Poetry Blog by Chris Hubbard
The Ludford in question is the one on the Lincolnshire Wolds, not the one close by Ludlow in Shropshire.
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.
Tuesday 31st March 2020 7:05 am
“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.
Tuesday 25th February 2020 9:45 am
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
Sunday 16th February 2020 11:44 am
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
Thursday 30th January 2020 2:41 pm
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...
Wednesday 22nd January 2020 9:06 am
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...
Thursday 16th January 2020 2:08 pm