With open eye

When we die we cannot fantasise
The body seems tranlucent  like a flower
We must confront the truth, we cannot lie

In strange times we daydream  and surmise
We float with butterflies through coloured hours
When we die,  what use is fantasy?

In the end our will is poor ally
We’re owned by forces other and their power
Oh, can I take the truth as stiff I lie?

Like red leaves from  the maple trees we fly
Undone by autumn wind and sudden showers
When we die we  need no fantasy

The good  imagined is not   in our minds
We babble like the infant in her tower
We choose the truth,  the  dead must  never lie

The choices once so strident  miss the hourera
The still small voice   oh hear  like Jeremiah
,We must admit the truth with open eye
God is not  quite dead nor elegaic

Hic. Hoc,Heck

She lectured him heretically but it was electric  to a  maniac .Mind you the gods of the classical world were pretty  plastic  by iron  age standards g so who is static?
Being egocentric is usually inborn.Sometimes it’s comic and other it’s futuristic.Anyway.,my romantic mind is  magic,hypnotic and acidic
Try to be less  static, dramatic and pessimistic.Not to mention erratic,boracic ,antic and spastic.

Floating flames

Cleveland Hills  on  the edge of cliffs we lay
In heather deep where bees   flew fast as flames
And the  wild, wild flowers and the butterflies at play
In  Cleveland Hills  on the edge of  cliffs we lay
If I could go back  would you come to stay
Where the scents’s  so  rich it pulls  love down again
Cleveland Hills  on the edge of  cliffs we lay
In heather deep,  in love we burn like flames

Why does the New Year start at the darkest  time of all?

Why does the New Year start at the darkest  time of all?
When the stars are gleaming  more than the sun can  shine all day
And the heart lashed to the lost and loved  resents death’s wall
Why does the New Year start at the darkest  time of all
When the speedy Tees from High Force  frozen  falls
When I see in dreams   your  face as the  white flowers  down I lay.
Why does the New Year start at the darkest  time of all?
When the stars are gleaming  more than the sun can  shine these days

 

Geoffrey Hill

closeup photo of brown brick wall
Photo by ShonEjai on Pexels.com

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/geoffrey-hill

Extract:

“Known as one of the greatest poets of his generation writing in English, and one of the most important poets of the 20th century, Geoffrey Hill lived a life dedicated to poetry and scholarship, morality and faith. He was born in 1932 in Worcestershire, England to a working-class family. He attended Oxford University, where his work was first published by the U.S. poet Donald Hall. These poems later collected in For the Unfallen: Poems 1952-1958 marked an astonishing debut. In dense poems of gnarled syntax and astonishing rhetorical power, Hill planted the seeds of style and concern that he cultivated over his long career. Hill’s work is noted for its seriousness, its high moral tone, extreme allusiveness and dedication to history, theology, and philosophy. In early collections such as King Log (1968) and Mercian Hymns (1971), Hill sought “to convey extreme emotions by opposing the restraint of established form to the violence of his insight or judgment,” according to New York Review of Books critic Irvin Ehrenpreis. “He deals with violent public events… Appalled by the moral discontinuities of human behavior, he is also shaken by his own response to them, which mingles revulsion with fascination.””

Parties: A Hymn of Hate Dorothy Parker, 1893 – 1967

I hate Parties;
They bring out the worst in me.

There is the Novelty Affair,
Given by the woman
Who is awfully clever at that sort of thing.
Everybody must come in fancy dress;
They are always eleven Old-Fashioned Girls,
And fourteen Hawaiian gentlemen
Wearing the native costume
Of last season’s tennis clothes, with a wreath around the neck.

The hostess introduces a series of clean, home games:
Each participant is given a fair chance
To guess the number of seeds in a cucumber,
Or thread a needle against time,
Or see how many names of wild flowers he knows.
Ice cream in trick formations,
And punch like Volstead used to make
Buoy up the players after the mental strain.
You have to tell the hostess that it’s a riot,
And she says she’ll just die if you don’t come to her next party—
If only a guarantee went with that!

Then there is the Bridge Festival.
The winner is awarded an arts-and-crafts hearth-brush,
And all the rest get garlands of hothouse raspberries.
You cut for partners
And draw the man who wrote the game.
He won’t let bygones be bygones;
After each hand
He starts getting personal about your motives in leading clubs,
And one word frequently leads to another.

At the next table
You have one of those partners
Who says it is nothing but a game, after all.
He trumps your ace
And tries to laugh it off.
And yet they shoot men like Elwell.

There is the Day in the Country;
It seems more like a week.
All the contestants are wedged into automobiles,
And you are allotted the space between two ladies
Who close in on you.
The party gets a nice early start,
Because everybody wants to make a long day of it—
They get their wish.
Everyone contributes a basket of lunch;
Each person has it all figured out
That no one else will think of bringing hard-boiled eggs.

There is intensive picking of dogwood,
And no one is quite sure what poison ivy is like;
They find out the next day.
Things start off with a rush.
Everybody joins in the old songs,
And points out cloud effects,
And puts in a good word for the colour of the grass.

But after the first fifty miles,
Nature doesn’t go over so big,
And singing belongs to the lost arts.
There is a slight spurt on the homestretch,
And everyone exclaims over how beautiful the lights of the city look—
I’ll say they do.

And there is the informal little Dinner Party;
The lowest form of taking nourishment.
The man on your left draws diagrams with a fork,
Illustrating the way he is going to have a new sun-parlour built on;
And the one on your right
Explains how soon business conditions will better, and why.

When the more material part of the evening is over,
You have your choice of listening to the Harry Lauder records,
Or having the hostess hem you in
And show you the snapshots of the baby they took last summer.

Just before you break away,
You mutter something to the host and hostess
About sometime soon you must have them over—
Over your dead body.

I hate Parties;
They bring out the worst in me.

The  grieving long ,through woodland wild, to roam

The  walls collapsing inwards as I ran
Making chaos of the once loved home
I feared to look  or write with my dear pen

By two created, now remains just one
And as I sat I heard my own voice moan
My  walls collapsing inwards, I was done

Yet now the  fighting and the sorting won
I’m feeling joyful as I labour on
I feared to look,  or write with my dear pen

From all  the suffering ,mourning , the mayhem
The  grieving long through woodland wild to roam
Not to see  that Jericho has come

Who shall grieve the least, the lion, the lamb?
Is there competition in our groans?
The   walls are   cracking    like  old window panes

Human hearts feel like cold wet limestone
When we weep they soften like old bones
I felt the walls collapsing inwards  killing men
I dared to look ,I saw my  love  was gone

Tender rain

Sitting in the silence of my room
February, cold and icy damp
Staring at the wall,I saw my doom

I saw a tunnel black as Satan’s broom
To which my train was heading with no lamp
Sitting in the silence of my room

Filled with dark despair and avid gloom
Nobody could help me, cat nor tramp
Staring at the wall,I saw my doom

A  golden garment  made  this dead soul bloom
No words spoken, everything was felt
Sitting in the silence of my room

The cloud of gold made manifest love’s flames
Dissolved my stoney heart,destroyed my guilt
Nothing  now shall  ever be the same

Behind, beneath,whichever way we tilt
The  golden being hides in all we’ve built
Sitting in the silence of my room
Tears fell down like showers of tender rain

 

Even in dreams

Garrya_elliptica-2019I

I say,Father.I’d like a blessing
So would I!
But I have sinned.
What a surprise!
I stole a loaf from a shop in town because I had no money.
You might make your own bread in future.Have you got an oven?
No, we live in a caravan.
That must be hard
Well,we are used to it but people won’t give us work like sharpening knives and they must need it after all the crimes we read of.
You could join a religious order and get free food and clothing
Say, that’s a good idea.I’ll ask my wife.
Oh, you can’t bring a wife
Well, what shall I do with her?
Get divorced
But I am a Catholic!
Well lose your faith,get divorced and  then become a  Catholic again and apply to the Jesuits.
Why them?
They enjoy that kind of reasoning.Tormenting other’s minds and their own
Well,I don’t.I want to confess to unfaithfulness
What, in a caravan?
Yes, it was a dream.But the Bible says we are responsible even for thoughts
I’d take that with a pinch of salt.We all dream  of others who share our sexual desires
You can’t prove we all do
No, but it seems  quite likely
God made us like this to procreate.Even in dreams
Well for your penance buy your wife some flowers or steal some!
I say,Father,That is naughty.
Even God has a sense of humour though it’s getting weaker.
Oh,dear.

 

Winter clouds  float in vague shades of grey

The clouds  float in  the vaguer shades of grey
Stroking like the silk shawls women wore
Mauve and lilac ,blue  and white today

In summer,whispy white clouds wander by
Leaving no long shadows on the doors
Winter clouds  sail in vague shades of grey

The sky is most exquisite  when light plays
Making patterns on the wooden floors
Mauve and lilac ,blush pink in delay

Eternal as the sea in Dover Bay
Without that marvelled ocean and its roar
Winter clouds  float vaguely in dark grey

The sky conveys no message but a prayer
That humans should   retaliate  no more
Mauve and lilac ,yellow as  sun strayed

 

Who would act so well as Satan’s whores?
Who so harshly, inhumanely, swore?
The clouds  float by in   vaguer shades of grey
Mauve and lilac, sad  as words may  say

With guns and bricks and mortar and barbed wire?

Invest in bricks and mortar and barbed wire
Fences, wood or metal and good tools
Walls and fences  keep us from the mire

Splitting off the people we can’t fire
Will banishing the Other make us fools?
Invest in bricks and mortar and barbed wire

Is he crazy;  is he a mere liar
What he knows we do not learn at school
Walls and fences  keep us  from the mire

Will   he burn when he is on his pyre?
Is he mortal,can  he ever rule
With guns and bricks and mortar and barbed wire?

Is he someone children might admire?
Or his he like a thread from a dropped spool?
Walls and fences speak like  did Town Criers

Well, in the old days some folk lived on gruel
Burned their fences,suffered drug withdrawal
Invest in bricks and mortar and barbed wire
Walls and fences   hide our bleak despair

 

I desire to talk

Father Smith sat in  the  little room
With a wooden window we assume
For folk confessed sins hidden from his eye
Or at least  they have a chance to try

As I confessed I ate my sister’s rusks
Should he know I’m starved of human trust?
As I confessed  I knew desire for men
Why should I repeat that  phrase again?

Yet is mere desire itself a sin  for me
As I have little chance that it shall be?
I’d need a mountaineer with caring hands
And  a hundred  heavy rubber bands

In my imaginative fantasy
I desire to talk  while sipping   tea

As  Wittgenstein plays  havoc with his memes?

At the bus stop I meet many folk
One man told me  Donald Trump is great
Global warming is a myth–on -coke
Brexit is indeed a super -state

All that in five minutes at the stop
Why tell me,  a cynic at the core?
His open mouth let fly, it was a flop
I am not  convinced,  trapped in bus doors

Do I signal arguing ‘s my sport?
Does it give him joy to convert dames?
Does he think that Trump  needs my retorts
As  Wittgenstein plays  havoc with his  memes?

I like men  but not  their little minds
Let them smile and  wish will be defined

Tears well up and wet my eyes.

In the land that dreams dwell in
where love and hate and life begin;
where swiftly the deep rivers flow
from those lost lands of long ago.

I wander through wild poppy fields
Underfoot the dark earth yields…
. I see the flowering fruit trees start
Their blossoms gather round my heart…

I hear the sparrows sing with joy
And bees their busy wings employ.
In those lost lands I saw your face
And now I long for your embrace.

Are you real,am I deceived
From this earth we all must leave.
Earth to earth and ash to ash
Glory,pride and boasting pass.

You have left me, dearest one
Soon I too will be called on.
Nothing lasts but truth is real
Keep your heart and your ideals..

Earth to earth, we rest in clay
We must give all self away
Softly on this earth I  roam
Seeking for my love’s new  home

For until the very end
Love and kindnss may descend.
Even one glance of an eye
Can love convey when all’s awry.


Soft as wings of butterflies
Tears well up and wet my eyes.
My heart has melted into yours
All shall grow and die like flowers

Retaliation

Sisyphus’s task would never end
But mine’s not as large ,I see  that now
My god, it nearly drove me round the bend

Who would help me,lend me their right hands?
No, they criticise when they should bow
Sisyphus’s task would never end

In  some  families dwell fearsome “friends”
I  am a  verb. my meaning is no noun
Ah God, they nearly drove me round the bend

 

Why such hate,I do not understand?
We must not stab a person who is down
Though Sisyphus’s task would never end

In all our human hearts dwell  vicious trends
Sadder is it ,still, to be a clown
By God, they nearly drove me round the bend

Violence to  a traveller might astound
Retaliation, is the notion sound?
Sisyphus’s  task would never end
Did it  drive the  ancient  round the bend?

 

 

What is free verse?

dsc00144https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/free-verse

Extract:

Since the early 20th century, the majority of published lyric poetry has been written in free verse. See the work of William Carlos Williams, T.S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, and H.D. Browse more free-verse poems.

Dunwich Heath [ a triolet]

The memory of Dunwich Heath
The birds so rare, the sea so near
The  broken marble  on the beach
The  inner fires, the burning Heath
The trees that hunch, the wind so East
The savaged,polished rocks now dear
The sacred life of languid heath

My future  fell   away like Dunwich Town

My future  fell   away like Dunwich Town
I stand  alone on cliffs above grey sea
Watching all  my hopes and wishes drown

Marble from the churches settles down
Fragments are washed up erratically
My future  fell   away like Dunwich Town

My foot, mistaken, stretches out again
Struck by fear, I pull it to safety
Watching all my  plans and wishes drown

Insecure,I struggle  with my gait
Is the pavement real, is tarmac sea?
My future  fell  away like Dunwich Town

Is there any name for  my new state?
Which phone or book has songs for  a night sea?
Who made me and brought  my wishes down?

To you the pavement’s solid and no sea
That is not how  pavements  seem to me
My future  fell   away like Dunwich Town
At the end of land, my ego drowned

 

Her virtue and her vice competing streams

Dreaming of my landlady again
Her accent posh as if she would be Queen
She hated  mess and mould but mainly men

Pure and tidy like a new made nun
Her virtue and her vice competing streams
Dreaming of my landlady again

As she grew older, purity was won
Her husband ran away and she turned green
She hated  mess and muck but mainly men

I wonder what might be her favourite sin
Eating Weetabix with milk and cream?
Dreaming of my landlady again

Her spouse  provided her with just one son
His cot  annoyed her husband ,I presume
She hated mats and mice but mainly men

She had no vacuum cleaner than a broom
She polished it with duraglit at noon
Dreaming of my landlady again
I gave her up for Lent but she’s not gone.

 

To you who write my dreams ,I give my thanks

To you who write my dreams ,I give my thanks
Please, not at my old school with wet pants
I do not want to get  a prize again
Nor wonder  how I differ from Big Ben

I do not wish to enter  maths exams
With questions on  straight lines that run like trams
Nor draw a graph of lost ellipse on ice
Nor study any science needing knives

I do not wish to sit on a hard chair
I’m 97  though I say my prayers
I’d rather dream of Langdale Pikes in snow
How to send a message? I don’t know

How befriend a writer  we can’t see
Or  more important,  who  will befriend me?

The thunderstorm means God has stubbed his toe

Anger,rage and fear camp in our minds
The thunderstorm means God has stubbed his toe
A misread prayer, a human  grace denied

Mother left the bacon with its rind
Father thinks the cat must learn to sew
Anger,rage and fear, in our small minds

The children bite the dog,is that unkind?
The old man passing thinks it must be so
A misplaced prayer, a human  grace defied

Many  choose strange  words  to torture  time
Paranoia’s useful,  as science shows
Anger,rage and fear, unpick our minds

I wonder if we’re less tense as we rhyme
Or must all difference lead to exchanged blows?
An unknown prayer, all  goodness  man derides

I see I  have a very refined nose
I’ll kill you if you say it’s just a pose
Anger,rage and fear burn up our minds
Say a prayer,  breathe out and then be kind

 

 

My faint hope, to lose, eradicate

Calling for you in the dreary night
Hearing phantom footsteps on the stairs.
Looking for your face, without a light

My  faint hope,to lose,eradicate,
Makes me search once more and everywhere
I’m calling for you in the ghastly night

Is there any name  for my dull state?
Worn out seeking  who is never here
Looking for your face, oh send  more  light

How can I complain about my fate
When   little children’s  souls by loss are bared?
I’m crying for you in this long, doomed night

My  massive nerves twist  like the carrot’s root
As men enjoy  their   blood sport, kill sweet hares
Haunted by  your face, I need no light

Bring new life, spring up, is  this life fair?
What’s to  come hangs on what’s been  made down here
Calling for you in the moonlit night
Looking for your face in its soft light