Poetry Blog by Chris Hubbard

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Chris Hubbard on Clerihew By Starlight (4 days ago)

Paul Sayer on Clerihew By Starlight (4 days ago)

Chris Hubbard on You Drive Your Car (Mon, 6 Jul 2020 04:10 pm)

Shifa Maqba on You Drive Your Car (Mon, 6 Jul 2020 04:24 am)

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

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

Paul Sayer 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)







“Don't look at me, voyeur!

she demanded, no, pleaded:

Did you really believe my mind

insufficiently kind to qualify

for admission to Dante's unholy


C'mon then! Start the car and

let's go. Let's fire it across Italy,

that ready-made nest of vipers,

and of lambs.

Let's seek out the majesty

of lofty cathedrals, hollowed out


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Clerihew By Starlight




Boris Johnson stood transfixed at dusk

In a garden where the breeze was brusque;

His head thrown back to see the stars,

Avoiding a sentence he had to parse.


For the evening held a sharp surprise,

Luckily, with no Moon's rise.

He thus beheld celestial sparkle,

A speedy diamond with which to startle


The astronomically uninformed


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You Drive Your Car


You drive your car

and you see your life retold

in the smears arced on the windscreen

from the slow rain.

Here and gone. Here and gone.

But never really gone;

the smears are left behind.


You take the river ferry

on a windy day.

And the wavelets that appear, breaking

white on the water's surface,

stain the sky's reflection for a moment


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Dreams are a simple way to make sense

of the past, often used as a mental grip

on the bafflement we feel

when choice engulfs us, not just hems us in.


Shall I become that which I know I am not?

Perhaps, an empty shell, I will be found out:

a shameful gambler like many,

and primed to receive his just deserts.


Or, better, to receive the same without regre...

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Memoirs and Reflections

Memoirs and Reflections


Music sustains and surrounds us; colour

in memories dropped on street corners

as swift blanking years suffer ruinous palour,

sloughed gentle and silent as graveside mourners.


How can I, with clarity, recall without anguish

early times so demanding attention?

Can a Rachmaninoff' rhapsody grant a wish

that may lead me towards my redemption?


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The Night


The night, that dark and rancid cloak,

contains within its half-drawn claws

a certainty I cannot match,

nor merely approach; my fear prevents

such posturing.


Darkness wants for nothing,

save my peerless pride

that so often burns down to hubris

and faithless self-promises

written distractedly in flowing water.


Now I rarely leave my house

(the ...

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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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