“You have to write the book that wants to be written. And if the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.” Madeleine L’Engle … perhaps one can even say this applies to poetry. Tuesdays are among the most popular days for people to visit the The Poet by Day […]
comprises grief’s that must be ridden
with teeth that must bite
the hand that feeds.
makes books, newspapers, films irrelevant
items collected with memories attached
are after you for what you
meant to do and what you are.
will prove how strong you can be,
with funeral arrangements, emptiness.
Are the Wild Hunt and Gabriel’s hounds,
Cerberus and the Kindly Ones.
follow you to the port of your final departure,
see you on to the vessel
and leave of their own accord
Our Dad’s Soul
is both a mountain and a boiler room.
Our dad helped hospitals and schools
to breathe healthy, designed heating
and ventilation systems to reuse waste
heat and air to give folk clean
so they may learn and get better.
Learned his trade, scrubbed inland boilers
National Serviced ships boilers
in the clank of hot oiled, greased
and asbestosed merchant ship engine rooms
Whilst in sweltered India or Borneo.
Tops and tails his life with mountains.
Ascends Moel Famau, the Hill
of the Mothers, with his friend
who teaches him to paint. Later,
in retirement conquers Scafell Pike.
Now struggles with loss of breath
Up each rise on his stairs.
Later he will reach the port
Embark on his final voyage,
My sister, his mam and dad
wait on the quayside
for his ship to dock,
probably after he has inspected
the vessels engine room.
She Civilises Wild
In this untime
she teaches me the alphabet
of her body so I can read
as I enter her
I write in my head
me in warm water hug
inspired by her sweet breath
on my lifted hairs
I smooth unblemished
light that covers her curves
She slows my rough thrust
learnt among the wild
Of hand and skin until
my fingers follow her furrows
a gentle plowshare
details her age
gently plays her treeclock
warm sun in the dark
soft pressure drums
out my release makes
of her a mother, marks
a straight passage
as it rises
along the soil
I touch the earth with words
The wild run away from me.
She brings me into a city.
slosh at anchor in this port of souls,
The Naglfar made of the untrimmed
nails of the dead,
Charon’s obol made of coins stamped
with dolphins in open wooden eyes,
Many nameless vessels that get
a name from their passengers.
Last to leave was The Refugees.
From the quay sail the ships
of remembered souls,
who look at their reflection
in the ocean of forgotten souls.
The ships sail on the ocean
of the unremembered
Who keep the ship afloat,
Provide passage from one port
to another and know passengers
and crew have destinations.
This Soul Nonsense
Writers use the word without thought.
Expect readers to know what they mean.
Never define the word in their work.
A throw away word to mean something deep.
Used without care a word out of place
repeated so often it is meaningless.
Air, ether, fire or light once thought
incorporeal. If air perhaps our breath
actions at a distance. Breathe in spirit.
Perhaps we refer to our emotions.
Endeavour to give them gravity.
Don’t throw away, pick carefully.
are eyeballs in the soil
where animals go to ground.
The eyes follow thin twigs
of his demons as they caper
with hardened veins of blood
pulled from his live pumped body
and armed with blackthorn spikes.
are one book twice a persons size
he lugs, back and knees bent,
with each step he takes
another page is added to the volume.
Were once satirical, light hearted
lithographs of student life.
Those voices are distant now.
Den’s and set holes follow
him without a blink.
loves to be entertained.
After a battle where skulls are blown apart
he sits and laughs at Anthem For Doomed Youth.
After a skirmish in which men are screaming
With half a leg or arm bone shattered
By shrapnel, he guffaws at Dulce Decorum Est.
The more graphic, the more comic to him.
He says if you don’t laugh you’ll cry.
Laughter is healthy. Laughter is human.
Laughter affirms life, essential before
a fight amidst bullets, stabs and snipers.
“Oh What A Lovely War”, is his favourite film.
“All Quiet On The Western Front” a comic classic.
He knows we laugh at what we fear most.
War is like great stand up when you can barely
Breathe for laughter, your sides hurt
as if they need stiches. War is medicinal.