Poetry Blog by Mikhail Smith

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Tom on ... in ancient woodland. (Sat, 27 Apr 2019 11:44 pm)

Frances Macaulay Forde on As if the song would come again (Mon, 29 May 2017 01:56 am)

M.C. Newberry on As if the song would come again (Sat, 20 May 2017 06:29 pm)

jack purvis on 22-7-14 11pm. (Tue, 23 Dec 2014 03:04 pm)

jack purvis on “Darling! Are you in the bath?” (Tue, 23 Dec 2014 03:02 pm)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on School Music Class with their Violins. (Wed, 30 Jul 2014 11:38 am)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on Small Picture depicting a Hydrographic Draughtsman 5” x 3”. (Wed, 30 Jul 2014 11:32 am)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on .. extract from my first morning ... (Wed, 30 Jul 2014 11:24 am)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on “Darling! Are you in the bath?” (Wed, 30 Jul 2014 11:15 am)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on the middle dot indicated part of a complete thought (Wed, 30 Jul 2014 11:09 am)

As if the song would come again

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As if the song would come again
your ghost appears, you did not die,
and I with sadness, pace the room
something moved, passed me by.

And yet the song may come again
such notes to bear you far away,
I with nothing, and nothing still,
regret the minute, regret the day.

Chords of flowers echo in the sun,
random tunes or abstract play,
I with nothing, empty hands,
regret the ...

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Three sisters.

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I have three sisters
three sisters mine
they all hate dancin’
they all love flyin’.

they fly round the kitchen
while mother makes tea.
Tatiana makes three.


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... the glass from the mirror.



And I spoke to the judge, I said
"I’ll write no more songs, my
voice is now weak, there’s
something terribly wrong.
I cannot raise my pen, nor
utter a word, it does not hear
my voice. I cannot be heard."

And the judge looked down with
a fist made of gold, his eyes so grey
his breath so cold. He picked up my
pen dashed it down to the floor
saying "your time is done, you’ll

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22-7-14 11pm.

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I gave you the pearls in bed
and you counted them all one by one
thread breaking sending them curving
across your skin beneath the cotton sheet
between your thighs.
And again one by one like prisoners
rounded up from the cold forest I
escort them back threatening each
with solitude should their careless display
have confused my gift with threat
of shallow desire.





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".. beyond the gate ?"

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Is that you, beyond the gate?
I would turn, is someone there?
And a whisper, did you whisper?

Such thoughts, indistinct, troubled.
It cannot be you. The grave is cold.
And the casket, yes the casket,
Must be so old, so very old.

Yet you were there, beyond the gate.
I simply let go of your hand.
The memory just faded. A whisper?
Or your weakened laugh.

And now the gate i...

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Is that you? In the mirror.
Unstoppable, decay.

Is that you? In the plaster.
On the wall. Fading away.

Is the heartbeat, so disjointed,
that you will fade, and fade away?

Has your body, completed changing?
Does the blood vapourize, then decay?

And is your father waiting?
Is your mother waiting too?

And your husband, and your husband,
Is he waiting, there for you?


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‘Twas ever thus. A cup beside the
drunken bed while the child who
cannot cry remains unfed, remains
unclean, uncleansed of sin, betrayed
by your ugliness, rotting from within.

‘Twas ever thus. You say it again.
The excuse is your constant refrain,
your constant limp which you are
proud to show, you lean against the
crutch, you cannot let go.

And her heart is broke...

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It is said the word was added.                                   
Above the door.
After being liberated.

there will be a handprint ingrained
where she tripped for a moment.
Above the door.                                                              
After being liberated.
It is said the word was added.

for a moment she stumbled and the
handprint was ingrain...

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... in ancient woodland.

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I feel safe here
It is the bluebell wood I ran through
With my father.

The boy at school
Who passed me a note beneath the
Wooden desk.

I am happy here.
It is the fresh posy of fuschias
I take to grandad’s house.

It is my father.
It is the journey to the graveyard
To visit his parents.





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the middle dot indicated part of a complete thought

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“Look darling the Chekov is a very
refined restaurant.

The manager is simply asking you
to remove the hat.

Just leave it in the car then we can go
and eat.

We are nothing, turquoise dust passing
through delicate crimson clouds.

No. I don’t mind the strange socks.

All right I’ll buy champagne just
ditch the head-gear.”








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“Darling! Are you in the bath?”

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“Darling! Are you in the bath? I’m going
down to the chippy. Do you want a couple

of plaice? They were very good last week. Do
you remember? You had a carton of curry with

your chips! Dearest! I’m just popping out now!
Shouldn’t be long. Do you want some salt and

vinegar? I might call in at ‘the duck’ for one
while they’re frying! Shall I bring you a brown

ale ...

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bathbrown alechipsplaicerain

.. extract from my first morning ...



  I took the smell of the shrimps into my memory and again flexed my fingers through the air. The sea is close. I can hear the bay being rushed into by the insistent water and the defenseless pebbles chink in their stony resistance. The rock pools are filling. The timid razor shell and the tiny crab are exhausted after their long pause of wave on sand. Submerged they find one ano...

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Small Picture depicting a Hydrographic Draughtsman 5” x 3”.

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I sat at the table with Satie and we discussed
the gymnopodies he kept in a goldfish bowl.

I advised him that they could be an interesting
subject for a piece of music.

He handed me another buttered scone and shook
his head indicating the idea was no good.

I filled his wine glass from the large decanter and
watched him take one or two sips.

He looke...

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School Music Class with their Violins.

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You frighten me.
You are so unconventional.
Your surreal actions disturb me.
Bizarre once again you
act out a nightmare play.
You always carry a black case.
I levitate behind you and
stare at your terrifying hat.








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