Maybe, maybe, maybe
Anyway
The Island
Light
And sky and sea
And my not being a writer
This is a poem from Vagaries:
Love of The Key to Room 149
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
Saturday, 19 April 2014
Friday, 18 April 2014
Edmund
Maybe if she hadn’t given me that book
Or if I hadn’t read my first gay novel
Either way it was too late, we were on
The island; we would continue our search
I have spoken before of red telephone boxes
With stolen conversations - remember Calvino
& of course, when she won the competition
I was doubtless going to be going there with her
The boy will be given the gift, he almost already has
Though she may not, be given to know of the present
Or of the tracks that he finds, on the cities outskirts
Which may be transplanted, without tying him down
My clothes feel soft again, though I’m not in stripes
My hair is flattered, by the perm, turning to silver
I have left, moved away from the less of conversation
To become a spy; an intermittent traveller, a writer
This is a poem from Vagaries:
Love of The Key to Room 149
Thursday, 17 April 2014
The Gift, to Oneself, of An Island
I was surprised, to find a moorland heath
In sight of the sea, but I was, in that current
Mood, much open to the joy of your surprises
I was wearing a soft shirt; broad stripes
Of silvery grey and silvery green, the sun
Flattered my hair, it shone in the photograph
I had read Mr Pye and was set ready for discovery
I had recovered, settled myself to find a peace here
By the sound and the movement of the horse & cart
One can become very light indeed, in meditations
This is a poem from Vagaries:
Love of The Key to Room 149
Wednesday, 16 April 2014
Spinning
It is the quiet
The dry tears of absence
The heartfelt, scoured for words
That move nothing closer to nothing
The magnolia wall
Is within touching distance
I remember the bowl of pebbles
The tools of tried & failed reconciliations
Today; wind down the chimney
Work on the printer
The desire, o what desire
To be alone, on ones own
The bookshelves sorted
One hundred and fifty
Volumes of poet’s poetry
Most with a tear for my eye
It is this half-silence
The washing-machine of presence
The close-felt, scoured for clothes
That keep nothing further from nothing
This is a poem from Vagaries:
Love of The Key to Room 149
Tuesday, 15 April 2014
Break in Service
A camper, or a canal boat, or a caravan
To go places in confined spaces
Finding out, just who on earth I am
An iPod, or a laptop, or a roaming internet plan
To write letters to my so-called betters
Pointing out, the beauty wherever I can
Usherettes & launderettes & Kingdoms of Bhutan
To refresh our vests, and impress the rest
I hoped you’d halfway understand
That there is a decorum, a standard for this man
Who missed the introduction to love, but
Who tries to make up, to head off the lifetime ban
This is a poem from Vagaries:
Love of The Key to Room 149
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