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I read, and write out

Mimi Khalvati’s poem The Valley

And of course, I am transported

Back to Holmfirth

Back to the Holme Valley

And to the many tributaries

Or rifts, which feed into the centre

I remember especially

One mid summers afternoon

Walking down from Cartworth Moor

Back towards my mothers 

Council house at Cinderhills

I was in love at the time

Though my lover was across the sea

I was removed, to stop

Besides a dry stone wall

Where I found a four leaf clover

More importantly, I found a peace

A time, and place, to write a poem

Which I thought at the time to be of love

Yet, looking back, in truth

It may have been pure self-indulgence

Not that now I think that to be a bad thing

Not as a poet at any rate

Yet, for a lover, perhaps more care was called for

In explaining, with some equanimity, to my lover

My love of the beauty of this valley

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Balances

There is the pain

It is there all the while

Yet see how I smile

That you might ask

How am I keeping

Yes, it is true

It does keep me

From sleeping

Yet see how I am lightened

By your offer of tea

No, the despair

Does not quite

Turn to my weeping

Instead, I write

On matters of love

I try to repair

Yes simply as if

I am reaping

To furnish with light

The missives of love

There is the pain

As if climbing the stile

Yet just see how I smile

That you ask, sympathetically

How it is that I am needing

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I Am Lightweight

Last night I watched

Jiska Rickels’ film 4 Elements

I am now able to tell you

That I personally have no desire

To be a forest firefighter

Or a deep sea fisherman

Neither a miner in Germany

Or anywhere else for that matter

Finally, I would not wish

To undertake the training necessary

To become a space astronaut

I am happy to write

From the comfort of my armchair

Or to make a sketch, in a coffee shop

Yes I am ok to say

How I wish that Mrs Thatcher

Had not closed down the mines

And the shipyards

But I would not wish my sons

Nor I, to be in those professions

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On Being Told Not To Interfere

I come back to this room

I come back to this room

Where a few minutes ago

I was listening to David Whyte

Listening to David Whyte read his poetry

As well as him telling a fine tale

About himself, and John O’Donohue

Talking of to go against yourself 

Go against yourself - a neat Irish phrase

And, or so it seems to me

One not entirely at odds with

Being told not to interfere

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Thoughts That Do Not Waiver

Still to love

The one you love

Even though that love

May be unrequited

For they too

Cannot truly see that thought

When they think

That they no longer love you

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