Poetry Blog by Mike Smith

Recent Comments

Yvonne Brunton on Ullswater Requiem (7) (Sun, 13 May 2012 06:08 pm)

Yvonne Brunton on Ullswater Requiem (2) (Fri, 4 May 2012 09:57 pm)

Ray Miller on Ullswater Requiem (2) (Fri, 4 May 2012 08:49 pm)

Chris Co on Ullswater Requiem (1) (Fri, 4 May 2012 11:48 am)

Roy Chetham on Ullswater Requiem (1) (Fri, 4 May 2012 11:30 am)

Ray Miller on Ullswater Requiem (1) (Thu, 3 May 2012 01:16 pm)

Yvonne Brunton on All Things Are Connected (Thu, 19 Apr 2012 11:55 pm)

Tommy Carroll on All Things Are Connected (Thu, 19 Apr 2012 11:26 pm)

on and the next one is..... (Tue, 17 Apr 2012 07:02 pm)

M.C. Newberry on and the next one is..... (Mon, 16 Apr 2012 07:15 pm)

Ullswater Requiem (7)


VII Libera me A Prayer  

Let me drop a pebble to that surface

and watch its ripples run out perfect

and see a fish rising from the depths,

a pebble cast by water into sky,

and thos two rings meeting, interfering,

intermingling, intersecting but still perfect,

each still unbroken in its way:

A criss-cross message of place and time.


Believe. We ...

Read and leave comments (1)


Ullswater Requiem (6)

  VI Lux Aeternum A Celebration

The sky's sheet ice, the blood of sunset drained away.

Clouds are gatherd in like nets at the horizon.

Rose petals of last light are floating in

an awkward angle of the bay. Crows are

litter, whirled in a corner of the air.

The steamer's wake has met itself returning.

Some say this is the old day's dying, as if

no dawn will break; ...

Read and leave comments (0)


Ullswater Requiem (5)

V Lacrimosa Weeping


I did not witness this. I saw the lake.

Ripples run towards me every day.

I cannot read them all. The steamer makes

eight beats per second by my clock, no more.

Yet I must speak or what’s the watching for?

My words must face you square and eye to eye.

We are each other’s strangers of goodwill.

Tears bind us; the sky; mountains, and fire...

Read and leave comments (0)


Ullswater Requiem (4)


IV Quid sum miser The Bereaved


Crossing a mountain stream once in bare feet

you could not keep yourself from crying out,

sliced by that scalpel cold, burned by its ice.


An avalanche of cold enfolded them.

Only an inch or two beneath it’s cold

as graves. Stone cold where the sun can’t penetrate.

Rivers of cold run deep along the lake.



Read and leave comments (0)


Ullswater Requiem (3)


III Recordare Memory


You remember once yourself slipping off

the narrow shelf of Ullswater.

You were no swimmer at all and had waded out like them

beyond the glimmer of sunlight on rocks below,

walking on a cliff edge in a mist,

and only when you felt the stones begin

to slip and shift knew you were on the lip

of some commencing underwater fall.


Read and leave comments (0)


Ullswater Requiem (2)


II Tuba Mirum The Bringing of the News


Whatever moves above it or below

disturbs the surface: Writes its passage:

weight: speed: bulk: hull: body: keel and fin:

the changing pressure of the wind.

A drowning man will tell his tale

as clearly as a fishing heron can.

Today it’s briefly mute: What lives below

is motionless. The wind is starved of breath...

Read and leave comments (2)


Ullswater Requiem (1)

entry picture


I Dies Irae The Anger of the Water


Here’s where I stand. I read the lake each day.

Beyond our reach it changes endlessly.

Sometimes it's dark as ice. Sometimes it's broken glass,

Sometimes like metal streaked where boats have passed,

Sometimes with ripples regular as sound.

Sometimes it’s like a sky: Sometimes a pit.

Sometimes it’s white capped, rough.


Read and leave comments (3)


All Things Are Connected

This poem came out of an exercise set by Angela Locke at Maryport Writers Group. It arrived almost word perfect, and fetched up in the First Sixty, the Acumen anthology, confounding perhaps thereby, the blood sweat and revisions school of writing! Maybe knowing to keep my hands off it was the blood sweat and revision!



All Things Are Connected


Touch this web

We call...

Read and leave comments (2)


and the next one is.....




The light fades gently. Darkness does not fall.

The sky’s the last to darken of it all.


These shadows seep from doors and out of walls.

They drain from off the bracken-covered fells.

They slide across the drive. Each hollow fills

with darkness, like dark water filling pools.


So faintly too, we glow and glimmer here.

We flicker with ou...

Read and leave comments (4)


Here's another shorty... -don't call me shorty!


59/6 Lovers


Some draw semen

Some draw blood

We spill that which

We think we should.

Read and leave comments (0)

short poetry

A different sort of poem.....


40/1  Clara Petacci in the Piazza Loreto


She was Benito Mussolini’s squeeze.


He’d jump official meetings for quick shags,

leaving state officials fingering their diplomatic bags.

He’d have her on the carpet, on a chair,

over a desk; almost anywhere,

then go out on some balcony, thumping the air.


Of course it had to end:

Armies defeated, tr...

Read and leave comments (3)

atrocityClara PetacciItalyjusticeMussoliniWorld War Two

Here's a poem from notebook 40, the 2nd in fact...



Low-lying cloud,

sheep’s wool snagged on wire,

rain washed.


Plantation trees plain stitched

across the hills’

ribbed sleeve.


Black holes punched in grey

the stippled lake

but no breeze.


Bird-calls; not song.

Make no mistake.

No-one sings here

among the evergreens along

the water’s edge.


Only warning c...

Read and leave comments (7)


Here's poem 61/1

Strong winds are blowing in, cool to the skin.

Sun is forecast and blue sky; and the past

hangs like a puff of cloud above a hill

that will not budge however strong the wind.


Snowdrops have gone, save for their shrivelled stems.

Primroses are out; daffodils in bunches planted to look wild.

Pipe cleaner lambs, two to each sheep this year,

totter behind their mum...

Read and leave comments (5)

Poetryprima veraspring

This site uses cookies. By continuing to browse, you are agreeing to our use of cookies.

Find out more Hide this message