Sometimes sun shines in September
Sometimes sky is brilliant blue
Sometimes sun shines in September,
Sometimes I remember you.
Sometimes love comes in September,
Sometimes there’s this final chance.
Sometimes love comes, so remember
Such affairs are happenstance.
Sometimes love comes down in sunshine.
Sometimes love comes down in rain
Sometimes love comes in September.
Sometimes love pains us again.
To my readers:
I use language here in the form common in the past in a working class mill town in the North of England . We always referred to people as our Mam,our John or mi Mam,mi Dad.
I rode on a horse on the Merry- Go- Round at the New Year Fair,
And every time I came around,our Dad were stood right there.
The horses they went up and down,as we whirled around.
To me,so small, they seemed so high, way up above the ground.
You knew I loved those colourful horses standing up right tall;
So you let me ride on one,though Mam thunk me far too small.
I shall never lose the happiness,riding with a view..
But far more than I loved those horses, Dad, you know that I loved you.
I wish I were a child again and you were with us today.
I think we’d recognize your voice,and be eager for what you’d say.
Why did God take you off,it seemed to be so wrong.?
But thanks,our Dad,for the Merry- Go- Round,and thanks for all your songs.
I think that life’s like a Merry -Go- Round that we are turning on.
And every time it whirls right round.someone else has gone.
We don’t know how long we’ll ride here so merry,and so gay.
So enjoy the Revolution now,and say what you really should say.
The world may be a Merry Go Round and we are nothing but fools
We had so much bounty and yet we break life’s rules.
We strong ones steal and injure as we pass this way,
Will we ever realise…. it’s a serious game that we play?
Thanks our Dad, for the memory and thanks for all your songs.
Now my heart grows weary so I shan’t linger long
I tried to use my talents, like the Bible said.
I trust sweet God to judge me well,when in human terms I’m dead.
Note:I must have been three when this happened.Dad was keen on Fairs and Pantomimes
After silence
Words fell from my lips.
I was a god
I created everything.
I spoke and each word
Was a new world.
Words fell from my lips like a silver stream of beauty.
I was a god.
We were all gods.
We created worlds.
Words touch the secret core
At the heart of the other,
Or they violate it.
“Too many words” hits me like a bullet.
I need silence
And one word,
To call me into being.
God breathed
And the world breathed.
Speaking is like breathing,
But is more than breathing.
Words sail out
Like boats crossing the sea
On a breeze of breath.
A word from a man came at me.
Like an arrow,and pierced me
With sharp sorrow.
Only a few have the true voice,
The voice that does not harm
The highest calling of the mind
Is to choose the words that free or bind.
Without choice words in true design
Human beings will be quite blind
After writing about maps I began to write about words.Words are very powerful in any kind of society but more so in a highly literate one.Words can be sacred or mundane.They can be loving or heartbreaking.And in English we have so many of them because English was developed from several other languages….Anglo-Saxon,French,Latin,Greek,Celtic…..so more than one word for some things.Here in this poem I compare words to birds [ geese ] flocking into the sky like words flock into our minds
Words rise up like geese at dawn
When with pale sun new day is born
The words approach and dance in line
The choice of words is mine
Words spelled here by sense and sound
In clause and sentence weave around.
Which tempting words shall I now use
And which shall I refuse?
The fire lights up inside my heart
So now my writing hand can start/
I sit down at my desk and say
“This is the way I spend my day.
With words I sing and play!
Here I talk about words as if they had a physical existence and can stroke my mind and give me pleasure like a cat can get from gentle stroking.I treat words as if they are real things which they are when spoken out loud.And someone’s voice can soothe you if they speak mellifluously.
Words mark the page and stroke my mind,
And sentences are words combined,
So,many brushstrokes make a shape,
And round my mind the sentence drapes.
Words from farthest realms of mind
Are drawn to me by this design.
Two whole worlds.
One small cut.
One little chink.
Hard to find.
Very,very hard.
One small place
Where a very little cat
Could slip right through
The geometrician ‘s cut.
Cat could slip right through.
Just,slip straight through.
Joining it’s own reflection
On the opposite side.
The mirror’s other side.
And if I caught that tail,
If I caught her little tail,
She could pull me through,
She could pull me through,
So she and I too
We’d be on the other side,
The wrong way round,
On the opposite side.
So when you looked in,
If you looked in,
You would see me there,
Looking out at you,
From the opposite side.
From the opposite side.
And the cat beside
Looking very small,
Very,very small;
But very,very real.
How do you think you’d feel,
If I was looking out,
Staring at you
From the opposite side?
I can’t get back.
I can’t find Riemann’s cat
and without that pussy cat
I can’t find Riemann’s cut.
I think I’m in a trap.
I cannot find that cat.
So she can’t find the cut
To get me back,
She can’t bring me back
To where I was before.
Oh,how queer,
To have two of me in here.
I hope I’ll get on well
With my other self,
Behind the looking glass.
No one looking in,
But two are staring out.
From that other world.
I am looking out,
I’m looking out
To see if you are there.
One of you’s with me
That makes the total three.
Oh,dear me,
I should not have grabbed
Little pussy’s tail.
I didn’t really know
Where she meant to go.
“Wherever have you been?
Where do you think you’ve been
To get so filthy black,
And where’s your pussy cat?”
She never came back.
Never came back
From the opposite side.
Mummy thought I’d lied.
I don’t tell lies,
But I can see my cat
Staring out at me.
Staring out at me
From the other side.
From the opposite side
Of my looking glass.
My lovely looking glass
Has trapped my tiny cat
On the opposite side.
On the opposite side
On the other side
My old blue fountain pen allows
The ink across the page to flow
Like wet paint from an artist’s brush,
And words come in a rush.
Enchanting through the hand which writes,
Bewitched with art, beauty alights.
The script is like a music score
Through which you pass as through a door.
Imagination’s home.
As,mysteriously.to you, to me,
The spirits of our hearts are tamed,
By rhythms of pen,of brush,of mind.
They enter vision quite unplanned,
Like moths to flutter softly round
Fire joined heart and hand.
The pen slows down,the hand goes still
And just as dreams at daybreak will,
They shrink,they disappear,they’re gone.
I almost caught that one
I’ve got just one letter
written in your hand.
One small letter.
I understand,
One is as infinity
compared to having nought.
I’ll keep this letter
In the museum of my heart.
I’ve only got one photograph
and that is very old
but to me this photograph
is more valuable than gold.
Time has hastened by.
Is it now too late?
But may there be a second chance?
Let’s not accept love’s fate.
No matter how we falter,
No matter how we fail,
We can still forgive ourselves,
and rewrite this sad tale.
One more loving letter,
One more loving smile,
That will be sufficient
To rebirth a love grown frail.
For once this love was stronger;
Once this love was true;
Accept this invitation
To recreate our love anew.
being a writer is like being a wordherder
words run about like lost sheep on the high moorlands
and I have to catch them and keep them safe
I need a trusty word dog to get them together
and keep them safe.
sometimes they have wandered far away
and I stand forlornly in the fields
then I hear the bark of my word dog
and down the hill a host of words are running towards me
looking pleased to see me.
so then I try to catch a few and shear off their wool
so I can knit a poem out of it all…
there are some wild,shy words
that so far have eluded me
maybe I need two trained and kindly word dogs not just one…
see the words are all running off to hide under a hedge till morning
goodbye words I love them all unconditionally
especially the wild ones
i too like the high hills and the distant blue of the far away edge of the landscape
the haze of summer and the purply moors
the wild blue and the sacred sky high blue
the earth and the heavens and the still something to discover yet.
if there’s an ordnance survey map of this world
I have not seen it yet and anyway
who could have made it?
Words structured make a map for me
Sentences enable me to see.
But there are maps of other kinds
And different maps suit different minds.
The artist with her skilled brushstrokes,
Her unique sense of the world evokes.
This goes straight to the heart,and tells
Of feelings’ deep, unfathomable wells.
The sweet, plain singing of the spheres
Moves those who hear to happy tears.
Yet notes are written on just five lines
From which can flow all music’s rhythms
There are so many different worlds,
Which all these maps to us unfurl.
The Art of Travel is to guess
Which Map will suit which World the best.
I look up our small street,
To see if you are coming.
I don’t know what time it is,
But I think I hear you humming.
You sang sweet songs for us,
And you could whistle well .
You wore an old tweed jacket
You loved us,I could tell.
I look out there each day,
But I can’t see your tall, thin shape.
I saved your Woodbine packet,
It made me feel some hope.
What does death’s door mean?
Where has Daddy gone?
When will be the welcome day,
When we hear his songs again?
I’ll sing like him all day,
I’ll dream of him all night.
I hope he won’t be angry,
If his cigarettes won’t light!
He can’t write his own songs now.
He went too far away , too soon.
I’ll write down what I think he sang,
And I’ll invent the tune.
I hear him singing now,
He dwells inside my heart.
And though I still can’t see his face,
I recognise his Art.
I kiss your funny ears ; you kiss mine
I love Beethoven.you have qualms
I lick your ear;your licks divine.
I love listening ,in your arms
I love music;you love song
I kissed your lips.you bit my tongue.
I love rightly;you love wrong.
I’ll buy a guidebook to learn how to long.
I lick your whiskers;you shampoo my brow
i love Stravinsky.; i love you so.
I’ll be your sweetheart,I am unsure how.
Since I’m in your arms . you must be my now.
![England's green and pleasant Land [from Jerusalem,by William Blake]](https://i0.wp.com/s3.hubimg.com/u/4360438_f260.jpg "England's green and pleasant Land [from Jerusalem,by William Blake]")
Note: This was a surprise to me when I was writing the last part .I will try to explain.At first I started off wanting to write a poem about nature,And evening falling as the sun set.However something else seemed to take over for the last few verses.I was especially surprised by the end….”.at last we have reached the promised land”
That is the best thing about writing poetry,that it can surprise the writer as much as if it were written by someone else.Also it is very absorbing so that the time seems to very quickly.Sometimes a serious poem has turned into a funny one and I laugh out loud.So it saves having to buy funny books….I can amuse myself.Writing is even better than reading.
Just think of anything at all for the first line,then make a second line,then all of a sudden …you are off.Some days are better than others and you need an hour or two to do it.Or come backto it later to edit it and knock into shape.It is a bit like sculpture,I imagine.
Joy sings out loud in golden light
Yet after day comes black of night.
New moon is rising by gray trees
This earth is where I want to be.
I want the day,I want the night
I want the darkI want the light.
I want to see and to be seen,
And not to lose myself in dreams.
The sun has set ,gray clouds turn black,
The day just gone will not come back.
I’ll rest in quiet reverie
Until the Reapers’s scythe takes me.
And then I drop and mix with dust,
And worms and beetles sate their lust.
I fall into ten thousand motes
And in sunlight ,dance music’s notes.
No more striving.no more ambition,
No more fighting,nor competition.
Every particle’s the same,
Without even a personal name.
And side by side,we all are one.
The lusts of life have been and gone.
We dwell with dirt and grain and sand
At last we’ve reached the Promised Land,
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 of 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.
My heart is moved by patterned dance
In this peace, God’s own silence.
My mind widens like the sky
And in this moment I would die,
So I could 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 foot steps into the void
Freed from her trap
Bird soared into air,and hovered
And floated, resting;
And flew higher, singing as she flew,
And higher again,
Till there was only her song,
Left in the silence,
Trembling.
Up on the wide,stump topped hill,
I felt the lark inside my heart
And heard her singing.
And flying up with her,
I saw gold sun and silver moon,
Moors of heather ,and sheep grazing
Green hills,
And shimmering lakes,
Clouds ,sun and sky in watery mirrors.
And sang ,and dipped,and dropped,
And curled
Up the blue
Bright heaven, and rested
On the wind.
All that day
I was a lark singing.
I shall always have a vision of
A bird
That flew upwards,
Rejoicing and free
Into a deep blue sky, and high
And higher
Beyond high
Into a place, beyond eye even,
But music still sending.
I wish I were back on that heathery moor,
With the nibbling sheep and the bees sweetly humming,
Hearing again
The poignant song
Of the skylark,
A prisoner,freed by a magician,
From her trap,
So happy to be free,
So wonderful to see.
Do it again,
For me,
I didn’t hear you coming,
then you were by my side.
Happiness fills me.
Standing in the garden
looking at red leaves,
I hold your hand gently,
and share the sweetness
of these green leaves,
the distant doves cooing,
the sun dipping to the horizon.
Life is good.
We hear together
the music
of this silence
May Sunday again;
Hailstones rush sideways,
striking the windows
with small fierce blows.
In the gaps between
two white butterflies zig zag
like motorized wild flowers;
One colour,two forms. I see now
two aspects of Nature:
hard,destructive,stern;
frail and delicate.
Both are coloured the same white.
Hard to tell sometimes which we are seeing
But we can all distinguish between a gentle touch
and a bitter blow.
As the day dips into night my heart falls too.
In these dreams I look for the lost
in the snowy steppes and the ices of the heart.
A white petal falls.
Cherry trees bloom again
Russia in love.
Iced water falls from the sky in beads
Just leaving space
for fragile butterflies to court between the drops.
The geometry of love
fits any space
The butterfly is braver than the tiger
I love men ,but not the toffs,
Nor the ones with smokers coughs.
I would like an artist most
Especially if he loves buttered toast.
There’s only one sure way to see.
Wear flat shoes and never laugh.
Study Wittgenstein and Kant.
Study all that’s difficult.
Parse Quantum Theory as a hobby.
Learn long words from the dictionary.
Dance with Riemann,flirt with Joyce.
Read Ullyses in you Rolls Royce.
Enjoy some chess and trigonometry.
Weigh down your mind with Solid Geometry.
Look around and see who’s left.
That’s the one who loves you best.
Once you have married and set up home,
You can free your mind to roam.
Throw away your library,
Wear bright clothes and have some fun.
Your adult life has just begun.
I once wrote a poem for you.
The rhymes were all totally new.
But you like free verse
which is also quite terse,
So that is the sort I shall do
William Blake > Quotes > Quotable Quote
You’re Right — By Emily Dickinson.
You’re Right — By Emily Dickinson.
What is Poetry? | Poetry blog.
I might say that a poem
is the equivalent in words
of this beautiful picture
but I might be wrong
I might say that a poem is like like a kiss
I might say that a poem is like a flower
I might say that a poem is like a tree full of blossom
But after due consideration .I concluded
it’s better to write you a poem
And for you to write me a poem.
And afterwards for us to talk amidst the flowers
Underneath a tree in summer.
Then we will know what it’s all about
If you can see what I mean.
A vision in words
Words with vision
I think you know what I mean
You see
This is true
I
Who is more lonely… the person inside the window who can’t get out
or the person outside who can’t get in?
So near,yet they cannot touch.
The tragedy of glass which permits vision but not touch.
What is there to do?
Like watercolor pictures left out in the rain
Our colors have mingled,yet the originals still remain.
Two watercolor paintings without frames,
Became one picture over time,
Yet two of us still there.
Our colors blended naturally,
Now all the hues are shared.
I love your colors intermixed with mine:
Together they have made a new design.
A Watercolor picture painted by the rain,
We may go, but our Watercolor Love will still remain
Dreaming is the commentary by God
On a life of which I am a part
but my life does not belong to me
I am a twig or a leaf in a forest
yet I receive the feel of the whole tree
that’s inspiring but not awesome,please
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Gus – The Theatre Cat a poem by T S Eliot |
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“I have played,” so he says, “every possible part, Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin,
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A poem can paint a thousand images in your mind’s eye. If you enjoyed this poem and appreciated the lyrics of Gus – The Theatre Cat by T S Eliot you will find even more poem lyrics by this famous author, together with their biography and picture, by simply clicking on the Poem Index link below ! |
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