That thing about the mind
Did I write it down
You know
About the mind being able to look at itself
Both in the past moments
As well as in the present moments
And also sometimes, with an eye to the future
What I really appreciated
Was that the mind could question itself
I even half-believed
That the mind could work out
Where the thoughts came from
You know
By focussing on the present moment
And the immediately preceding moment
And then the one just before that
In such a way that a trail might emerge
Why you thought that thought about Bude
You know, about walking on the beach in Bude
Of course, looking from a further distance
Bude has many reminders to remember
Many occasions of joy, also of that other thing
Which, whatever name the mind gives it
Is always something of a half-way house
Saturday, 9 June 2018
Friday, 8 June 2018
Stuck,That’s All
Where might the words begin
When they don’t begin
Where might the pause and comma go
When the line itself does not have a throw
Where do millions of hidden memories perch
How am I able to instigate a search
What causes the good times to surface
Or doubts to endlessly pour out their purchase
When they don’t begin
Where might the pause and comma go
When the line itself does not have a throw
Where do millions of hidden memories perch
How am I able to instigate a search
What causes the good times to surface
Or doubts to endlessly pour out their purchase
Thursday, 7 June 2018
Sidesaddle
Did I find a lightness
Did I gift it to you
Did we share the dust motes
In the stream of sun
As for Chepstow racecourse
And those Wild Strawberries
Helen, will I ever feel that
Or have you taken the essence with you
And Simon, yes you Lifted An Arm
Inside and outside the playground
Will I ever reach that
Or have those days passed me by
Derek, to return to my own door
After a time away
Feels no less of love
Than your Love After Love
Did I gift it to you
Did we share the dust motes
In the stream of sun
As for Chepstow racecourse
And those Wild Strawberries
Helen, will I ever feel that
Or have you taken the essence with you
And Simon, yes you Lifted An Arm
Inside and outside the playground
Will I ever reach that
Or have those days passed me by
Derek, to return to my own door
After a time away
Feels no less of love
Than your Love After Love
Wednesday, 6 June 2018
Fake Time
Time appears to have slowed down
On this bright winter’s morning
Already I have achieved so much
Yet, just then
Whilst watching the microwave
Seventeen seconds disappeared
As if in one instant
On this bright winter’s morning
Already I have achieved so much
Yet, just then
Whilst watching the microwave
Seventeen seconds disappeared
As if in one instant
Tuesday, 5 June 2018
Purposeful, Purpose Filled
It is 6:30 AM
I have been thinking of first lines for hours
I even considered
Retreading some of the old first lines
I made a pot of Birchall tea
Which brewed as I prepared the bacon
Yet what else escaped my gaze
As I lit the wood burner
I recall I once watched a television programme
About an artist; his flat, and his studio
Were in what has become a fashionable
Part of London; with coffee bars & public bars
He etches, with acids; several layers
He is working on a piece called The Outliers
Which are a set of rocks, at the very end
Of this island of ours, he has been there
In the early morning darkness
We watch the artist, who, with some certainty
Lights a fire, prepares his porridge, makes
Coffee on the stove, and smokes a cigarette
I am reminded of the Yorkshire poet
David Whyte, and his friend's rich experience
Whilst preparing for, and walking on the
El camino de Santiago de Compostela
He tells the story with a certainty
Yet he himself has not yet walked that path
But has written a poetry book called Pilgrims
Perhaps sat at his desk, on his landing at home
We are what we are
We do what we do
We go where we go
It is good that these things are connected
It is also good
That there are disconnections
Room for the imagination to step in
Space for the land of make-believe
To take hold
Time for the half-dreams
On the cusps of waking
On the paths of walking
I have been thinking of first lines for hours
I even considered
Retreading some of the old first lines
I made a pot of Birchall tea
Which brewed as I prepared the bacon
Yet what else escaped my gaze
As I lit the wood burner
I recall I once watched a television programme
About an artist; his flat, and his studio
Were in what has become a fashionable
Part of London; with coffee bars & public bars
He etches, with acids; several layers
He is working on a piece called The Outliers
Which are a set of rocks, at the very end
Of this island of ours, he has been there
In the early morning darkness
We watch the artist, who, with some certainty
Lights a fire, prepares his porridge, makes
Coffee on the stove, and smokes a cigarette
I am reminded of the Yorkshire poet
David Whyte, and his friend's rich experience
Whilst preparing for, and walking on the
El camino de Santiago de Compostela
He tells the story with a certainty
Yet he himself has not yet walked that path
But has written a poetry book called Pilgrims
Perhaps sat at his desk, on his landing at home
We are what we are
We do what we do
We go where we go
It is good that these things are connected
It is also good
That there are disconnections
Room for the imagination to step in
Space for the land of make-believe
To take hold
Time for the half-dreams
On the cusps of waking
On the paths of walking
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