too dear
Oh, hands so painful,  how can suffering be?

We have no other life than this one here.
To see and hear and touch  we feel desire
Oh, hands so painful, why dear Lord, test me?
Yet from this world of ills, I ‘ll never flee,

Good’s no sin

Deceitful winter lets the sunshine in.
I smell the earth and see a  snowdrop lone
Yet what seems pleasant is, in truth, a sin.

In minute ways the lengthening  day begins.
The virtuous  hope   the true way  will be shown
Deceitful winter lets the sunshine in.

At least the darkness hid what is within
For we each bury  shadow under stone
Then what was pleasant turns to torment grim.

The  world is other, we  live on its skin.
With unfulfilled desires, we infant moan.
Deceitful winter lets the sunshine in.

We blame gods and men, for grace is thin.
Yet must we learn to trust the great unknown?
Then all that’s pleasant  feels no longer grim.

Perceptions change as we move  towards our home
Where all that’s wicked shall be overthown.
Deceitful winter let this sunshine in.
What seems bad is good, and good’s no sin.

They kindly stole my voice, but it don’t show.

I lost my  own voice  sixty  years ago
My knees are aching  like the devil’s heart
Now the pain has come up from below

My hands are red and swollen, so it goes,
Around my body, hops from part to part
I lost my  own voice  sixty years  ago

Oh, dear heart, it only goes to show
The existential piss of Jean-Paul Sartre
The ache, the pain, have risen from below.

 

The teacher said my  social class was low
More, my Dobble accent was not smart
I lost my own voice then,  yet it died slow.

Today I’m in the upper class, you know!
I taught pure maths in Oxford,  a paid tart.
They kindly stole my voice, but it don’t show.

I’d like to hear my mam and daddy talk
I’d like to go with grandad for a walk
I’ve lost my own voice sixty  years  heart-sore
Now the rage is rising like bread dough.