Ordinarily Beautiful

The beauty of the day

Is that the beauty of the day is with us

The reflections on the ceiling are from the crystals

The sparkling lights heightened by strong sunlight

There is certainty in the solidness of the shadows

And warmth in that first cup of tea of the day

So, just for a moment

I want to reflect on the table-top

With its box of tissues, computer, several

Books, a scattering of coasters, old headphones

(The new ones are beside my chair)

Also, the remote for our overhead projector

A couple of leads for iPhone or similar

Two pairs of glasses and a pencil

Oh, and best of all, streams of sunlight

Which cast a cornucopia of shadows

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for his Collected Works

This Is It

I could count the branches
It would be quite a task
For the blossom tree
Is no longer a young sapling

Yet out there
I see through the shrub
To where the sun glistens
To where the flag flutters

Take these words not as a metaphor
But just as the words that they are
Others will start up their lawnmowers
They will be the disturbers of the peace

In a vainglorious attempt
To bring order to nature
With a proven capability
To disrupt the neighbourhood

I, I watch the bird-feeder swing
Ask, is there any post
Stay, sat in this chair
A good place for pontification

Take these words not as metaphors
But just as the words that they are
Others may well chime up otherwise
They will be the disrupters of the plainsong

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for his Collected Works

Matisse et Picasso

Hung on the wall

Of Gertrude’s flat

Son of a corn merchant

He needed to rationalise

He was very French

In his thought organisation

Force of a primal image

Nine months in the making

The manifestation of a manifestation

Life’s a beach

Man breaks free of nature

No clash

But an exchange of paintings

To seal their mutual respect

Courage in search for simplicity

To see the irreducible

In the other’s work

The idea of things

The team leader

A rider who says that

We ride together

Measure aesthetic ideals

The arabesque

The violin

The face

Constructed and deconstructed

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Impending Strength

I have an impatience
A desire for action
But should it be for meditation
Or should it be for poetry
Is it about monetisation
Or to settle my soul
Is it to take more out
Or to give something back

What is in the connection
Is it purely for the self
Or a gift to others
That they may gift me
It is good isn’t it
To witness joy
To be among conversation
To welcome community

Yes, to remember
There were troubled times
Also days when the lights shone
A good deal brighter
Welcome their words
Live in their moments
Be firm, yet fair
With their recognition

You also, yourself
Take it on the chin
Or into your heart
Knowing it to be, almost true

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for his Collected Works

Insecurities

Was I repaid for being loyal
Am I being repaid
For being unfaithful
Do these two distant partners
Share the thoughts in my mind

One sat beside the babbling brook
One tilted into the biting wind and rain
One certain to be uncertain
Then to push on out
Then to pull back in, towards the pain

Was all that ever happened
Managed by the justice
Did the shape and the flow simply be coy
For yes there was flow for sure
In those days and those nights of joy

And if it happened before
Whats to say it won’t happen again
Uncertain to be certain
Choose again to push on out
Choose again to pull back in, towards the pain

Where might the brighter light shine
Where will the lost in plain sight be found
Will the shape and the flow of the clue
Be anything but: yes I will survive
Despite my age and my own decrepitude

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for his Collected Works

Dial-Up

The number you called is busy
Why wouldn’t it be
Didn’t you half expect it

Still the number is busy
Did you really think that writing those three lines
Would free up the entire district

So give them fifteen minutes why don’t you
Your pain is only physical
Or of the bodies nerves in fractious felicitation

Surely you have your own method
Of calming your situation
Even if only on a temporary basis

There are seven others waiting to connect
There may be extra questions - a new system
Called care navigation is being introduced

Who chose the music which plays whilst on hold
And exactly what do they mean when they say
Your call will be answered shortly

One more person is waiting to connect
Am I that person
Or am I the one who is now making an appointment

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Wall Top Statue

Space left
A place found
In late afternoon

Counting, and counting again
The loaves and the fishes
The illnesses and the dreams

All colours and vibrations
Songs in the key of life
Once to have walked by the hedgerow
Once to make a snowman in the snow

Going now to another place
Where what is left is transient
Heading towards a loss of light

Shaping, and shaping again
The bounty and the cellar
The infirm and irreparable

All silencers and meditators
Pray for prayers in the shape of love
Once to have opened the door
Once to have made a welcome welcome

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Small Steps

Take one good idea
Perhaps a candle flickering
Then imagine its magnification
A thousandfold
Or at least two candles
Would be a 200% improvement

Take another good idea
Maybe to be kind to yourself one time
Then imagine its amplification
One thousand and one kindnesses
Or at least to be kind to yourself twice
Would be an infinite improvement

The third idea
Is of your own making
Find your own values
Adopt them
To do that each and every day
Would be exceptionally brave

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for his Collected Works

From Where

I am in pain
Physical pain
That much I know
That much I feel

Yet the mind
The mind roams free
Mostly
Except when tears

Ask if they might share the space
To try to find one grief
Which one could work through
Fully and completely

The physical pain
Will not go away
Not of its own accord
I very much fear

But psychologically
Could I settle one grief
Then another one
And go on and on ad infinitum

But where to start
Where to sit
Where to wait for the tears
To make an entrance

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Out On A Limb

Bread, or potato
With butter and cheese
Or, if a jacket potato
With curry or curried beans

This is the seventh day
Of the fourteen days
Of fourteen weeks
Of self-isolation

The sun shines
The wind blows
The workmen hammer away
And we have no bread

Two Christmases back
I was given a bread-maker
It was never put to use
But these are different days

No travel
Next to no shopping
No and again no
No we have no bread, or potatoes

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Islands, Continents

It was cotton
Cotton on the bog
Halfway across the country
From West Coast to East Coast
Galway to Dublin
Ireland to England

But first a stop-off point
At the art gallery
For a coffee and a cake
Or even a spot of lunch
After taking photographs of the cotton
The cotton on the bog

Years later
Or years earlier
But definitely years apart
Although once
The land had
Continued through

To that place
Or another place
Though today I write
Of that place, the special place
With deserted beaches, with the machair
Where a painter called Volbeda, paints from memory

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Snap

Tiredness courts despondency
As love favours skipping
Only water from the stream
Will bring the eyes back to life

You might choose
Or may already have chosen
A time or place to lose
Or for the object to be broken

That I co-exist
Is hardly any enhancement
A past unable to resist
What the glance meant

A gleam in the eye
As passing as a smile
All the while and by and by
It was either pure or puerile

Without the dotted page
Where will be the guidance
No more the energy to rage
Simply to slide with subsidence

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Actuality

Nowhere is there the freedom
As here in the mind
How much more able to travel
On the wings of a thought

Give free rein unencumbered
To the scope of your imagination
Only to know, that some days
The trees have no leaves

Then to make turns
To visit the dark and the light
Then to share feelings
Of hurt, pain, and joy

No one then to hold you down
As when out on your own
How thankful for stillness
To give you time to think

And if on this day
The thoughts lay dormant
Know that full well
Tomorrow’s sun will be rising

That in her freshness
You will sense clean weather
That in the new day
You will return to your best

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for his Collected Works

L'amour

Sat at his piano
In the Saturday night concert hall
He sang a song
Or rather he cried out
To his greatest love

In those precious few minutes
He was entirely open
Filled with vulnerability
Among the essences of nirvana
He told his greatest love story

To share with me a mirror
As one might reflect in the morning
To find oneself so so utterly close
To find oneself entirely
In the beauty of the knowing

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for his Collected Works

Out Of Reach

The afternoon sunlight
Falls on the red brick building
The afternoon sunlight
Falls on the old glass windows
I am searching for music by Pieters Vasks
Without too much success

The afternoon sunlight
Makes a silhouette of the trees
The afternoon sunlight
Reminds me of all things to the West
It is Violin Symphony No.2 which I seek
With Distant Light; I want the CD version

I had been asleep
The afternoon nap brought about
By the previous night’s fractious sleep
Which I am afraid to say
Is becoming a bit of a habit
C’est la vie

Thanks to my search I read of Finland, Latvia
And the Orchestra of Tasmania
I read of Arvo Pärt and Henryk Górecki
I was shown videos and audio downloads
In high definition and FLAC
Yet it seems the CD is unavailable

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for his Collected Works

Decoration

The room is in turmoil
Another rearrangement begun
The bookshelves are on order
Old devices, once pristine
Such as the digital radio
Are to be replaced in this time
By the computer and internet

The desk table is repositioned
Which also means
That the print in the frame
Eight Lines, Porthmeor 1986
By Wilhelmina Barns-Graham
Needs to be raised a little

I will put up the two
Oak wall supports
For future canvas prints
Of the Outer Hebrides

Also to find places
For other memories
Which for too too long
Have been turned to the wall
Or taken off display

We did, or I did
Ought to celebrate
Past times
With a happy acceptance
That nostalgia is good
For the mind, the body, and the soul

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for his Collected Works

Same But Not

I am not a preservationist

No, rather I am a fan of change

I have followed this path

For most of my sixty-eight years

Yet, at this very moment

I am somewhat transfixed

Seemingly unable to make a move

Or even a statement of direction

But soon it will be spring

Indeed isn’t the crocus already in bloom

Then the decisions may seem easier

With the sun and breeze to my back

For sure I will feel disposed

To walk over the sand dunes

To lay back and look at the sky

Also to acknowledge the further views

I might even take a break

Retrace my steps to the Lord Haldon

Where the late afternoon's setting sun

May well temper, or encourage, my thoughts

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for his Collected Works

Drift

Cold air flows into the room

Through the slightly open window

It brings a chill

To the start of the day

Which already

Is almost in clear light

The mind is unruffled

Easy in its awareness

Of all things past and present

With some hopes for the future

That a stream might splash

Over the rocks as it travels

Sixty years ago

Yes, it does seem like a long time

A young boy

Happy and energetic

Not quite a free spirit

But open for that to be encouraged

Eighty miles away

Yes, it does sound like a fair distance

Hardly to know a coastline

Or an oceanic horizon

That would have been further still

That would come later

The window is closed now

No point letting warm air escape

Lightness though increases

The double glazing is no barrier

Time moves ever onwards

As I believe was always the way

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Explanation

All I know is the concrete

While what I strive for is the vapour

What I am able to give

Are solid blocks of iron

Lumps of soul starved matter

Yet what I desire to say

Is let us walk in the night’s blue mist

Smoking our Gauloises cigarettes

As jazz music escapes into the ether

From the Café bars by the River Seine

The fire or wood burner is lit

The tables have been pulled together

With the Buddha statue placed on top

That I tell you this now

Is so that you might understand

What it was which interrupted the poem

As we prepare for this evening’s

Meditation Sangha

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for his Collected Works

Objectivity

That the tiredness comes is no surprise

But that I should wish to write about it, well

If only to remind myself that I don’t always wake

Feeling refreshed and ready for action

The stillness, the quietness returns

After the jet aeroplanes tours of duty

With this and tonight’s Sangha in mind

I can contrast the fighter pilot with the Buddha

The sun highlights the fibrous extremities 

On the arms of the Harris Tweed settee

All I seek then is gentleness and light

Yet still I heard the roar tearing through the sky

That the cup was dark blue rather surprised me

For I had thought it to have been black

It is from a set of four, a Christmas gift

Of endearing and enduring quality

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for his Collected Works

Tickets To Ride

If then now

Or what about later

No, don’t put it off

Do not put it off

Well that’s fine if you stay with me

That’s perfectly ok if you are onboard

But don’t forget that I am needy

And that this is just the start

Yes, there will be disappointments 

Doesn’t the rollercoaster always go up and down

Doesn’t night always follow day, dark after light

So also we can expect to see the bright side

What then if

Is there something to follow

Pray, pray tell

Is the argument ever won

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for his Collected Works

Home Retreat

I have it in mind to create an online meditation retreat, but first I will carry out my own week-long retreat at home, or at any rate in our Old Stables.

Each day I will follow a structure not dissimilar to retreats which I have been on, with morning, afternoon, and evening meditations interspersed with readings, music, films, and talks by online inspirational spiritual figures.

I hope to video as much as is practicable for later use; I will write about the retreat process, I will also write poetry and do artwork and photography.

Before I begin I will lay out the room to suit my needs, I will have to hand the books and the music which I hope to use, although I do wish to have some scope for spontaneity.

I feel a mind-map coming on, to help me draw together the strands of my thoughts.

The excitement, to have found a sense of purpose is already there, and I hope it will grow, as and when the project is further developed.

Available at Amazon

Christopher's Website
for his Collected Works

More to it than that, isn’t there always

My photographic images were taken

In the many places where I have been

Sufficiently lucky to have visited

And so when I want to choose one from 2014

To illustrate a book which I am publishing

I do have quite a dilemma

Who should be pleased

Who could be offended

Who would say that I ought to have asked first

And who might actually say

Christopher this is just not good enough

Do you not ever think to consider

The effects of your actions

But it was just a snapshot

Yes, I know that I have given it a caption

Which might suggest a psychologist in conversation

With her client, the lead character in the novel

Except that it is only a suggestion

Nothing is unequivocally confirmed

And so doubts may still linger

Available at Amazon

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for his Collected Works

Songs in the key of life

Two more songs for the funeral

Copper Top by Bill Wells

Which tells the story of a chap

Going into the pub nearest to the crematorium

For a pint on his own while he waits for his mate

To pick him up in his car

His stories reminded me of my being measured

And fitted for my first, bespoke, tailor-made suit

By Mr. Wimpenny in the upstairs market hall

Then The King of Rome by The Unthanks

Accompanied by Brighouse and Rastrick Brass Band

Which tells the story of a chap whose pigeon

Wins the race from Rome to his west-end home

Which reminds me of Saturday afternoons

Sat out on the Tinkers pigeon loft

As Colin and Lawrence welcomed their birds back

From Paris, or maybe even further afield

These two tunes to go with those already chosen:

Flower Duet from Lakme by Delibes, Acid Rain by Paul Heaton (the full 8 minutes +), then the Flaming Lips with Do you realise. That’s not to mention Shine On You Crazy Diamond, Spiegel im Spiegel, or Bolero, which were also once on the list

Available at Amazon

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for his Collected Works

Socialist Worker

Up at five

Breakfast before seven

My 2006 poems turn the 400 mark 

As dawn breaks

And blackbirds chirp

After lunch there is a tiredness

Thankfully, the crystal in the window

Glows red as if a burning sun

Its energy pulsates into and inside me

Telling me to write, to get writing

In that one moment

I captured that one existential breath

Where the lines of absorbent energy

Became coincidental with the lived life

As if some preordained force of nature

Just as those  Critical Theory classes at Buxton

Could so so easily have been disrupted

If the champagne socialist and artist within me

Hadn’t careered into a Labour Party card-carrying

Member and activist, also the lecturer fo the day

Available at Amazon

Christopher's Website
for his Collected Works