There is no bench to sit upon
To look directly at the back of the Abbey
Though I am able to tell you
That by turning slightly, and looking over my shoulder
I can see the substantial, gold-leaf, clock fingers
Which, even from this distance, I can make out
That they are saying that it is just after eleven-thirty
On this, fine, one might even say exquisite
Autumnal Saturday Morning
Of course there is noise, even the great Abbeys
Need the service of stand-by-generators
For those times of electricity power cuts
Once it might have been a water-driven turbine
Situated on the surging River Dart
Which flows alongside fairly briskly
But then, with such propensity
Of trees and fallen leaves
One might have thought
That a champion of biodiversity
Could have hatched a quieter form
Of extraction, extrapolation, and exploitation
Whatever, the birds still chirp and chatter
Enquiring children
Ask their parents all manner of questions
Some of which, the monks
Who will also have sat here
Would no doubt have been able to answer
With their very own
One hopes, well thought out
And ever more dignified, soulful responses
Monday, 30 September 2019
Sunday, 29 September 2019
Nothing (Without Anything)
It is oh so so difficult
To remember you
When you offer nothing whatsoever in return
Though, as if coming here
To sit beside falling water
Would do anything, but add
To the sorrow of separation
I once was a complicated soul
Yet, right now, I don't believe
That I ever did deny that
Although, yes, you might well say
That I have become
Even more deeply enamoured
With the after-effects of duplicity
In my attempts at creative writing
But, inside
I feel to be a somewhat gentler soul
You see, I am happy
To sit here beside the river
To know that somewhere behind me
The star-shaped leaves
Are drifting, like angels, to the ground below
To let everyone know
That once our love most definitely touched
What oh so so many modern dreamers
Today still dream of
To remember you
When you offer nothing whatsoever in return
Though, as if coming here
To sit beside falling water
Would do anything, but add
To the sorrow of separation
I once was a complicated soul
Yet, right now, I don't believe
That I ever did deny that
Although, yes, you might well say
That I have become
Even more deeply enamoured
With the after-effects of duplicity
In my attempts at creative writing
But, inside
I feel to be a somewhat gentler soul
You see, I am happy
To sit here beside the river
To know that somewhere behind me
The star-shaped leaves
Are drifting, like angels, to the ground below
To let everyone know
That once our love most definitely touched
What oh so so many modern dreamers
Today still dream of
Saturday, 28 September 2019
Gathering (Without Departing)
In that instant
Of hearing that sweet voice
Then I too
Wanted to sing
I too
Wanted to be able
To express
My joy with this life
A nun
With her iPad
She was the first person
Into Conventual Mass
I had watched her
Walk across the concourse
In the first light
Of the brand new day
The bells tolled
Close to the gathering time
And I remembered
My last time of leaving this place
I had heard then their welcoming sound
Though at quite some distance
For I loaded my car
And oh, I so so ignominiously departed
I did not know then that I might return
But I have
And I may do so again
And again
Of hearing that sweet voice
Then I too
Wanted to sing
I too
Wanted to be able
To express
My joy with this life
A nun
With her iPad
She was the first person
Into Conventual Mass
I had watched her
Walk across the concourse
In the first light
Of the brand new day
The bells tolled
Close to the gathering time
And I remembered
My last time of leaving this place
I had heard then their welcoming sound
Though at quite some distance
For I loaded my car
And oh, I so so ignominiously departed
I did not know then that I might return
But I have
And I may do so again
And again
Friday, 27 September 2019
Two More (Without Two To Follow)
It is approaching five-forty in the morning
There are two Monks here already
As a short peel of bells sound
Two new visitors enter, they sit on the front row
One to either side of the walkway
Two young men; one white, one coloured
Together we waited, in stuttered silence
For the first act of the day to begin
Two latecomers joined the congregation
We were six men now
But only I, had entered from the inner quarters
Vigils proceeded, with meticulous precision
Each Monk seemingly knowing their part
Of the week-worn routines
And the seamless stepped-out sequences
Of suggestion, and response
And of further suggestions, and more responses
And of readings
Even one from the Book of Wisdom
Then one from where I know not, but which spoke
Of God having given love in his own image
And of having gifted us Jesus
To make up for the disobedience of Adam
And his indiscreet apple biting
There are two Monks here already
As a short peel of bells sound
Two new visitors enter, they sit on the front row
One to either side of the walkway
Two young men; one white, one coloured
Together we waited, in stuttered silence
For the first act of the day to begin
Two latecomers joined the congregation
We were six men now
But only I, had entered from the inner quarters
Vigils proceeded, with meticulous precision
Each Monk seemingly knowing their part
Of the week-worn routines
And the seamless stepped-out sequences
Of suggestion, and response
And of further suggestions, and more responses
And of readings
Even one from the Book of Wisdom
Then one from where I know not, but which spoke
Of God having given love in his own image
And of having gifted us Jesus
To make up for the disobedience of Adam
And his indiscreet apple biting
Thursday, 26 September 2019
Woken (Without Painkillers)
It is 05:24 when the bells begin to call us for Vigils
I have not had the best of night's sleep
I dreamt, many times, of being confused
In the rearrangement of my poetry
And I do, quite literally, mean, seeing the text
On the page; trying to move it
From one place to another place
Mostly to no avail, because more often than not
The words decided that they did not wish to be moved
I woke early, at just after 04:30 British Summer Time
I spent quite some time massaging my arm
Feeling for the aching parts, stretching out the muscles
Manipulating the tissue
As if somehow to aid the circulation
I do hope that my elbow is going to get better
At least I do have the feeling; I am able to massage
And to write about my visit to the Abbey at Buckfast
Or at Buckfastleigh, as many of the words deign to say
I have not had the best of night's sleep
I dreamt, many times, of being confused
In the rearrangement of my poetry
And I do, quite literally, mean, seeing the text
On the page; trying to move it
From one place to another place
Mostly to no avail, because more often than not
The words decided that they did not wish to be moved
I woke early, at just after 04:30 British Summer Time
I spent quite some time massaging my arm
Feeling for the aching parts, stretching out the muscles
Manipulating the tissue
As if somehow to aid the circulation
I do hope that my elbow is going to get better
At least I do have the feeling; I am able to massage
And to write about my visit to the Abbey at Buckfast
Or at Buckfastleigh, as many of the words deign to say
Wednesday, 25 September 2019
Love Is (Without Fabrication)
These bells are not
The bells of Plum Village
Not that I have yet heard
Those bells toll for myself
Sometimes
We have to be on our own
Sometimes
We have to be alone
To hear the human voices
To bathe in the imminence
In the silence, in the light
Of the compounds of love
The bells of Plum Village
Not that I have yet heard
Those bells toll for myself
Sometimes
We have to be on our own
Sometimes
We have to be alone
To hear the human voices
To bathe in the imminence
In the silence, in the light
Of the compounds of love
Tuesday, 24 September 2019
Damage Litigation (Without Resolve)
There was a darkness
A sadness
An emptiness
To your absence
And not one word
Was spoken of you
By either of us
How could we
All three
Be damaged so
Or is it only I
I that am
So so super-sensitive
Is it only me
That senses
The aroma of decay
When
At this stage
Of our life
All ought to be joy
Or at least
A few certain splashes
Of that confidence
Which just might
In a certain light
Be passed off as joy
Why then
The darkness
The sadness
The absence
Gifted thus
By the emptiness
A sadness
An emptiness
To your absence
And not one word
Was spoken of you
By either of us
How could we
All three
Be damaged so
Or is it only I
I that am
So so super-sensitive
Is it only me
That senses
The aroma of decay
When
At this stage
Of our life
All ought to be joy
Or at least
A few certain splashes
Of that confidence
Which just might
In a certain light
Be passed off as joy
Why then
The darkness
The sadness
The absence
Gifted thus
By the emptiness
Monday, 23 September 2019
Variable Frequencies (Without Discharge)
I feel a smile
Which radiates
Even with my eyes closed
As the voices sing the songs
Those, muse-filled, suggestions and responses
Of the Benedictine Monks
Which vibrate, yes they do physically bounce
And resonate exponentially
Throughout my entire body
I am also able
To sense the blood flow
As it scours and courses through my veins
Tingling on its journey
In its life-enhancing attempt
To repair my damaged physicality
I am being made ready to conduct freely
As if a battery, being re-charged
Thus able to visibly, with differential force, smile
Which radiates
Even with my eyes closed
As the voices sing the songs
Those, muse-filled, suggestions and responses
Of the Benedictine Monks
Which vibrate, yes they do physically bounce
And resonate exponentially
Throughout my entire body
I am also able
To sense the blood flow
As it scours and courses through my veins
Tingling on its journey
In its life-enhancing attempt
To repair my damaged physicality
I am being made ready to conduct freely
As if a battery, being re-charged
Thus able to visibly, with differential force, smile
Sunday, 22 September 2019
Seat (Without Escape)
I can hear the water, cascading
I can hear the birds, invading
Such is
The stillness of autumn
I can see that settled surety
In the rusted trees
In the well-trimmed hedge
In the solid oak seat, which I sit upon
I see the singular gull
Gliding, and swooping, and landing
I see the crimson-red, star-shaped leaves
Set against the grey-blue sky
I count twenty-five vertical dark windows
In the, near-distant conference centre
There is not a soul about
But of course there are insects, and flies
Midges, maybe even mosquitoes
Which quickly puts me on edge
As did the vertigo
On the clifftops earlier today
I can hear the birds, invading
Such is
The stillness of autumn
I can see that settled surety
In the rusted trees
In the well-trimmed hedge
In the solid oak seat, which I sit upon
I see the singular gull
Gliding, and swooping, and landing
I see the crimson-red, star-shaped leaves
Set against the grey-blue sky
I count twenty-five vertical dark windows
In the, near-distant conference centre
There is not a soul about
But of course there are insects, and flies
Midges, maybe even mosquitoes
Which quickly puts me on edge
As did the vertigo
On the clifftops earlier today
Saturday, 21 September 2019
White Shirt (Without Doubt)
I entered the chapel
Early on the Friday evening
And, almost immediately
I felt so so good about the next day
I had the security
Of that joy of a Saturday Morning
All clean and seriously refreshed
All of my clothes laundered, and ironed
I am in the knave now
The Monks, and the congregation
Are gradually arriving, as the calling bell tolls
I presume announcing, that it is time for Vespers
There is a beauty
To the light on his silver hair
There is a solemnity
A might of gathered assurance
A certainty also of deeper goodness
As a nun, safely, serenely, and oh so so silently enters
Why though, I wonder
Am I the only one sat here, on the righthand side
Early on the Friday evening
And, almost immediately
I felt so so good about the next day
I had the security
Of that joy of a Saturday Morning
All clean and seriously refreshed
All of my clothes laundered, and ironed
I am in the knave now
The Monks, and the congregation
Are gradually arriving, as the calling bell tolls
I presume announcing, that it is time for Vespers
There is a beauty
To the light on his silver hair
There is a solemnity
A might of gathered assurance
A certainty also of deeper goodness
As a nun, safely, serenely, and oh so so silently enters
Why though, I wonder
Am I the only one sat here, on the righthand side
Friday, 20 September 2019
Observation (Without Predilection)
I was moved, when my son told me of his feelings, of that night when he and his girlfriend had to walk the streets of London.
He explained how he had observed, with a keen eye might I add, the behaviour of the homeless, in the early morning coffee houses, around Victoria Station.
He talked of individuals using the wall sockets to re-charge the cheapest of mobile phones, of young women putting on their make-me-fabulous-make-up, with the aid of the reflective window glass.
And of others, moving the previous patrons discarded cups, to then be placed in front of themselves, so as also to be considered as patrons.
He was surprised, but particularly recognised their youth, and their hopelessness, for as he rightly says:
Out in the countryside one could satisfy one's basic needs, by engaging with nature; by building a shelter from branches, and twigs, and leaves, and moss; by washing, and drinking in the streams; one might even be able to swim in some places.
But in the city none of that is possible, and so, for the few hours of that one evening, he felt; no, sorry, they felt, even together they felt, the real fear of becoming destitute.
And he asked himself; why do the young people flock to the city, surely not, not as that young man, who had to pull his jumper over his face to sleep.
Surely not to be here, alone, in one of these, some might say bleak, early morning coffee bars.
He explained how he had observed, with a keen eye might I add, the behaviour of the homeless, in the early morning coffee houses, around Victoria Station.
He talked of individuals using the wall sockets to re-charge the cheapest of mobile phones, of young women putting on their make-me-fabulous-make-up, with the aid of the reflective window glass.
And of others, moving the previous patrons discarded cups, to then be placed in front of themselves, so as also to be considered as patrons.
He was surprised, but particularly recognised their youth, and their hopelessness, for as he rightly says:
Out in the countryside one could satisfy one's basic needs, by engaging with nature; by building a shelter from branches, and twigs, and leaves, and moss; by washing, and drinking in the streams; one might even be able to swim in some places.
But in the city none of that is possible, and so, for the few hours of that one evening, he felt; no, sorry, they felt, even together they felt, the real fear of becoming destitute.
And he asked himself; why do the young people flock to the city, surely not, not as that young man, who had to pull his jumper over his face to sleep.
Surely not to be here, alone, in one of these, some might say bleak, early morning coffee bars.
Thursday, 19 September 2019
Soup (Without Predetermination)
I lifted the latch on the church door, then pushed open the imposing piece of timber.
Come in, shouted the voice, but close the door behind you, keep the heat in.
I did enter, and I did smell the soup, which the two workmen, sat at a cloth-covered card-table by the altar, were pouring into bowls, from their flasks.
I thought to take a photograph, but chose against that, largely for privacy's sake.
I thought to talk to them, but decided not to, for they were already in full flow.
Instead I determined, to try and remember what a good moment this was, which I had been so so fortunate to witness.
Come in, shouted the voice, but close the door behind you, keep the heat in.
I did enter, and I did smell the soup, which the two workmen, sat at a cloth-covered card-table by the altar, were pouring into bowls, from their flasks.
I thought to take a photograph, but chose against that, largely for privacy's sake.
I thought to talk to them, but decided not to, for they were already in full flow.
Instead I determined, to try and remember what a good moment this was, which I had been so so fortunate to witness.
Wednesday, 18 September 2019
Vertigo (Without Resolution)
Lighthouse, and vertigo
Radar-ball, and vertigo
Coastal-path, and vertigo
You get to the point
Hartland Point, and vertigo
Tuesday, 17 September 2019
Frills (Without Embraces)
It would be wrong of me not to arrest the images of you, scantily clad, in the shortest of frilly skirts; you bring me close to you, I am unable to stop the thought processes; for miles and miles I am thus absorbed.
I even begin to wonder if I will ever be able to shake off these thoughts; what if they were always to stay with me, my eyes feel heavy, my head feels heady.
I am driving towards you, albeit, in my own version of the truth, I am driving for a quite different purpose; hours go by before I reach anywhere near your vicinity.
The sadness is scattered to the moorland, the hurt lies on the riverbed, the immense fear, for isn't it the greatest of fears, to be fearful of oneself, is inculcated into the baron landscape.
I walk the dark streets, too dark for my camera to develop the warm glow (to the naked eye) of the church clock.
As I pass the bus station I make up a story, about my B&B being just behind here, behind this very place, where three times every hour the buses will arrive.
To carry out their complicated, and seriously noisy, and intrinsically disturbing, reversing manoeuvres, before they accelerate, with loud aggression.
To depart, on their way to who knows where; the buses are empty now, and I expect that will also be the case, many hours later
I even begin to wonder if I will ever be able to shake off these thoughts; what if they were always to stay with me, my eyes feel heavy, my head feels heady.
I am driving towards you, albeit, in my own version of the truth, I am driving for a quite different purpose; hours go by before I reach anywhere near your vicinity.
The sadness is scattered to the moorland, the hurt lies on the riverbed, the immense fear, for isn't it the greatest of fears, to be fearful of oneself, is inculcated into the baron landscape.
I walk the dark streets, too dark for my camera to develop the warm glow (to the naked eye) of the church clock.
As I pass the bus station I make up a story, about my B&B being just behind here, behind this very place, where three times every hour the buses will arrive.
To carry out their complicated, and seriously noisy, and intrinsically disturbing, reversing manoeuvres, before they accelerate, with loud aggression.
To depart, on their way to who knows where; the buses are empty now, and I expect that will also be the case, many hours later
 |
| Available at Amazon |
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| See more of Christopher's work Here |
Monday, 16 September 2019
Trepidation (Without Gratification)
Quite the opposite to Emptiness Dancing
Brought on, in part, by today's destination
And last night's early disruptive dream
Neither of which I desire to expand upon
Except to say that relationships
And their dissolution, played significant parts
Not at all the synthesis
Of the sunlight, and the leaf, and the raindrop
As enveloped
On that quiet Sunday morning in the countryside
Nor as felt
On that slow drive, along narrow, puddled lanes
With hedgerows guarding the ploughed fields
With trees sprinkling, not interfering, with the view
Quite the opposite to the moorlands
With their exposed outcrops of rock
Where the blue, serially activates the doubt within
Brought on, in part, by today's destination
And last night's early disruptive dream
Neither of which I desire to expand upon
Except to say that relationships
And their dissolution, played significant parts
Not at all the synthesis
Of the sunlight, and the leaf, and the raindrop
As enveloped
On that quiet Sunday morning in the countryside
Nor as felt
On that slow drive, along narrow, puddled lanes
With hedgerows guarding the ploughed fields
With trees sprinkling, not interfering, with the view
Quite the opposite to the moorlands
With their exposed outcrops of rock
Where the blue, serially activates the doubt within
Sunday, 15 September 2019
Last Thoughts :: First Thoughts
I wrap my arms around you
Pull you close
It is the end of this day
The night is now beginning
I wrap my arms around you
Pull you close
We are the love together
Our hold is our beginning
You wrap your arms around me
Pull me close
It is the beginning of our night
The end of this good day
You wrap your arms around me
Pull me close
We are the love together
Our love is our beginning
Pull you close
It is the end of this day
The night is now beginning
I wrap my arms around you
Pull you close
We are the love together
Our hold is our beginning
You wrap your arms around me
Pull me close
It is the beginning of our night
The end of this good day
You wrap your arms around me
Pull me close
We are the love together
Our love is our beginning
|
| Available at Amazon |
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| See more of Christopher's work Here |
Saturday, 14 September 2019
Straight :: And True
One hundred and eighty-seven
Or 15 and 7/12
Twenty-two
Seventeen
Five
Nought
One or twelve
Nine or one hundred and eight
And ongoing
There are months
There are years
There was much confusion
It's not about anything
The days have been and gone
The tears left, only to reappear
Nothing is as nothing was
Yes there were firecrackers
And there are the Old Stables
You couldn't make it up
But it's true, it happened
Yes, it's true, it is happening still
|
| Available at Amazon |
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| See more of Christopher's work Here |
Friday, 13 September 2019
Gravestones :: And Plain Crosses
Dames and priests you took your time
When time and love was all you had
Today, in less-firm ground, you form a line
With peace and hope, abroad and glad
I'm on retreat and doing fine
There are a few rules, but none so bad
I'm up at five, to go and listen to your kind
Then I write, sometimes happy, sometimes sad
Making a few memories before I too recline
Wondering about the Italian, playing the Stradivarius
The German monk, 8 years he's sought the sign
I came with nothing, a simple country lad
It's an awful poem, without form or design
And there's no hope of rescue for it is just a fad
When you don't know where you are going
It is easier to break with the traditional
When time and love was all you had
Today, in less-firm ground, you form a line
With peace and hope, abroad and glad
I'm on retreat and doing fine
There are a few rules, but none so bad
I'm up at five, to go and listen to your kind
Then I write, sometimes happy, sometimes sad
Making a few memories before I too recline
Wondering about the Italian, playing the Stradivarius
The German monk, 8 years he's sought the sign
I came with nothing, a simple country lad
It's an awful poem, without form or design
And there's no hope of rescue for it is just a fad
When you don't know where you are going
It is easier to break with the traditional
|
| Available at Amazon |
|
| See more of Christopher's work Here |
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