Poetry Blog by Chris Hubbard
“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
Wednesday 5th August 2020 3:09 pm
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...
Sunday 2nd August 2020 3:01 am
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
Monday 6th July 2020 3:21 am
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...
Sunday 24th May 2020 2:50 pm
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?...
Sunday 10th May 2020 1:23 pm
The night, that dark and rancid cloak,
contains within its half-drawn claws
a certainty I cannot match,
nor merely approach; my fear prevents
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
Thursday 16th April 2020 2:59 pm
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