VII Libera me A Prayer
Let me drop a pebble to that surface
and watch its ripples run out perfect
and see a fish rising from the depths,
a pebble cast by water into sky,
and thos two rings meeting, interfering,
intermingling, intersecting but still perfect,
each still unbroken in its way:
A criss-cross message of place and time.
Believe. We ...
Saturday 12th May 2012 9:33 am
VI Lux Aeternum A Celebration
The sky's sheet ice, the blood of sunset drained away.
Clouds are gatherd in like nets at the horizon.
Rose petals of last light are floating in
an awkward angle of the bay. Crows are
litter, whirled in a corner of the air.
The steamer's wake has met itself returning.
Some say this is the old day's dying, as if
no dawn will break; ...
Tuesday 8th May 2012 7:51 pm
V Lacrimosa Weeping
I did not witness this. I saw the lake.
Ripples run towards me every day.
I cannot read them all. The steamer makes
eight beats per second by my clock, no more.
Yet I must speak or what’s the watching for?
My words must face you square and eye to eye.
We are each other’s strangers of goodwill.
Tears bind us; the sky; mountains, and fire...
Monday 7th May 2012 10:06 pm
IV Quid sum miser The Bereaved
Crossing a mountain stream once in bare feet
you could not keep yourself from crying out,
sliced by that scalpel cold, burned by its ice.
An avalanche of cold enfolded them.
Only an inch or two beneath it’s cold
as graves. Stone cold where the sun can’t penetrate.
Rivers of cold run deep along the lake.
Sunday 6th May 2012 9:18 am
III Recordare Memory
You remember once yourself slipping off
the narrow shelf of Ullswater.
You were no swimmer at all and had waded out like them
beyond the glimmer of sunlight on rocks below,
walking on a cliff edge in a mist,
and only when you felt the stones begin
to slip and shift knew you were on the lip
of some commencing underwater fall.
Saturday 5th May 2012 2:08 pm
II Tuba Mirum The Bringing of the News
Whatever moves above it or below
disturbs the surface: Writes its passage:
weight: speed: bulk: hull: body: keel and fin:
the changing pressure of the wind.
A drowning man will tell his tale
as clearly as a fishing heron can.
Today it’s briefly mute: What lives below
is motionless. The wind is starved of breath...
Friday 4th May 2012 4:27 pm
I Dies Irae The Anger of the Water
Here’s where I stand. I read the lake each day.
Beyond our reach it changes endlessly.
Sometimes it's dark as ice. Sometimes it's broken glass,
Sometimes like metal streaked where boats have passed,
Sometimes with ripples regular as sound.
Sometimes it’s like a sky: Sometimes a pit.
Sometimes it’s white capped, rough....
Thursday 3rd May 2012 12:08 pm
This poem came out of an exercise set by Angela Locke at Maryport Writers Group. It arrived almost word perfect, and fetched up in the First Sixty, the Acumen anthology, confounding perhaps thereby, the blood sweat and revisions school of writing! Maybe knowing to keep my hands off it was the blood sweat and revision!
All Things Are Connected
Touch this web
Thursday 19th April 2012 11:39 am
The light fades gently. Darkness does not fall.
The sky’s the last to darken of it all.
These shadows seep from doors and out of walls.
They drain from off the bracken-covered fells.
They slide across the drive. Each hollow fills
with darkness, like dark water filling pools.
So faintly too, we glow and glimmer here.
We flicker with ou...
Sunday 15th April 2012 9:41 am
Some draw semen
Some draw blood
We spill that which
We think we should.
Saturday 14th April 2012 9:41 am
Tags: short poetry
40/1 Clara Petacci in the Piazza Loreto
She was Benito Mussolini’s squeeze.
He’d jump official meetings for quick shags,
leaving state officials fingering their diplomatic bags.
He’d have her on the carpet, on a chair,
over a desk; almost anywhere,
then go out on some balcony, thumping the air.
Of course it had to end:
Armies defeated, tr...
Sunday 8th April 2012 8:33 pm
Tags: atrocity,Clara Petacci,Italy,justice,Mussolini,World War Two
sheep’s wool snagged on wire,
Plantation trees plain stitched
across the hills’
Black holes punched in grey
the stippled lake
but no breeze.
Bird-calls; not song.
Make no mistake.
No-one sings here
among the evergreens along
the water’s edge.
Only warning c...
Sunday 1st April 2012 5:17 pm
Strong winds are blowing in, cool to the skin.
Sun is forecast and blue sky; and the past
hangs like a puff of cloud above a hill
that will not budge however strong the wind.
Snowdrops have gone, save for their shrivelled stems.
Primroses are out; daffodils in bunches planted to look wild.
Pipe cleaner lambs, two to each sheep this year,
totter behind their mum...
Thursday 22nd March 2012 9:38 am
Tags: Poetry,prima vera,spring
- 2012 (13)