Born the year Kennedy was shot, Trevor celebrated his 38th Birthday the day the Twin Towers were hit. His first collection of poems LOVE, DEATH and THE WAR on TERROR was published 2009, his second KEEP ON KEEPIN’ ON in 2012, and his new collection GREY SUN, DARK MOON, will be published 14 September 2015. He has the edited four anthologies of poetry garnered from new media, social and professional networking, THE POETIC BOND I - IV and the fifth, The Poetic Bond V is due out 21 October 2015. He manages the LinkedIN Group “POETRY, REVIEW and DISCUSS”. Trevor is a Drama graduate from Royal Holloway with ten plays professionally produced and a collection of one act plays FOUR TRUTHS. The above are all available on amazon and elsewhere. His recently performed at RAW POETRY in London.
Two poems from my upcoming collection, GREY SUN, DARK MOON (released 14 September, 2015) one of which HUMAN is also featured in THE POETIC BOND v (RELEASE DATE 21 October, 2015) Definitive He struts the stage Never to be King Knowing privately that soon He would not be here at all His eyes were enclosed in puffy eyelids His skin seemed translucent Yet fat To be or not to be Quoth he on that stage He looked down at us His audience This was not only Hamlet This was Charleson This was Ian Charleson His last Best Performance On the corner of the stage He seemingly meandered An actor, maybe twenty feet from my seat There were lines, Shakespeare's words to relay But he simply drew a breath Both he and The Prince Took a moment And in that silence I shared, the audience shared To be, of course, we shall And then we will not Let Fortinbras end it here (C) Trevor Maynard 2015, from GREY SUN, DARK MOON Human Her eyes, the quality of brown dust Blown on the surface of ground cracked by drought The white surrounds are veined with grey And aged in Martian red Appropriate perhaps to her manner Detached, alien, avoiding expression The paint on her lips is more like scarring While her charcoaled eyebrows are permanently arched She slips on a pair of square masculine spectacles She opens up a book to a bookmarked page Legs crossed, covered with regulation jeans And trainers fashionably off-white, faux worn Her demeanour is one of neutrality, ordinariness Nothing to stand out and therefore nothing to offend She does not wish to talk And wishes no other to talk to her She is noticeably unnoticeable Until she wipes a tear from a cheek The grey, azure and jet Shadowing her eyes, smudging, caking This is the rain that brings an end to the drought Her eyes deepening, showing now with sadness A blushing tide driving across a scarlet sea She is not separate, not detached Her pain radiates, if only for a moment Then she turns the page of the book A curtain falls on her emotions, or so it seems There is private heartache buried deep In all of us as we pass each other in the street Seeking neutrality, to go unnoticed Not wishing to talk or be spoken to Alone among seven billion, or more, souls (C) Trevor Maynard 2015, from GREY SUN, DARK MOON, and also featured in the international anthology, THE POETIC BOND V (release date 21 October) Two of my poems featured in THE POETIC BOND III, 37 poets from 13 countries, capturing a global contemporary zeitgeist. Beyond the Writing on the Wall Beyond the writing on the wall There is brick and crumbling mortar A sycamore stubbornly clings Well, it took such a mighty effort to grow roots Moss, on the other hand, seethes insidiously, in perpetuity It survives even the most hostile of environments Old Magic, the Goddess smiles Mother Earth will ensure the wall will fall But what will it reveal A field of golden buttercups Hawthorn caught up infernal bine Or land dead and polluted by indifference Is there a clue in the writing Is our future writ large Bit like the dyslexic lovers we are We only read what we want to read And go hang reality, go hang truth Doves, of all creatures alight, Above the keystone and the founders plaque weathered almost away, I read "This have I, Wall, my part discharged so, and being, done, thus wall away doth go." The Chattering Ants If they could just take a moment, The Chattering Ants, to hear the lap of the water against the bank, to smell the freshly cut grass, to feel the wind warm not cold, to taste the comfortably uncomfortable tang of a beer slipping down the throat; just take a moment; begging, begging for their silence: The Chattering Ants, too large the laminated security tags about their necks; jeans and shirts in thirty degree heat, they are reprieved of the company necktie; this could be, will be, given the nature of black belt sigma 6 light or some such Prince 2 roll out do they not realise Nature and Project Management are diametric enemies? There is At Me in Team, not we or I. Long boats, “Justice of Banbury” and “The Weyfarers” pass, diesel chugging, tea-clugging pilots, smoking a cheroot and observing this bankside dweller, playing hooky, like the inner child he is, or the selfish bastard he has become, dependent on your point of view. Jet engines draw all eyes skyward where, trolley dollies strut, stuck on make-up masked too long; long haul, vapour trail oh so beautiful in the chariot’s wake. Heathrow near, people on their way somewhere escaping The Chattering Ants, fleeing that is what we call it, fleeing to the sun, two weeks respite, even loved ones need time away from the hospice, this is hard earned, not with manual labour but with mental assault – bullying, discrimination, and power, employment is rape Lovers gather and miniature ferns spread through the cut grass, spent dandelions and white daisies ready for chaining, feather of a swan floats by; ducklings follow their mother or die alone: my wife says I am angry, flailing at the world and only hitting her, A Chattering Ant in all but legs; I have the bulbous abdomen, the huge arse, but my antennae do not work properly, the signals, our signals, are crossed, our messages only partially resolved, and yet I love her intensely, forever, and she me; these are our lives, she is my world and yet, these are my words, twelve point, Ariel, justified, I am formic, lasius niger, the most common of the British Ants We scream at each other, mostly about minutiae, well, I say they are such - irreverent, unimportant, mere contretemps: she says these petty scratches are symptomatic, symbolic, revealing of The Truth. She is dying, we are all dying, and it is painful. Labradors black and golden, gambol, splash, never venture farther than the shallows, but if I am to anthropomorphize, they are happy Chattering Ants. A Dutch barge, all dark wood, curious paddles splayed to the side, mast down, goes on by, one-two-five Yamaha put-putting; something wrong there, a combustion engine on a Dutch barge? We lick our wounds and withdraw our selfish swords from the other’s back; forgiveness and iodine our familiar refrain. I soak up the burgeoning heat of Nature, Sol, Ra, any God that flicks your switch; at last the vacuous clamour abates. The ants resume their march, their monumental purpose of hill-building, one grain of dirt at a time, project management, black belt, programmed in, the simple antics of control: such a strong breeze blows through the flaking silver birch, the copper beech, it rustles the Oak, the sycamore hopes to shed its seed too soon, hawthorn scrambles, that vile weed, wondrous blackberries from chaos, oh yes, such chaos! And around the mulberry bush The Chattering Ants proclaim, we know not the stranger olive tree, or the peace you seek to claim. My mind revolves, my soul questions, I feel the changes of life caress now not rip, I am not biding my time in this world, nor simply waiting for the next, no, there are still important words and actions for me to complete; I must take the moment to “stop talking” as my grandson is wont to say when the adults are too caught up in their own chatter to play: there is my wife’s hand to take, her lips to kiss, the weddings and christenings of our children, grandchildren, our siblings, cousins, and friends, there is the death of our grandparents, parents, of brothers and sisters, and yes the passing of friends; there is time enough before the silence becomes complete, before the ferryman demands payment to board his strange Dutch barge: time enough to enjoy the momentary pause in the chattering of the ants Performance Set from RAW POETRY, LONDON, 25th March 2013 - all poems from KEEP ON KEEPIN' ON by Trevor Maynard, available on amazon and kindle Redundant C A long slow, excruciatingly so, word in my ear. The market veneer had cracked, they made it clear, they would have to delineate and define the bottom line; they were going to have to let me go Gardening leave, my professional career cleaved. Cloves mask my acetone breath, my pallor becomes a languid alloy of flaking skin without and within, medical diagnosis is of stress induced dermatitis. Tribunal result a shocking insult, a-judges them right, and me contrite; they are going to be able to let me go Merry happenstance, departmental developments, ICT, well customer services really. Slight demotion it is true but an alternative employment I could do, subject to recommendation. But those B’s did not reference me, they were resolute and vicious in their pursuance to maintain my status as Redundant C, no grounds or discretion of appeal; they were determined to let me go Lonely in my room, incandescent in rage at the outrage, I plot my path to dislodge the lot, in every detail designing such mail as to explode in tinsel and nail. Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy New Year, but I was spotted by the sharp eyed B’s, the police came a-knocking, the judge’s verdict was mocking, sentence was passed, black hat class, leaving me definitely the Redundant C; the law will not let me go Days drag to infinite measure at Her Majesty’s displeasure. My psychological evaluation a masterful accreditation, I determine not to be part of their conspiracy, I trade up cigs for Temazepam, I march with the Colombian band, cut with cleaner to fight grime, and in no time I cross the line and pass into the shadows, dancing with Frodo and who else, F knows. I cannot even remember my actual crime, I am the Redundant C, then my wife says, here’s the thing, it’s more than just a fling; she has to let me go Counting the numbers of flies dried dead on the wall, tapping the bars lethargically before the parole board. I try to understand the affectation and the causality of my incarceration, I concur my actions were callous, cruel and unusual, but I cannot agree about the Redundant C, it should not have been me. I had a wife and three kids to support, did they not read the transcript of the court. They had they said, they were sad but their statement read, no release date yet; they could not let me go Secured and sectioned once more to a padded room without a door. I see the doctors and the demons in equal pleasure, the latter gaining my trust and the former my jerking thrust. Secure hospitals are such stately places of rehabilitation, for us special patients incarcerate, without remission is a clear indication of a judicial commission, and I decided, since the whole world had already tried it, I would bring the house down on this already ushered out show; I would be the one to let me go . * Biscuit I looked to take a biscuit from her mouth Just a crumb, on her lip, a leftover She didn’t even realise it was there But she caught me smiling at her Maybe I was not smiling, more smirking Yes, that’s it, embarrassed at being found out looking at her Watching the flow of her skirt The impression of her legs, her thighs below The dark…………… the rise and fall of her breath Time, it seemed, liked me For it slowed down almost to a stop It let me think, let my brain tick I was able to turn my inappropriate leer To a gentle, kind smile A helpful, friendly neighbourly grin I brought my finger to the corner of my mouth Indicating that she do the same And after a moment’s hesitation She did, and she found the crumb Which she lightly, fingertip only Pushed to her tongue and licked her lips And she smiled back at me, or smirked Or leered, yes, a mischievous teasing grin “I love you,” she said I love you too, I replied Then took another biscuit from the packet And we ate that one too * Total Breakdown in Communication Leading to Divorce and Death watching the blocks piling i notice not she who piles just the wall going up building bigger, miles and miles, up to the sky and off to the moon higher and higher, no way in, no window, no door, no cat-flap, she builds her way, never to love me again * Superdry and Radley He chews widely and powerful, half a toasted sandwich in one go Tee emblazoned “Superdry”, muscles toned, head shaved, nose Pinched; a small face on a large head, no neck and large shoulders She is hunched, there is a light salad, salmon, rocket, a pesto sauce She picks at it with black plastic spork. Powder blue pumps over tiny feet Bare skin at the ankle shows an anklet pressing in She wears tight-like leggings tight to stick-like legs; over laying a powder blue Cashmere cardigan, asymmetrical and long; the clip of her bra bulges through As if another vertebrae; three of her would fit into one of him, should it work that way He moves to desert, yoghurt with granola on top. She politely refuses His non-verbal offer to share so he finishes it in three spoonfuls (spilling none) He rises in expectation of departure; he hovers, indulging her languor She leans down, for her hand bag, painfully thin, her stomach concave A powder blue terrier is cut from the leather, a brand patiently begging Her companion is already away, down the pavement, checking his android phone She leaves her salmon, her rocket, her pesto dressing, Her black plastic spork she neatly replaces in the compartment assigned to it. He stops, waits, she follows Pigeon toed, staring at the floor, shuffling, taking his hand as it is offered to her. * The Weights About My Feet Do Not Stop The Motion Of The Waves The seagulls are muted and the sea crabs are close Gnawing at my shroud Bang Bang went the bullets and “Martyr” shouts the crowd Was it a success, my life of populist jihad? Was I merely another example of so many good ideas made bad? Was it a triumph, my end in ultimate redaction? Was I merely another example of the consensus of moral action? I can’t judge, I can only be judged, No doubt most will see my end as just (Indeed a fucking must) After all I did kill many thousands in a philosophical wanderlust... What is sure is that one man’s quest for evil or good Is only a single man’s journey And that, love it or hate it, there will be another man soon Creating and/or destroying our humanity The hawks cluster close and doves are further away now Admiring his christening gown Whirr and flash go the fireworks Let us welcome the new clown (c) Trevor Maynard, KEEP ON KEEPIN' ON (2012) Redundant C
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The Poetic Bond III (14/10/2013)
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