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rambling rhyme

yet another poem about inspiration and writing style. I particularly enjoyed playing with rhythms and sounds in this one. it´s definitely one for reading aloud.

I usually write rhymes

About things I can see

I rhyme about lakes and

about mountains and trees

But sometimes I rhyme rhymes

about things that are not

so immediately obvious

and easy to spot

I scribble sometimes some rhymes

about love or about fear

some lines

don´t rhyme each time

and sometimes the end is too near

BUT

This rhyme is simple and easy

to hear

I´ve written a rhyme where the

rhythm is clear

I rattle, rock and roll and I ramble away

and the lines will all rhyme and my words won´t betray

me `cause it´s just silly play

I´ll move and I´ll sway

I´ll eat love and pray

and we can chill out at the end of the day

“NIGHTWIDE MIND”

“NIGHTWIDE MIND” (repost from a 2016 entry)

Searching for signals from deep in the sublime

The portal being opened from within  our time

We direct our gaze at the outern edge

And to one another we make this solemn pledge

“That never more shall your ears fail to see,

That knowledge of wisdom found deep in the trees”

And entranced we march into the gaping jaws

Of night’s dark terror, which gives us no pause

The delight which drags us on to our doom,

Is unlike to be found in a twilit tomb

But the open air of the hilltop crest

Would lead us happily to our rest

And while our fellow actors lie in wait,

We stand alone upon the slate

Our roles to be played in the act of defence

The land we cherished has lost all its sense

Ourselves alone searching for a starry home

And a fitting end to a meaningless poem.

Apology to my Creativity

 

I held you back for years, but you,

You held me through my tears, my childlike helplessness.

But I regret being such a mess.

You can move on, I’m not too strong but

Strong enough to say sorry

The best thing to do

The times I’ve blocked your view

Or the headlong adventure you craved

We can still look for them together

The opportunities change, no matter

I brought you here content

And whatever else I meant

It wasn’t to crush you or hide you under a bush

Yet I’m afraid of heights still,

But I’m getting there, you and me

Shining out our light, upon the hill.

Turia Bridge (after John Clare)

Hello river, my old friend
I cross above you at day’s end
As my work begins,
The night does fall
And I wonder about the point of it all
For like you, river, I am running daily
And where I reach it never fails me
My joys I must often compromise,
But you, dear friend, are a balm for my eyes.

(This is from December 2019, when of course, I actually did cross the bridge to get to work, and when I was particularly enjoying the work of English nature poet John Clare)

Stream of consciousness dream poem

I dreamt I was a photojournalist in a time of rising tension. The weather went from sun in park to hail. People scratched themselves with swastikas and wore secret russian signs, and yet it was a liberal government who were hanging us out to dry.
Closing down the camera shops and Russian owned cafés with a promise of more space in which to live. Yet these storefront were bricked up and our cameras could not get fixed, while whispers told us Merkel would halp us to survive.
Where did those whispers come from, I asked myself later, was that evictor one of Merkel’s men for true? And should I use my elite connection to buy more camera equipment, or tattoo my face and seduce fascists like my colleagues decide to do.

And as I woke and write these lines I see the parallels, we work in a world where nothings as it seems, and everybody is scared, lashing out in different ways, and few have the courage to dare to act to avoid more of these bad dreams

Stem the Blue Tide – Work in Progress

If I were still a Christian, this is the time I’d pray
Clasp my hands like Metternich
Waste my words day by day

If I were a televangelist, I’d be roaring praise the Lord
Stamping my feet and shaking
With the adoration of the horde

Indeed were I a firm believer in a philosophy of Fate
Stoically bearing pain,
I’d be uninterested in hate

I was never a good Christian nor a stoic or a sage,
And yet now I must decide
how to live within this age

Should I, like King Canute of old, sit enthroned upon the shore
while waves of blue do undermine
and leave the kingdom insecure

City Dawn

I sit back and wonder at the rising of the sun

The morning dew still falling, the grasses glisten

The city’s waking up, I can tell, the buses have started to run

And the early dog walkers clatter past

Coaxing and cursing in equal measure

While I sit writing at my leisure

For me the day starts as any other

My occupations and engagements far away

I might have coffee with my brother

Or read a book by the canal, of the sky’s not too grey

Live poetry reading

I just came home from a literary event which I helped to organise, and I got some lovely feedback (from audience, not speakers, thankfully). I’m a relative newbie at reading my own poems in particular, despite having recited some Heaney and Yeats at an event last July, and I found it difficult to decide how best to approach speaking.

I had this question going through my head when I was asked to read at a poetry event in Alboraya, a village just outside Valencia in June. I had a poem that felt urgent and I think that the crowd almost felt scared by my overblown theatricality during delivery. Afterwards I reasoned that maybe I had gone too far too fast.

So my question is, how do you like your poetry delivered? With gusto? With boiling rage? With raw emotion and urgency? With quiet passion? Slowly and deliberately enunciated? Or with humour and self-deprecation?

Answers on a postcard please. Expect a new(ish) poem soon.