Sewing my soul together



I get out my sewing gear

In the quiet times of life,

When I need to mend the tears

Torn by stress and strife.


I hold my soul so carefully

And look at every part.

I hope that light will come to me.

As I wonder how to start.


I take my needle out

With love thread through its heart

I scrutinise each inch

And then I start to stitch


In the quietness of the night

You heal me all the time.

You talk to me in dreams

And I write them down in rhymes.


Keep the cocoon whole

Till the soul’s completely there,

Then through its love sewn cloth

A butterfly will flare.


The ancient bricks

 The ancient bricks are crumbling   making space
For living creatures humble, self effaced 
The  wallflowers waver on the topmost ledge
Leaning out to watch the hurried pass

The sun shines from the East in blinding glare
Shadows shorten .trees bud ,Spring is near
My baseball cap protects my eyes and skin
Even the  most strong  will never win

We take the humus ,grow our crops and flowers
When our time is  done,   we will not cower
Gratefully we love  our neighbours,friends
Right until we reach the very  end 

Then with the  bones of innocence we lie
Deep the soil  and deeper still the Eye

She ain’t won no prizes yet

           There was a letter in Writing magazine,
As it happens it ‘s an issue I’ve already seen.
One,asked if it is true that poetry with rhymes
Is not the fashion in our times.

Sacramental trees

tree in sun

 Maybe you didn’t know

When you touched me so.

Maybe you never knew

What your words would do.

I float across that space

Where lovers once embraced

And thus you bring torment

To me to  whom  love you sent.

When I close my eyes

My daytime face then dies.

I look across dark seas

To sacramental trees.

My dreams are full of loss.

Is night or day the worse?

When we return  next  here

Will  love outstrip our  fear?

I gaze upon your face,

Forbidden  to embrace.

My arms ache deep inside,

As if in agony tied.

Torn apart by  grief

Love is now a thief.

Where has God’s face gone

As brightly shines the sun?

The pains of life  are sharp,

Cutting through the heart

But still we turn towards love,

With all the  strength we have.

Trusting in the dark

And emptiness beside

I step into the  void

Love can’t be denied

Were you not soldiers too,fighting for the right to breathe?

The protesting world

cries out like a trumpet

playing “The last post.”

The eyes of the lost ask me to tell

what is unspeakable,

but I have nothing

except to ask why bugles are not played for you

at Remembrance Ceremonies.

Were you not soldiers too,

fighting for the right to breathe?

The “right to life,”

As you dragged yourself off the truck

Not quite believing but

Yet,yes,believing,paradoxically that

Soon you would be silent amd still.

Your teeth carefully taken for gold”

Yes,they were green alright

Recycling was very important to the Nazi..

One might almost say they were the pioneers here of what we do today

So was hygiene. They practised so well

How to wash their hands clean from guilt,

So much soap they needed

So they could play Mozart

and tenderly touch their children

Then sleep on clean linen enjoying such dreams.

Soon the world would be perfect.

all in order,all tidied away,

Unique,complete, orderly ,dead..

Yes, death of everything w as the real final solution.

All packed away in boxes,

Waiting for the Resurrrection.

How far is it to heaven from where we started?

Would Jesus like to meet you now,to greet you,

So pure,clean and perfect?

You have cut out your own heart with the breadknife

Because it troubled you so,beating like that.

When you were only doing your duty.

Doing what men have to do.

A dove flew up as the agnostic man comforted the

frightened boy

And hand in hand they died right there

At the foot of the Cross.

Which you revered,I believe.

But it was God’s son hanging there

And you all knew.

Hands outstretched across the world

I can’t love you without loving the whole world too.
I can’t open my heart unless everyone can be part.

Wait for me.
I’m not afraid.
Wait for me.
I may be delayed.

I see you in my mind
Smiling, sad and kind.
I can’t love you
Unless I love the lost too.

Give me your hands
Outstretched across the world.
We’re all one
Love has begun

Elegance lies bare

Apple tree and sunshine

In summer time when sun do shine

I’m happy on my own

I gaze up through red maple leaves

All transparent in the sun.

But when winter comes I’m lonely

Sitting here beside my fire.

So I want a  winter lover

To keep my spirits higher.

Oh,my winter love come to me

And I’ll gaze deep into your eyes

The light that shines in there

Is so much warmer than my fire.

We’ll go through wintry woodlands,

Where elegance lies bare.

The branches struck by sun

Now feel the frosty grasp of air.

I’ll love you all the winter time.

I’ll love you  in the dark.

I’d like to rest within your arms,

And have a peaceful talk

When summer comes I’ll disappear

To roam across the dales

I’ll sleep on heather moorlands

And send you loving mail.

I can’t be tied in summertime

I must be roaming free.

But ,if you accept this  need of mine,

To you I’ll faithful be.

The windhover

 A window is the wind’s eye.

This article is by Carol Rumens

Poem of the week: The Windhover by Gerard Manley Hopkins

This time, Hopkins’s astonishing control of his wildly experimental form is as awe-inspiring as its subject matter

A kestrel

A kestrel in flight. Photograph: Shay Connolly/PA

Gerard Manley Hopkins wrote “The Windhover” in May, 1877. He had been a student at St Bueno’s Theological College for three years, and this was a productive period: the year of “God’s Grandeur”, “Spring” and “The Starlight Night”, among others. “The Windhover” is the most startlingly experimental of this gorgeous tranche of sonnets. Hopkins seems at ease, fully in control of the energies of his sprung rhythm and effortlessly folding the extra-metrical feet he called outrides (see line two, for example) into the conventional sonnet form. He recognised his own achievement, and, sending a revised copy to his friend Robert Bridges, declared that this was the best poem he’d ever written.

Much discussed and interpreted, “The Windhover” plainly begins with, and takes its rhythmic expansiveness from, a vividly observed kestrel. That the bird is also a symbol of Christ, the poem’s dedicatee, is equally certain. Perhaps too, its ecstatic flight unconsciously represents for Hopkins his own creative energy. When he exclaims “How he rung upon the rein…” his image might extend to the restraints and liberations of composition. The phrase means to lead a horse in a circle on the end of a long rein held by its trainer, and it certainly makes a neat poetic metaphor.

What a marvellous sentence Hopkins sets soaring across the first seven lines of the octet: I particularly like those cliff-hanger adjectives summoned “in the riding/ Of the rolling level underneath him steady air”. The diction throughout is rich and strange: “wimpling” (rippling and pleating), “sillion” (a strip of land between two furrows), “the hurl”, “the achieve”. There are resonant ambiguities: “buckle” for example could be imperative or indicative, and it could mean any of three things: to prepare for action (an archaic meaning), to fasten together, or to bend, crumple and nearly break (“buckled like a bicycle wheel” as William Empson remarked when analysing the poem in Seven Types of Ambiguity).

The metaphysics may be complex but the imagery of riding and skating are plain enough. The wheeling skate brilliantly inscapes the bird’s flight-path. It’s important to our sensation of sheer, untrammelled energy that we see only the heel of the skate, and not the skater. Empson wrote that he supposed Hopkins would have been angered by the bicycle-wheel comparison, but I am not at all sure he would have been: the poem welcomes ordinary physical activity, and a cyclist has his heroic energies and painful accidents like any other athlete.

Christ’s Passion is central to the poem, the core from which everything else spirals and to which everything returns. The plunge of the windhover onto its prey suggests not simply the Fall of man and nature, but the descent of a redemptive Christ into the abyss of human misery and cruelty. References to equestrian and military valour (the dauphin, the chevalier) evoke the Soldier Christ, a figure to be found in the Spiritual Exercises of St Ignatius of Loyola which Hopkins devotedly practised. The swoop of this hawk-like dove is essentially spiritual, of course. But the poem doesn’t forget or devalue the “sheer plod” of the farm-labourer – another alter ego, I suspect.

It’s remarkable how the sestet slows down without losing energy. Instead of flight there is fire: is this a reference to Christ’s post-mortem descent into Hell? The adoring “O my Chevalier” softens to a Herbert-like, tender “Ah my dear”. And now the great impressionist painter, having so far resisted any colour beyond that suggestive “dapple-dawn”, splashes out liberally with the “blue-bleak” embers and the “gold-vermilion” produced by their “gall” and “gash” (both words, of course, associated with the Crucifixion). Again, there is terra firma as well as metaphysics. The earth is broken by the plough in order to flare gloriously again, and the warm colours suggest crops as well as Christ’s redemptive blood. Beyond that, we glimpse some other-worldly shining, a richness not of earth alone. As always in Hopkins’s theology, Grace in the religious sense is not to be divorced from athletic, natural, often homoerotic, grace. In fact, it is fuelled by it.

The Windhover
To Christ Our Lord

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom 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: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

Acumen in verse

I never had acumen as such;

I trusted in people too much

An innocent   with a  heart

Till  it bled from your dart.

Now I’m cynical and hate  most  men from the start.

Is acumen innate in anyone?

If so my parents passed none on

I don’t like investing

And finance  is testing.

But I love and am loved so I’ve won.

I am finding acumen hard to use

Its  three syllables  make me confused

How to pronounce it

Is too hard,so denounce it.

As we don’t want to feel self bemused.

Fortunately I am not self employed

As accounting  and tax me annoy..

I am a voice in the forest

Humorous and  honest.

But of acumen I am supremely devoid

Love is simple,love is plain


Love is simple,love is plain.

Will love ever come again?

Life is joy and life is woe.

Through its pains all humans go.

Love enlightens and discloses

Thoughts as sweet as summer roses.

Take me back to Northern hills

Where my fraught soul with honey’s filled.

All I want is to be there,

With you ,my love,now grown so dear.

Oh,love is kind and love is rare.

We’ll not discover better fare.

Feed me with such love again,

And I shall be a most blessed one

%d bloggers like this: