Heretic
My studies have given me a legacy of interest in many and wide-ranging social, moral and ethical fields and concerns, as well as the politics of power. This piece is a manifestation of that legacy.
"The world is splitting open at my feet like a ripe, juicy watermelon." Sylvia Plath.
On her gravestone: “Even amidst fierce flames, the golden lotus can be planted.” Wu Ch'Eng-En.
He...
Sunday 31st December 2017 11:44 am
Time and Windows
This poem is a reverie and contemplation of my mother.
Time and Windows
If the past is a tattered old book,
then why am I a ghost
at my mother's window,
so clear I can sense her mystery,
and her brown eyes, so alive?
Look, I can fly to her
through the high windows
of my memory
until I'm so close that she disappears,
and the curtain flutters silently.
A...
Friday 29th December 2017 10:44 am
Stone Poem
Stone Poem
The church yard is restless in winter shadow;
dying elms fret in a wuthering wind
beyond the wide hoar-frosted meadow,
whistling by headstones, cold as sin.
Then a raven croaks its grating chortle,
black eyes casting glances down
to where dark-clad people mourn a mortal,
who yielded her soul to Lucifer's crown.
One, a priest of tainted...
Sunday 24th December 2017 5:36 am
Winter Town
This is my vision of a certain cast of English village (not so much in springtime).
Winter Town
March winds stir listless eddies,
fluke in tired gusts over thin pools,
flare through fields of stubble
then flag, exhausted, sour and wheezing
from the blowing day;
coughing, rubbing arthritic fingers,
cold as a church bell sounds the hours.
Spring will be late this...
Saturday 23rd December 2017 3:13 am
Slow Train to Freedom
Slow Train to Freedom
Have you ever had the feeling, late one night,
that you're pounding down an ever-narrowing path
without the strength to either flee or fight?
Your feet touch with fear this wanton, ferocious earth,
but the stars reflected in your teal-blue eyes
are the brazier-fires of a homeless hearth.
Then a slow train, velvet-clad under coated skies,
pass...
Friday 22nd December 2017 1:51 pm
every word
“ …. every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness” (Beckett)
every word
Be born, live, cry, die; always cry.
Why cry?
Why not?
I am not on Earth
to fail to exist,
or any other madman's fantasy.
Sammy found something
worthwhile:
he found
- Nothing.
Eat, move, create, decay;
earthen in earth
for the Archaeologis...
Thursday 21st December 2017 12:29 am
Dream River
This poem has its origins long ago in a jaunt on the Mississippi river on board the paddle-steamer SS Natchez.
Dream River
As water-light dances through cabin blinds
in scintillant counterpoint to her chattering bow,
a brooding threnody of whistles fills up the big boat's horizon-lines;
the mate checks the bearing of her painted prow.
Well-worn warrior of river life, paddles slap...
Tuesday 19th December 2017 12:18 pm
Moon Pool
Cowaramup is a small farming and tourist community in the Margaret River wine region of South-West Western Australia. My visit long ago remains an unsettling memory of alienation.
Moon Pool
The blue-black raven night
draws opal-scented folds
from quicksilver sparkle, scattered
like smashed glass over meeting grounds.
So it is, at this paddock fence
beside the scoop o...
Saturday 16th December 2017 2:40 pm
Stone of Love
This poem was written in memory of my mother.
Stone of Love
Pietà lies abandoned
on pavements
of Augustus, Caius, Caligula,
a kernel of rock
in the heart of Rome.
For love in stone
was never so feared
as the atrocious Emperors
who turned Love toward
such stone,
and fixed pity for ever
with boiling madness;
yet Pity was feared:
becaus...
Monday 11th December 2017 3:23 am
Water Street
This poem follows from my earlier work "Wet", set in the city of Cairns, Far North Queensland. Having reached the place, the next challenge is to figure out how to survive in the prevailing weather conditions: 100 percent humidity and massive daily rainfall. Air conditioning helps, somewhat.
Water Street
Summer was the waiting for the Wet:
On Water Street, old Queenslanders
creake...
Friday 1st December 2017 4:31 am
The Glowering Mists of Autumn
The Glowering Mists of Autumn
As I travel life's journey I'm often-times struck
By a vision both novel and possibly true; that serenity
In a dangerous world without luck,
Is impossible; but is there a temporal divinity?
Perhaps the root causes of wonder and joy
Really are in the sky, or on Dante's fine peak,
Or my fireside, where the dance won't annoy
In the compa...
Wednesday 29th November 2017 9:06 am
Perignon
Perignon
Bush-light shadowed footsteps
through seamless, speechless
desert places,
followed as we trod slipping sandhills,
the sibilant, curling wind
twisting lips around;
lay black,
motionless,
pinned by envy like butterflies
on grey trays of jejune absolution:
tired eyes traced satellites in sun-fires,
as sirens whooped in our memories
and night m...
Tuesday 28th November 2017 9:57 am
De Jeune
Sometimes, inspiration and imagination have strange effects.
De Jeune
Swallows dive, swoon
like wind-swayed ink drops
down, and beyond the light:
swallowed by the sky,
flown blue, over
road-birds – honed
by simple flight.
Like arrows in Canada
in thunderhead afternoons:
clouds rolling, rutting hinds
in migration, pounding sand-trails,
...Monday 27th November 2017 9:56 am
Great White Heron
While visiting the ancient fortified town of Chinon in the Touraine region of the Loire Valley, I noticed examples of both kinds of protagonists mentioned in this poem. Although the latter proved harmless (at least to our group) I much prefer the former, especially at sundown.
Great White Heron
A great white heron struts through
tangled water meadows
in search of boneless mor...
Sunday 26th November 2017 12:07 pm
Life by Numbers
Life by Numbers
1. My father walks the sea-edge and is young, as a child is young.
2. My father's voice is hardwood, and timpan drums.
7. My father's eyes are tired.
16. The cyclone clouds hang swollen sheets above.
19. I am afraid.
20. I shall put fear at the bottom of depths the deep blue made.
25. My brothers' arms surround me.
31. We sit on the brim of laught...
Saturday 25th November 2017 9:08 am
Australia Centurion
Australia Centurion
Heidelberg light, hard edged;
not sharp-cutting wire
knifed thru fractured mica.
as old canvas turns
gold to sepia, brown to aged
ebony, in descending years
gone back, down, away,
to where we survive
and lie cocooned – like pupae
of paper wasps
in interstices of time, locked
in desiccated people-nests.
alive and dy...
Saturday 25th November 2017 8:32 am
Air Worthiness
Air Worthiness
The Harris hawk is sleek and fast; fine-boned,
she swoops free from an armoured glove
towards some distant, perfect perch,
only then to see and hear the falconer's call; to search,
then sweep down to the hand that feeds and nurtures.
A hooded hostage; in restless freedom she presents a bleeding dove.
Trimmed hawks hunt in packs on Argentine pampas...
Saturday 25th November 2017 5:10 am
Lady Porcelain Kindness
Lady Porcelain Kindness
A lady with clear pale skin, few blemishes
mar her daily perfection, playing a flawless part
in her sharp European presence.
Inclining her head like a brisk marching soldier
into First Year lecture theatres, she convinces
the boys of the glittering sincerity
of her blue, blue eyes. Somehow wise
beyond her twenty-four years,
she does joie...
Friday 24th November 2017 10:14 am
The Tower of the Winds
The Tower of the Winds was built in marble more than 2,000 years ago in the Roman Agora (meeting place) of Athens. It is believed to be the world's first weather station (and public time-piece). Almost intact, its octagonal construction echoes the eight principal compass points. Saved from the depredations of Lord Elgin, who plotted its removal to Britain over 200 years ago, the restored Tower now...
Thursday 23rd November 2017 3:45 pm
The Humble Heart of the Craftsman
I have always hankered after the life of the artist - including the world of the visual arts. In retirement I have the opportunity to follow that yearning.
The Humble Heart of the Craftsman
As corruption sheds its sting when seen
from lofty heights,
so humility shows its mettle
in the steady care of the gifted creator;
turning one's gaze from skilled hands
to the thi...
Wednesday 15th November 2017 3:29 pm
The Quiet Soldier
The Quiet Soldier
Why am I fighting these foes of mine?
(I know it's a soldier's fate)
to shoot my gun and die – yes, me as well as him,
when I see the blood on his cape
and his dead eyes shine;
by then it's too late for me and him alike -
but to the battle I return
with rifle and defiance primed
and hoards of bravado to turn and strike
when the muzzle-blasts out...
Monday 13th November 2017 5:09 am
Pavane
Pavane
When I am a sculptor, famed
in the shadow of Moore or
Hepworth, I shall fashion
in black marble an image of eternity;
Aphrodite shall dance a slow pavane
without her customary passion, and
shall shine within the foaming waters
of this brutal and ungodly Earth.
Chris Hubbard
Budapest
2016.
Wednesday 8th November 2017 1:26 pm
Tone Poem
Please note that this poem is pure fantasy!
Tone Poem
Oh, really, I find it so unutterably tedious
to be polite when faced with one so odious
as you. And yet, I must say
that you do, at times, take my breath away,
at least when I forget all your manifold flaws,
and the gold stashed beneath your creaky floorboards;
but I don't mean to be too unduly unkind,
...
Tuesday 7th November 2017 5:43 am
The Imperfect Gardener
The Imperfect Gardener
Someone once said, long ago or last week,
that it's futile on a finite and populous planet
to seek a truth, or a finely polished apple,
in the still-life-on-canvas we daily behold,
and by such uncouth behaviour
we are mostly confounded, and fail to grapple.
So we're prisoners here, in uncounted millions,
unable to leap high or fast enough to...
Sunday 5th November 2017 1:25 am
Sun - Kings
Sun - Kings
The Aegean sleeps in sunbreath,
sparkling like a gift
to children on a beach;
splashing whales breach among the caïques
while drifting, effortless, to baked islands
harsh as truth, gentle as giants.
On shattered Santorini riders thread Vespas
along sea-shores and white-dusted heights; whores
cling tight with promises to come.
Corniche poseurs dri...
Friday 3rd November 2017 12:45 am
Mister Eternity
Arthur Stace, a First World War veteran and illiterate alcoholic, was known as “Mister Eternity” . For 35 years he inscribed the cryptic precept “Eternity” in yellow, waterproof chalk, using an inexplicable copperplate hand, on pavements throughout Sydney. Asked why, he would merely reply “Makes 'em think”. Arthur's dictum was sent around the world, emblazoned in huge letters across Sydney Harbour...
Monday 30th October 2017 6:41 am
Adamson Adrift
This piece, over twenty years old, came to me largely in a dream about being a poet.
Adamson Adrift
We sat on the wharf at East Balmain,
where the ferries make the Harbour
never still,
and Robert Adamson floated away
with grace on the violent tide,
as we looked on the streams
of the living
(as in air, we were in motion)
and in action, and relative calm
...Sunday 29th October 2017 2:21 pm
Palimpsest
Who said reusable resources are a modern invention? Rubbish!
Palimpsest
It's said that no-one should ever die wondering
on which road to travel, how not to go blundering
in dangerous places, when it's best to be pondering
why the rain plays its tricks, why there's no distant thundering. . . .
As the years pass us by we add to our history,
little by little we work out...
Saturday 28th October 2017 3:48 am
Three Nocturnes
Three Nocturnes
While poring over dusty corners of an ancient night
I sang in darken'd evening flight, a voice edged
by the pain of doubt, a tempered blade to fight
an inner shout; the fearful dredge
of insomnia, the purgatory of my silent gaze;
remembrance too of sultry Australian dog days.
South-West karris loom ink-black, and rustle
as night-walkers, stepp...
Friday 27th October 2017 12:55 pm
The Fire and the Rose
The Fire and the Rose
If death greets us singly, one-by-one, alone
And asks why we should not be taken back,
The brave will say (or else the wiser grown)
That little terror lies along that track;
Since each knows well he lives in separate rooms
Though sometimes letting others stay awhile,
But still the doorway closes as a tomb
Excludes affliction, slights the sinner's ...
Thursday 26th October 2017 1:05 pm
Solitude
Solitude
Autumn solitude
in a world of two colours
the rush of the wind.
Chris Hubbard
2016
Thursday 26th October 2017 12:58 pm
Sugar Glider
The Sugar Glider is a gliding marsupial, native to Eastern Australia and Papua New Guinea.
Sugar Glider
The sweetest thing
I ever saw
Was a Sugar Glider
In a syrup-of-fig tree.
I looked at her,
She at me,
And we swooped down
To canefields of Eden.
Chris Hubbard
Perth
1995
Thursday 26th October 2017 12:49 pm
A Mountain Cameo
This poem first suggested itself to me while looking at the magnificent mountain scenery of Interlaken in the Bernese Oberland of Switzerland. Beautifully dangerous!
A Mountain Cameo
Silvered by many alpine peaks, an orange sun
reflects, glass-like, off still dawn meltwaters,
a fireball inside a snow-white aural gleam
thrown carelessly into a child's rockpool.
Streaming no r...
Wednesday 25th October 2017 6:59 am
The Sky Reflects Our Labours
Who can identify the town that is the primary focus of this lament?
The Sky Reflects Our Labours
Her calloused hands and tired eyes,
are grey and wet and green and steely;
her gaze is stoic, and often flinty
at the JobCentre counter, as her future dies.
The grey-blue smoking ramparts march,
graven beyond the terracotta houses;
their Wellsian vision of War arou...
Tuesday 24th October 2017 3:22 am
Quiet River
Quiet River
When the morning's flight
lifts the darkened blind,
and slows the speed of time,
be ready in your heart and mind
with gratitude, as you drift
on a sweet and quiet river,
lined by silent watchers;
remember their gifts, and the jewels
of the givers,
For that light is sure to glow
fierce and steady in your memory -
...Sunday 22nd October 2017 4:07 pm
The Eye of Morning
The Eye of Morning
I am the arrow of dawn, and
rise as the archer kneels,
strains his bow, sets the sky ablaze,
dissolves at the borderland
between light and shade, Heaven
and Hell; his firebrands mere crass
cascades of incendiary petals,
guttering in chiaroscuro swells.
Behold the evanescent rose-glow
of morning's opening eye.
Chris Hubbard
Perth. 201...
Friday 20th October 2017 1:41 pm
And Now I'm Old
This poem carries faint echoes of winter in a Mediterranean climate, in this case the South West of Western Australia; limpid skies, stormclouds threatening, people in overcoats walking hastily. Rather like an English summer, I would have thought!
And Now I'm Old
And now I'm old as softening apples
left forgotten on a sideboard
after a windy day,
the murmur of the evening room
...Thursday 19th October 2017 11:09 am
Saint Christopher Bell
"... any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee...
— John Donne, Meditation XVII.
Saint Christopher Bell
We seem to be collectors
of memories and junk,
piles of the stuff;
both kinds lean against damp walls
in self-support, waiting
for purpose,
finding little but ...
Thursday 19th October 2017 10:19 am
Scheherazade
This is my humble commentary on that matchless Middle Eastern and Indian story-book “One Thousand and One Nights”. Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's symphonic suite of the same name is the perfect musical accompaniment!
Scheherazade
Tell me, Scheherazade, how you fled
the evil emir like a bleeding lion,
his twisting, vengeful face now full with
requieted lust; your wisdom shines
...Thursday 19th October 2017 8:34 am
Solitaire
Solitaire
I walk alone across a pale beach
at midnight, lit by shaky moonlight
reflected from the black ribs
of disturbed sea-shallows. A sharp breeze
beckons from the dunes; inviting warmth,
with duplicitous intent. My ease is not available
for casual enticement.
No, I seek a place of peaceful aloneness
where sloughing sand is my choice,
and possibilit...
Thursday 19th October 2017 2:26 am
The Traveller's Eye
This is an attempt to capture the alien strangeness of the Nullarbor Plain which borders the Great Australian Bight. Despite its name it has plenty of hardy trees in places, but no surface water whatsoever. It is a totally flat expanse of bedrock almost seven hundred miles wide, and I have driven every inch of it!
The Traveller's Eye
O the light flows quickly over this blasted plain,
...Tuesday 17th October 2017 4:24 pm
Passions of the Soul
Passions of the Soul
Like a lighthouse set on rocky shores
we gaze at the world within our sight
with scant regard for any cause;
indifferent as the mosquito's flight,
and chatter gaily over tea or beer
on friendship, crime, or the next career.
But I am ego: I stand alone,
a moral agent in time and tide.
With resolution I keep my own
counsel; hermit-like, my thou...
Sunday 15th October 2017 1:50 pm
Oppenheimer
As a former educator and writer on international relations, and especially on nuclear issues, my students often tried to inveigle from me my own position on the worst of all weapons. I never succumbed.
Oppenheimer
Listen:
the distant siren
entices, fades;
Horizons clatter in fusillades,
cracking barrages warn the Furies
to grasp the running
menace
of desir...
Friday 13th October 2017 2:56 pm
Atlantic Elegy
This poetical rumination reflects my own ambivalence, as an immigrant to Australia almost half a century ago, towards my Australian existence. Is one's life largely the result of mere serendipity or is it, at least partially, malleable in our own hands?
Atlantic Elegy
Shall I reject a life lead so far
from home? Or lament the existential negligence
of fifty years I did not ha...
Wednesday 11th October 2017 1:44 pm
Invisible Rain
This is a commentary on living, when the living is hard.
Invisible Rain
Dawn has come to smother the light
in my house.
As I douse the candle's flicker
its feeble flame shines at the window,
lifting the road beyond
into patterned pathways, glinting
in the early bright;
the soft rain of midnight's darkling succour
is almost gone.
It will return tomorrow, u...
Wednesday 11th October 2017 8:54 am
Mirage
Mirage
Beyond these indifferent walls
lies a second carapace,
pierced by small, green eyes
in a shimmering face.
It is not my own,
but lies are truths for actors;
they bandage wounds
when the liars rebel
while fleeing, open-mouthed,
from their savage selves.
Christopher Hubbard
Perth 2016
Wednesday 11th October 2017 1:02 am
Doors and Windows
Doors and Windows
The simplest of houses,
doors and windows framed in white,
contains a universe within -
immured in the aura
of its keeper's light.
Chris Hubbard
St. Romain-en-Viennois.
France
2017
Tuesday 10th October 2017 5:47 am
Salt and Light
Salt and Light
Lofty and proud, the mighty cathedral stands,
grandly waits for its faithful servants
(more on fine days - they're not exactly fervent).
Tourists chatter in, grow quiet in its shadowed womb,
some trace vanishing points among the tombs.
A child holds his mother by the hand.
Distant echoes rebound through quire and transept
as the stained glass kaleid...
Monday 9th October 2017 6:32 am
Aurora
This poem was written after a day exploring Omaha Beach, one of the D-Day invasion beaches of Normandy.
Aurora
Before the dawn the north wind rails
at electric curtains of purple, acid green;
soft and terrible sails
that drape the stars,
flare bright as crystaline arctic nights.
Shall I walk far through silver beech
to reach hibernating huntsmen? Snow-shoed,
can I f...
Sunday 8th October 2017 12:39 pm
Lincoln Triptych
This is my return to the submissions list after seven months of travel, during which I was often either incommunicado, or almost so. Technical wizardry does not always work as advertised. I do not seem to be able to suppress my historical bent.
Lincoln Triptych
Part One: Defiance
A land made soft
by Heaven's tears, cried
thru' blankets hung aloft.
Some ask wit...
Friday 6th October 2017 11:47 am
On Scarborough Beach
This beach experience has nothing to do with Yorkshire, except its name! And yes, it does get that hot.
On Scarborough Beach
flash dry fades
in the turn of the world,
a shield of furnace flame
as callous sears
your flickering city
where dance of sea-glint,
fixed near
and cannily coast-wise
primates gather, cower,
crouch in ...
Monday 6th March 2017 9:07 am
Chariots of the Sun
This poem is a short affirmation and image of a small holiday island some eleven miles offshore from Fremantle, Western Australia. It began as a prison for aboriginal men and boys after 1838, and from 1902 served as a gubernatorial retreat from the intense summer heat. It is sear and dry, bereft of natural surface water, and now is a watery playground for fishers, boaters, surfers and many others....
Tuesday 28th February 2017 11:43 am
Wet
This poem is about flying into the city of Cairns in the far north of Queensland, and its lush and dangerous tropicality. This is an exotic part of Australia I know well. Specifically, it recalls my experiences of the wet season, when the rain falls in torrents, crocodiles inhabit the suburbs, and the humidity is like a sauna.
Wet
Tall drips of confusion
bombard flying fox invad...
Friday 24th February 2017 6:30 am
Silhouette
Silhouette
Midday's sun lifts to touch the faint horizon,
a pale discus rolling slowly along,
then gone. The lonely writer, limned in crimson
at her window desk, her ego strong,
her spirits cold as the icy scene before her,
shakes her head, breathes deeply, turns blind
from winter as snow begins its feathery fall;
The heater roars its warmth like an angry hin...
Thursday 23rd February 2017 11:48 am
Saint James of the Field of Stars
A friend of mine recently completed the Camino pilgrimage of Saint James from Lourdes in France to Santiago de Compostela, in Galicia, Northern Spain. He did it in two section a year apart, and walked, rather than cycled, all the way. I have no idea how he got there.
Saint James of the Field of Stars
I'm a travelling cyclist
(the type with panniers,
sturdy boots, waterproofs)
...Monday 20th February 2017 11:35 am
The City Shadowed
This poem is about growing old.
The City Shadowed
I cannot remember my name. And
where I came from. Or when I came here.
I am not from this place, this city, and
its silent people, its pale-vaulted sky,
its black shadow silhouettes
flickering lightly across blank walls.
Here the bar staff talk in lilting Irish
cadences, and look straight through you
as ...
Thursday 16th February 2017 5:39 am
Saudade
Saudade is one of those inexpressible words, Portuguese in this case. The clearest meaning or definition I can come up with is 'melancholic nostalgia' or the like. This is my attempt to take that thought one step further.
The poem is best read by first reading the non-italicised stanzas, followed by the italicised ones.
Saudade
Proteus, Old Man of the Sea,
Neptune's shepherd...
Thursday 16th February 2017 4:08 am
Lost
Back in 1995 I seem to have been a whole lot angrier than I am today! And more lost. But there's certainly some energy here.
Lost
Lost when your eyes are too wide,
lost when the sky
shouts high notes
when it should be whispering;
lost when the fires die.
Lost when complete strangers
give you the finger and grin,
or when the beer and the noise stop
and y...
Sunday 12th February 2017 2:55 pm
Adagio of the Heart
I went to an extraordinary exhibition last year called "Spirit of Anzac" which was touring all over Australia. It came closer than anything I've seen in capturing the daily experiences of those who fought, and died, in the First World War, and especially in trench warfare on the Western Front. I have tried to express something of that experience, as I understand it.
Adagio of the Heart
...
Sunday 12th February 2017 9:38 am
A Man I Know
This poem, from many years ago, is a fantasy about the liminal stage of a rite of passage. Looking back, I can see Celtic sensibility here that I was previously unaware of.
A Man I Know
A man I know stood beside me.
Looking up at paradise birds
in flight,
he reflected their colours
with steel eyes in blinding
scintillations. Carefully,
he began to speak:
“...
Friday 10th February 2017 12:25 pm
Losing Faith
This allegorical poem came out of my awareness of time passing, and a sense of the ultimately insubstantial or superficial qualities of much of this life that, as we grow older, seem less important or valuable than they once were.
Losing Faith
Faith, old friend, so wise and fulsome,
faded beauty at end of day,
draw me aside in a beechwood spinney,
make me swear on the code with...
Thursday 2nd February 2017 1:57 pm
Sleeping in a Forest
Everyone deserves a dream or two.
Sleeping in a Forest
Light and fire and music
all dance within me
in this perfect, silent forest
as she welcomes me to her breast,
full with fallen seeds and crinkled leaves
for my head; my bed of ashen river stones,
murmured possums, and repose. Long I slept
while overhead the white-hot starfields
bent to their nightly arcs...
Monday 30th January 2017 9:16 am
Poppy
A while ago, before I retired, I was concerned for the welfare of my students on reading a piece discussing the alleged widespread use of the psycho-stimulant Retalin by Australian university undergraduates. As a performance enhancer it was said to often be accompanied by depressants to reverse the effects. For some, it may have served as an introduction to more addictive and even more pernicious ...
Friday 27th January 2017 12:41 pm
Bright Sky
This is my attempt to understand both the dangers and rewards awaiting those who dare to write - and then send the results out into the ether.
Bright Sky
Writing is exquisite pain and pleasure, bound
in sprayed-on railway walls, in tapping dry
black torrents like gushing wells: ill-found,
spectacular but slowly emptying to reveal
a vault of sky so bright, so slyly hiding its...
Thursday 26th January 2017 9:59 am
A Rider
All I can say about this poem is that I am fascinated by deep history, and especially Greek and Roman history. I do believe that many mediate the distant past through myth and allegory, and of course our personal narratives. But human nature never changed, and never will.
A Rider
How willing are the many
who run races they cannot win, to peer
in fashioned sin to sear a rival? How ...
Wednesday 25th January 2017 10:39 am
Sailing an Inland Sea
This poem is for all those still searching for home.
Sailing an Inland Sea
A stark white galley, sail aloft,
Knifes liquid mirrors, softly heaving,
Its pattering stem a story-teller
For fishers caught
On idle frontiers, poised
Between vaults of washed cerulean.
Its Master sighs to distant shores, yearning
For Phoenicia's Thalassa; a place of purple -
...Tuesday 24th January 2017 1:08 am
Snow and Lightning
A while ago, I was reminded by my brother that our grandfather had fought in the Battle of the Somme, on the Western Front in 1916, where he was wounded and evacuated back home. This is for him, and for everyone.
Snow and Lightning
When winter paints the churned land white,
and splintered trees hang like sentinel flames,
snowfall that dusts bloody parapet stains
hardens to a sa...
Sunday 22nd January 2017 7:35 am
Aeschylus Unbound
I was idly thumbing through Youtube a while ago when I came across a short piece showing Bobby Kennedy on the back of a flatbed truck in a poor district of Indianapolis, Indiana on 4th April 1968. Announcing the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, he was able to calm a crowd ready to riot at the news. He did so by the force of his words, his rhetoric and his humanity. As many American cities ...
Tuesday 17th January 2017 3:29 pm
Ocean Wanderer
This poem emerged after I had seen a documentary programme about Macquarie Island, an Australian but sub-Antarctic dot-on-the-map in the Southern Ocean, south of New Zealand. Coleridge's 'Rime of the Ancient Mariner' seemed a suitable matrix on which to build it.
Ocean Wanderer
The big bird spreads its vast black wings
over high-flown, tufted, blustering clifftops,
takes...
Monday 16th January 2017 6:20 am
A Book of Hours
This poem came to me after a visit to London, where I was thunderstruck by the scale and beauty of the restored Reading Room at the British Museum. I was also wrestling with Existentialism at the time.
A Book of Hours
There was Time when its Arrow
flowed like a ticking clock
as it carved the future from the past
like a blind sculptor in one dimension
...
Saturday 14th January 2017 12:32 pm
Chris Hubbard @ Mont Saint-Michel
This is an experimental poem, written to discover whether I can handle a Petrarchan or Italian Sonnet. The rhyme scheme is trickier than I expected! I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoy it.
Light: A Sonnet
A beacon light would soothe the thoughtful soul,
and show the over-wrought their handsome fate,
quell fearful dread, stem terror-rivers' spate,
and illuminate, shun cha...
Wednesday 11th January 2017 3:49 pm
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