A car goes down the drive
It is six in the morning
Is my elderly neighbour well
Has his grandson found a new job
Is the world everywhere
Slowly awakening, preparing
For a new dawn
A fresh light over the horizon
There is a stillness, a calm
Carried by the darkness
It is as if a secret is being shared
As you might have done
In the junior school playground
With your new best friend
You might even have whispered
No point now then to go back to bed
You have an early doctors appointment
In an hour or so; when the water is warm
You can take a bath
Have a few minutes of blissful release
As you submerge yourself
Physically, and metaphorically
Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Wednesday, 28 February 2018
Tuesday, 27 February 2018
Tether (End Of)
I am no good with pain
I do not bear it well
I am not fond of suffering
I am absolutely no saint
My current dilemma
Is that the longer I sleep
The more painful my shoulder
When I wake
It’s like a good night out
The better the evening
The more joyfully inebriated
The fiercer the hangover
Or with matters of love
The deeper one throws oneself in
The harsher the heartache
Upon dissolution, upon closure
I know I should be grateful
I am grateful, for the good times
Yet, in the black of this night
I do not take to pain too easily
I do not bear it well
I am not fond of suffering
I am absolutely no saint
My current dilemma
Is that the longer I sleep
The more painful my shoulder
When I wake
It’s like a good night out
The better the evening
The more joyfully inebriated
The fiercer the hangover
Or with matters of love
The deeper one throws oneself in
The harsher the heartache
Upon dissolution, upon closure
I know I should be grateful
I am grateful, for the good times
Yet, in the black of this night
I do not take to pain too easily
Monday, 26 February 2018
Facsimiles II
Choose your music carefully
Or randomly
One is for explorations, triggers
To something new for appreciation
The other is for contemplations, backdrops
To soak into, to dwell among
Ok, so you’ve gone with Arvo Pärt
Da Pacem (Estonian Philharmonic 2006)
So sit still, at least for fifteen minutes
Let the choral voices wash over you
Yes, you may tell me
Of the pink/red/rust coloured leaves
Flickering in the breeze
Beneath November’s blue blue sky
Or you may close your eyes
Recall the deep sleep
Which you were woken from
By a soft touch to your brow
You might even visualise
Monochrome, or mute blue
Or vast aubergine sunsets
Alive with visceral orange
Or randomly
One is for explorations, triggers
To something new for appreciation
The other is for contemplations, backdrops
To soak into, to dwell among
Ok, so you’ve gone with Arvo Pärt
Da Pacem (Estonian Philharmonic 2006)
So sit still, at least for fifteen minutes
Let the choral voices wash over you
Yes, you may tell me
Of the pink/red/rust coloured leaves
Flickering in the breeze
Beneath November’s blue blue sky
Or you may close your eyes
Recall the deep sleep
Which you were woken from
By a soft touch to your brow
You might even visualise
Monochrome, or mute blue
Or vast aubergine sunsets
Alive with visceral orange
Sunday, 25 February 2018
Facsimiles I
How to replicate
How to create
Stillness, silence
Peace
Engagement
Find one window
Note all, yes everything
Which you see there
Come, and go
At various
Times of day
In all kinds
Of weather
Let your mood be
As it is
As it wishes
As it finds itself
Zoom in
Zoom out
Describe the leaves
Of leaves
As being what you see
How to create
Stillness, silence
Peace
Engagement
Find one window
Note all, yes everything
Which you see there
Come, and go
At various
Times of day
In all kinds
Of weather
Let your mood be
As it is
As it wishes
As it finds itself
Zoom in
Zoom out
Describe the leaves
Of leaves
As being what you see
Saturday, 24 February 2018
Sex
Black; A touching you didn’t know existed (John Berger)
Of course John, black and sex
How could you not think of them together
Why, didn’t we all get married in black suits
And go to raucous society do’s in black ties
Don’t modern girls crave a little black dress
And just how far is it John
From parading our wanton sexuality
(In whatever black robes we can muster)
To where black suggests something stronger
About desire, passion, negligence, indulgence
Is that why she screamed at you John
Had the black taken you a little too far
Of course John, black and sex
How could you not think of them together
Why, didn’t we all get married in black suits
And go to raucous society do’s in black ties
Don’t modern girls crave a little black dress
And just how far is it John
From parading our wanton sexuality
(In whatever black robes we can muster)
To where black suggests something stronger
About desire, passion, negligence, indulgence
Is that why she screamed at you John
Had the black taken you a little too far
Friday, 23 February 2018
Elsewhere
Black / Darkness (John Christie)
The desire to be elsewhere is with us all John
It is lurking, ready to pounce, at anytime
Not just in the darkness
But of course, in the dark of night
Especially those moments on the cusp of sleep
When we can be caught at our most fragile
A time we can hold tight to the ball of fear
Which cries out for us to be elsewhere
Yet, at our most vulnerable, we fall asleep
And sleep is continually thanking us
For being a safe haven, for being here
Not in that nonsense place called elsewhere
The desire to be elsewhere is with us all John
It is lurking, ready to pounce, at anytime
Not just in the darkness
But of course, in the dark of night
Especially those moments on the cusp of sleep
When we can be caught at our most fragile
A time we can hold tight to the ball of fear
Which cries out for us to be elsewhere
Yet, at our most vulnerable, we fall asleep
And sleep is continually thanking us
For being a safe haven, for being here
Not in that nonsense place called elsewhere
Thursday, 22 February 2018
Jazz
The Blues: I am yours, you are mine (John Berger)
You surprise me John
So soon after saying you won’t use colour
You talk of the blue of blueberries being sexy
Now I must tell you, that Genevieve and myself
Stood naked in a stream, eating blueberries
And so I concur with you conclusion
That the blue of blueberries is indeed sexy
And also blue as a prize, for on that day John
After paddling, we shared the bigger prize
I don’t know the piece by Schubert
But I do agree, that Parker, of all the jazzmen
Had the colour blue engraved upon his soul
You surprise me John
So soon after saying you won’t use colour
You talk of the blue of blueberries being sexy
Now I must tell you, that Genevieve and myself
Stood naked in a stream, eating blueberries
And so I concur with you conclusion
That the blue of blueberries is indeed sexy
And also blue as a prize, for on that day John
After paddling, we shared the bigger prize
I don’t know the piece by Schubert
But I do agree, that Parker, of all the jazzmen
Had the colour blue engraved upon his soul
Wednesday, 21 February 2018
One
Yves Klein Blue (John Christie)
Your book gave me Klein, also, thankfully
It gave me Matisse, and Yuri Gagarin
Won’t each layer of colour
On a flat surface
Change both itself
And the colour beneath it
In the same way that geologists
Take core samples of rocks
Could we not have a sideways look
At the many layers of blue
And does not each layer
Allow the artist
Another hour of contemplation
To bring his blue to the surface
Then John, to light that plane
Which will now neither be
Flat nor true, yet we are able to imagine
A whole lifetime in that one colour
Your book gave me Klein, also, thankfully
It gave me Matisse, and Yuri Gagarin
Won’t each layer of colour
On a flat surface
Change both itself
And the colour beneath it
In the same way that geologists
Take core samples of rocks
Could we not have a sideways look
At the many layers of blue
And does not each layer
Allow the artist
Another hour of contemplation
To bring his blue to the surface
Then John, to light that plane
Which will now neither be
Flat nor true, yet we are able to imagine
A whole lifetime in that one colour
Tuesday, 20 February 2018
Star Filled Skies
The Red Whose Father Is The Knife (John Berger)
At first reading I thought you were on speed
Or that you had taken one too many
Of your painkilling drugs
But then I let your words slow me down
I discovered a new wavelength
I saw, and felt, your continuum
From white, to red, to black
Exactly as it is in life John
From birth, to being, to death
Best of all though, you took me back
Back to my childhood bedroom, where
Model aeroplanes hung from the starry ceiling
My father used to sit on my bed to tell me
The names of all of the colours in the world
He was the first to give me Cadmium Red
He spoke of red being an emotional colour
Indeed the highest of the high emotions
Coming along, at the beginning, and end of life
At first reading I thought you were on speed
Or that you had taken one too many
Of your painkilling drugs
But then I let your words slow me down
I discovered a new wavelength
I saw, and felt, your continuum
From white, to red, to black
Exactly as it is in life John
From birth, to being, to death
Best of all though, you took me back
Back to my childhood bedroom, where
Model aeroplanes hung from the starry ceiling
My father used to sit on my bed to tell me
The names of all of the colours in the world
He was the first to give me Cadmium Red
He spoke of red being an emotional colour
Indeed the highest of the high emotions
Coming along, at the beginning, and end of life
Monday, 19 February 2018
Scunthorpe Cemetery
Cadmium Red (John Christie)
A funeral is a good place to find colour
It stands out, ever so strong
Among the blacks, and the greys
And the nothingness of passing
Also John, as you were in a crematorium
You might imagine the fierce red flames
The painting of Vesuvius erupting could come to mind
You know, by that Earl of Derby chap
Is it carnations that don’t have any scent
I think a strong note is a good guide to colour
I have asked my paint shop man
To make me up a tin of Cadmium Red
I thought it might bring some life
To the alcoves in the study
A funeral is a good place to find colour
It stands out, ever so strong
Among the blacks, and the greys
And the nothingness of passing
Also John, as you were in a crematorium
You might imagine the fierce red flames
The painting of Vesuvius erupting could come to mind
You know, by that Earl of Derby chap
Is it carnations that don’t have any scent
I think a strong note is a good guide to colour
I have asked my paint shop man
To make me up a tin of Cadmium Red
I thought it might bring some life
To the alcoves in the study
Available from Amazon |
Sunday, 18 February 2018
A Different Introduction
What a good day, the first Friday
In November 2017
The first blank page, in a new blue book
And so what to write about; well, next week
I go to Buckfast Abbey, in Devon
For a four day retreat
I will write while I am there
Profusely I hope
I will write in this book
But the poems
They may be published elsewhere
Under the auspices of Abbey Poems
I am having keyhole surgery
On my frozen shoulder
On the first Saturday of 2018
No doubt the build-up
The event, and the aftermath
Will generate some words
But will they be poetic
Last night, in our writing group
We responded to artists letters
Specifically those between John Christie
And John Berger, from their album
I Give You This Cadmium Red
In November 2017
The first blank page, in a new blue book
And so what to write about; well, next week
I go to Buckfast Abbey, in Devon
For a four day retreat
I will write while I am there
Profusely I hope
I will write in this book
But the poems
They may be published elsewhere
Under the auspices of Abbey Poems
I am having keyhole surgery
On my frozen shoulder
On the first Saturday of 2018
No doubt the build-up
The event, and the aftermath
Will generate some words
But will they be poetic
Last night, in our writing group
We responded to artists letters
Specifically those between John Christie
And John Berger, from their album
I Give You This Cadmium Red
Available from Amazon |
Saturday, 17 February 2018
BBB Poem 98
There is missing and there is missing
There is longing and there is longing
There is loss and there is loss
There is bright light in abundance
And there is hope
Yes, always there is hope
There is doubt
Doubt and the depth of deep delusion
There is also a music
A music though which for some does not sing
There is all of this, in one singular lifetime
But I ask you to believe me
There is hope, there is always hope
There is the sacred
And there is the purple tint profane
There is the blinding truth
And then there is the other game
There is the obtuse, and the downright barmy
But there is hope
And hope lives on, lives on in our name
There is hard work
And there are easier pickings
Some days they may seem to be the same
The toil of honest labour
Or the rolling of the winning dice
For there is hope
And hope is so so happy that you came
There is breath
And there is contemplative breathing
There is meditation
Instead of going to the football
There is a nearness
And a further distance still to fall
But there is hope
Hope which asks that we make the call
There is skin
And there is fabric
And there is skin
There are the living
And the heavenly ethereal bodies
There are shrouded myths
And the legends of the soul
There is hope
Hope which asks that we make the call
There is longing and there is longing
There is loss and there is loss
There is bright light in abundance
And there is hope
Yes, always there is hope
There is doubt
Doubt and the depth of deep delusion
There is also a music
A music though which for some does not sing
There is all of this, in one singular lifetime
But I ask you to believe me
There is hope, there is always hope
There is the sacred
And there is the purple tint profane
There is the blinding truth
And then there is the other game
There is the obtuse, and the downright barmy
But there is hope
And hope lives on, lives on in our name
There is hard work
And there are easier pickings
Some days they may seem to be the same
The toil of honest labour
Or the rolling of the winning dice
For there is hope
And hope is so so happy that you came
There is breath
And there is contemplative breathing
There is meditation
Instead of going to the football
There is a nearness
And a further distance still to fall
But there is hope
Hope which asks that we make the call
There is skin
And there is fabric
And there is skin
There are the living
And the heavenly ethereal bodies
There are shrouded myths
And the legends of the soul
There is hope
Hope which asks that we make the call
Friday, 16 February 2018
BBB Poem 97
Does it matter
Where the inspiration comes from
Just so long as the inspiration turns up
Richard Rohr in his book Immortal Diamond
Says that The contemplative mind should be religion’s unique gift to society.
It greases the wheels of spiritual evolution.
I would rather
That he had not tried to claim this gift
Solely on behalf of religion
For it is my belief that mankind alone has gifted that beauty, which is the contemplative mind
And from where that contemplation comes
And to where the contemplation takes me
Is a response entirely down to my own life:
To my highs and lows
My hopes and expectations
To the life I have lived, and which am still living
To my night-time dreams
And to my daily disappointments
I am almost overloaded with the words
And the images from the social media Tumblr
Yet I feel good, I feel upbeat, and positive
For having trawled the familiar, and the new
I am pleased
To have had a conversation with my soul
With my friends
Out there in the contemplative ether
Where the inspiration comes from
Just so long as the inspiration turns up
Richard Rohr in his book Immortal Diamond
Says that The contemplative mind should be religion’s unique gift to society.
It greases the wheels of spiritual evolution.
I would rather
That he had not tried to claim this gift
Solely on behalf of religion
For it is my belief that mankind alone has gifted that beauty, which is the contemplative mind
And from where that contemplation comes
And to where the contemplation takes me
Is a response entirely down to my own life:
To my highs and lows
My hopes and expectations
To the life I have lived, and which am still living
To my night-time dreams
And to my daily disappointments
I am almost overloaded with the words
And the images from the social media Tumblr
Yet I feel good, I feel upbeat, and positive
For having trawled the familiar, and the new
I am pleased
To have had a conversation with my soul
With my friends
Out there in the contemplative ether
Thursday, 15 February 2018
BBB Poem 96
Is there some purpose
That you always post
Photographs of you
On your own
Always it seems alone
Not with another
Is there some reason
That I only ever see
Your photographs
With you alone, never
In a loving embrace
With someone other
That you always post
Photographs of you
On your own
Always it seems alone
Not with another
Is there some reason
That I only ever see
Your photographs
With you alone, never
In a loving embrace
With someone other
Wednesday, 14 February 2018
BBB Poem 95
The Clematis Flowers
In late October
After the savage pruning
In the summer
It is as if a soldier
Injured in battle
Had, once recovered
Returned to the front
Now he, and the Clematis
May smile upon the world
To give hope to the rest
That the fight is worthy
In late October
After the savage pruning
In the summer
It is as if a soldier
Injured in battle
Had, once recovered
Returned to the front
Now he, and the Clematis
May smile upon the world
To give hope to the rest
That the fight is worthy
Tuesday, 13 February 2018
BBB Poem 94
Sunday doesn’t seem a good day anymore
To delve into the peace and the tranquility
Of there being a deeper purpose to life
Instead it appears to have become a day
For movement, for explorations, for visitors
To arrive from Italy, and France, and Spain
Here to pay their religious respects, of sorts
But also to take numinous photographs
And to explain, to those in earshot
The history, the history of the building that is
Not their history, nor my history, such as it is
No, that life history is left for others to discover
To delve into the peace and the tranquility
Of there being a deeper purpose to life
Instead it appears to have become a day
For movement, for explorations, for visitors
To arrive from Italy, and France, and Spain
Here to pay their religious respects, of sorts
But also to take numinous photographs
And to explain, to those in earshot
The history, the history of the building that is
Not their history, nor my history, such as it is
No, that life history is left for others to discover
Monday, 12 February 2018
BBB Poem 93
I am sat on Joy Ibsen’s chair
I don’t know if she had much joy in her life
Or if her demeanour lived up to her name
But I guess
As hers is the only name on the chair
She was not lucky
In how might we say, bodily love
Maybe she saved herself
For the good of the lord
Of course I may be mistaken
There may have been more than one suitor
Too many names
To be carved into the elegant chair
Of course it may have been elegance
Elegance above all else
That joy wished to portray
That she wished to be known for
And for many, perhaps
Elegance is next to godliness
I don’t know if she had much joy in her life
Or if her demeanour lived up to her name
But I guess
As hers is the only name on the chair
She was not lucky
In how might we say, bodily love
Maybe she saved herself
For the good of the lord
Of course I may be mistaken
There may have been more than one suitor
Too many names
To be carved into the elegant chair
Of course it may have been elegance
Elegance above all else
That joy wished to portray
That she wished to be known for
And for many, perhaps
Elegance is next to godliness
Sunday, 11 February 2018
BBB Poem 92
How good do you look
Such that your boyfriend
(I guess he is your boyfriend)
Wants to stop
And take a photograph
Of your shadow
On the cathedral floor
He shows you the shot
And after a few words
You throw your arms around him
And kiss him fully on the lips
Yes, I am pretty sure
He is your boyfriend
At least now I hope so
Ok I know it is not spiritual
Although I do believe love played a part
And I know that is short on religion
Even with the audacious use of the c word
Now it is the thirty-somethings kissing
With their loving teenage children
Trying also to get in on the act
Meanwhile the Breton man
Fondles the stone
And the pushchair
Is pushed, and spun, and twirled
The tall man looks up
At the way taller ceiling
And explains to all who are in earshot
The purpose of the arches
Such that your boyfriend
(I guess he is your boyfriend)
Wants to stop
And take a photograph
Of your shadow
On the cathedral floor
He shows you the shot
And after a few words
You throw your arms around him
And kiss him fully on the lips
Yes, I am pretty sure
He is your boyfriend
At least now I hope so
Ok I know it is not spiritual
Although I do believe love played a part
And I know that is short on religion
Even with the audacious use of the c word
Now it is the thirty-somethings kissing
With their loving teenage children
Trying also to get in on the act
Meanwhile the Breton man
Fondles the stone
And the pushchair
Is pushed, and spun, and twirled
The tall man looks up
At the way taller ceiling
And explains to all who are in earshot
The purpose of the arches
Saturday, 10 February 2018
BBB Poem 91
Several months
Almost a year
Of debilitating pain
Which, however optimistic
One may be superficially
The doubt still remains
The question remains
Will I be cured
Will I be made better
Such that the sleep
Will itself be longer
Than the two hour snatches
Such that the sitting
And the stride about walking
Will be without recourse
To a massage of the shoulder
Or without the need
To nudge a little to the right
I notice the margin is sloping
Yet this is no love poem
No story of abject loss, or lust
For that matter neither a tome
To express the slain of heartbreak
Or the overdue longing of the unrequited
No, not so, however much
I might write of the frozen shoulder
You will always nag away at me
Almost a year
Of debilitating pain
Which, however optimistic
One may be superficially
The doubt still remains
The question remains
Will I be cured
Will I be made better
Such that the sleep
Will itself be longer
Than the two hour snatches
Such that the sitting
And the stride about walking
Will be without recourse
To a massage of the shoulder
Or without the need
To nudge a little to the right
I notice the margin is sloping
Yet this is no love poem
No story of abject loss, or lust
For that matter neither a tome
To express the slain of heartbreak
Or the overdue longing of the unrequited
No, not so, however much
I might write of the frozen shoulder
You will always nag away at me
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