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Wednesday, 8 July 2015

Good; As Only I Know

It is not for you, nor I, or for anyone
Other than the the poet who wrote the words
To call it a good poem, or a bad poem

For only the poet can say, with anything
Like approaching absolute conviction
That the words say, what he as poet wanted

For anyone else to express opinion, either
Objective or subjective is, in my opinion,
Poor form, for a form that is beyond clarity

That I have the cause to rise on this point
Is down to a fine piece of work by Wendell Berry
He writes well on The Responsibilities of a Poet

He only lets himself down, as many others have also let
Themselves down, by suggesting that an observer could
Name a poem a good poem; it is not so, it never will be so


Tuesday, 7 July 2015

Bun

She did not know me
How could she have
I was new to these parts
New to this kind of life

But not without talent
A strong imaginative outlook
With a clear watching brief

All here are working
Sat in line; writing, reading
Studying, copulating

With our, and their thoughts
Also, every Thursday afternoon
A game of cards in the corner

How one walks, or rather squiggles
Says something
About the workings of the mind

How one stands, erect
While fixing milk and sugar
Speaks volumes about your style


Monday, 6 July 2015

High Life

I would never have caught it
Not in the firmament so to speak
Yet I did catch it
In the moment as you might say
That brilliant tea-time blue sky
Washing behind the pink-tint clouds
Setting up the approaching crest-red sunset

Yet you only have my words
To persuade you of the beauty
So let's backtrack
To the supermarket car park
Laden with shopping
Too busy to see the outlook
Before driving West

Along the floor
Of the tree lined valley
Then climbing North
Up the steep hillside
This was for sure a race, time
Against natures clock, which
I was certain, sure beyond doubt
That I was always destined to lose


Sunday, 5 July 2015

Mark Me

It is a decision
Yet not like any other one
In that sense unique
Which usually appeals

How to analyse the rest of life:
Which tick boxes to choose to tick
Which spreadsheets to spread out
Which actuaries to ask for advice

With such indecision
I join with every other one
In that sense we are all the same
Which I usually steer away from


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Saturday, 4 July 2015

Push

Mostly I have been holding back
Most times I don't half-near say
What it is I wanted to say

There is another place where I write
Passionate poetry
Yet even there I am unable to scream
I am unable to tear
At the words of  anguish & love &
Despondency & life & pleasure &
Wonder & fun; I am just unable

I am unable, unable to find the words
That remind me
That remind me of your skin, your
Breath, your touch, you hands, your
Toes, your knees, your thighs
I am unable to find these words
I am unable to revisit those places

And on this snowy morning I am
Unable to think about how it is to cry
To scream, to tear, to rage; I am unable
Even to think of the words that might
Say these things to me, I am unable
To even think how I might beat the floor
Or beat my brains, or beat every rhythm
In my hurt hurt heart, I am unable

And as the traffic slows & the nerves
Frazzle & the head aches & the tummy
Gives rise to the nauseous taste of sick
O for those mornings, when the sun shone
When life shone, when I shone; o for
Those mornings, will I ever find
Those words again, why am I unable

Will the breath return, will the peace
Return, will the time return, will
The thoughts and the hopes, will
They all return, will I once again be
Freed from being unable