Poetry Blog by David Blake
Cynthia Buell Thomas on Moon Haiku (or 'How Poets Can Pale Into Insignificance') (Sun, 3 Dec 2017 05:44 pm)
I remember the sun;
the sun was important,
although all the art was inside
and in perfect pride of place,
skirting the walls
and planted in rows.
My feet young, but the air old,
and moss overgrown on
the war memorial outside.
True, you need light for shade,
a chiaroscuro, and
a half-full glass raised.
The place is almost silent
with must, damp, old coins...
Wednesday 26th September 2018 10:34 pm
I worked all through the Winter,
on my Swan, then it got dashed in water,
a cruel joke from some playmate or other,
sadly it didn't float, but neither even would
my flimsy boat (one would imagine).
Trouble was the books were too old,
too fusty, specialised;
I grabbed them from the library eager
only to arrive back home and within five minutes
had lost patience...
Friday 24th August 2018 10:54 pm
This officious darling, too old
for me, with steel-eyed glances;
offers me a hand and
a Fabergé egg.
The cold lights of the Malverns
in winter are anthills.
In my heart, I decline, and go
to prowl before the world's river.
Scooping up vanity in my arms
I deposit the screaming bundle
on steaming bank, smooth leaf
and unpick iron links.
Soon his money's out
of the question and I r...
Saturday 18th August 2018 2:25 pm
The arch-light at the end of the view
from my door is
weather-bitten, with mossed steps,
beneath the thumbprint of moon
(the stone, in the fruit
of the afternoon).
Sideways I glance,
over the hedge;
there, spring has hit,
and apple-tree, honeysuckle
and lacquered gate,
I remembered the last time,
your hands closing both of mine,
as we stre...
Monday 15th January 2018 12:04 am
Beside the water,
torch-lit in wide places,
the muddy track fades
and ash and oak are ragged
before, beside, behind.
The thaw bleeds out
over marsh and moor,
swept away back east
with lines of fields
and played out.
My own earth is in the box
the heart smokes
and is painted on the floor,
where dogs rush to me a...
Monday 8th January 2018 1:26 am
A running tap in a cluttered room,
the water through dust-light.
Someone stares from a close distance,
unmoving. The sound fills the space.
A body lies outside, on the paving,
curled sideways, fully clothed.
One fist open, the other
hidden. Dawn breaks slow above.
Two bright young things, in hats,
scarves and gloves, rush breathless
to the window of a jewell...
Wednesday 3rd January 2018 11:33 pm
Too old to start
swimming in the scorched
starlight, of youth, eyes
This is all fair,
where would it be
otherwise? How could
the cymbals clang warped
for us, weak heroes?
Or soften, as fruit
Tuesday 2nd January 2018 5:59 pm