Poetry Blog by Chris Hubbard

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Chris Hubbard on The Truth (Mon, 9 Mar 2020 12:12 pm)

Chris Hubbard on The Truth (Mon, 9 Mar 2020 12:04 pm)

poemagraphic on The Truth (Tue, 25 Feb 2020 06:19 pm)

keith jeffries on Things Seen Less Clearly (Sun, 16 Feb 2020 01:42 pm)

Chris Hubbard on Things Seen Less Clearly (Sun, 16 Feb 2020 12:31 pm)

keith jeffries on Things Seen Less Clearly (Sun, 16 Feb 2020 12:26 pm)

Chris Hubbard on Outside Painters (Fri, 24 Jan 2020 01:51 pm)

M.C. Newberry on Outside Painters (Wed, 22 Jan 2020 05:54 pm)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on Nirvana (Sat, 18 Jan 2020 04:45 pm)

Chris Hubbard on Nirvana (Fri, 17 Jan 2020 09:46 am)

Ludford Churchyard

The Ludford in question is the one on the Lincolnshire Wolds, not the one close by Ludlow in Shropshire.


Ludford Churchyard


Bellowing past the close mown grass,

big wagons thunder at ancient stone

to drown a chorale's seeping. Prone,

the organ's praiseful chords sublime

are couched within its sanctuary; crass

conceiver of everlasting life: His, not mine.


The ...

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The Truth


The Truth


“Where's the truth, then?”

coughed a scabrous beggar,

eyeing me from a Portuguese pavement,

“where is it, you faker, where?”


“Really want to know?”

I smiled back: “Try this:


“Truth lies, really lies,

through its teeth

lies like a clumsy dentist

who never hurt anyone,

pretending cleansing truth

lying underneath the pain.



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Things Seen Less Clearly

I'm not sure that Michael Portillo and Griff Rhys Jones would agree with these sentiments.


Things Seen Less Clearly


In this world, at this time,

Young ambitious neophytes

Are condemned as

Mere passengers, trapped

On white-pointed trains

That do not stop.

Carried to oblivion

Without their permission

They study their own

Shadowed, flickering faces


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Arc of Silence

A recent visit to majestic Saint Petersburg was the catalyst for this rumination.


Arc of Silence

Please hold my hand

Until you're completely sure

That you understand; I am

Not as I was (quoting Hitchen

As his death drew near).


Please hear my pleas, comprehension

Being the triumph of years

Expended or forlorn. Draw

Down the blinds that obscure

A countenanc...

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Outside Painters

Outside Painters

I will admit, if pressed for time,

That Graffiti Artists make telling points,

Expressing their fragile selves sublime

While pulling on apocryphal joints.


It's hard work peering round threat-laden corners,

Snatching moments that fashion the ego;

Time's their enemy, these spraycan performers,

Not the dying curse of autumnal Dido.


The self's domin...

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Poets tire of endless impositions

which, though not enforced upon us,

remind us yet of lifelong treks

outside ourselves, while digging thus

a graven willingness to tolerate

the possibility of writing something on the minds

of younger people, so soon grown to tend bitter,

sardonic if essentially kindly

human egos. Trodden down by fear

of painful endings in fore...

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