I am but free
That is the standing me
I am but made of soul
I am but free
That is the sitting me
I am but made of all
And in this way
The thoughtful me
Finds another line
And in this way
The careful me
Follows a simple sign
I watch the water droplets
Suspended on the twig
I thus watch the life
I watch the twig
Unsettled by the breeze
I thus sense the strife
Thursday, 28 June 2018
Wednesday, 27 June 2018
Quiet Snow; Ocean Laughter
As the snow falls
A quiet also falls
Before the coldness
Before the oldness creeps in
As the bird flies
The branch wavers
Meanwhile the rooftop
Meanwhile the rooftop awaits
If it was
If it was Siberia
Why would we not
Why would we not stay indoors
If I was
If I was here alone
Yes, really here
Really here being
I would hear the wave-sounds
I would also hear the birdsong
Before I heard the Ocean
Before I heard the laughter
A quiet also falls
Before the coldness
Before the oldness creeps in
As the bird flies
The branch wavers
Meanwhile the rooftop
Meanwhile the rooftop awaits
If it was
If it was Siberia
Why would we not
Why would we not stay indoors
If I was
If I was here alone
Yes, really here
Really here being
I would hear the wave-sounds
I would also hear the birdsong
Before I heard the Ocean
Before I heard the laughter
Tuesday, 26 June 2018
Portrait, Top To Bottom
Blue sky
Grey clouds
At forty-five degrees
A pitched roof
Front face on
It is the Pack Horse
A Public House
Whose name appears
In large gold letters
It has Georgian windows
Two sets, two levels
Each with eight frames
Of long uncleaned glass
And a decked out verandah
With wooden handrail
Benches, tables, chairs
A place for outdoor drinking
And socialising
Though not in today’s snow
There is a tall gate
Into the aforesaid tavern
Which may be approached
By a cobbled street
Past the Public Library
All of this can be seen
Stood on the pavement
In front of the Post Office
Grey clouds
At forty-five degrees
A pitched roof
Front face on
It is the Pack Horse
A Public House
Whose name appears
In large gold letters
It has Georgian windows
Two sets, two levels
Each with eight frames
Of long uncleaned glass
And a decked out verandah
With wooden handrail
Benches, tables, chairs
A place for outdoor drinking
And socialising
Though not in today’s snow
There is a tall gate
Into the aforesaid tavern
Which may be approached
By a cobbled street
Past the Public Library
All of this can be seen
Stood on the pavement
In front of the Post Office
Monday, 25 June 2018
A 635
Snow today
But only a few
Wispy blustery affairs
Yet sufficient
To remind me
Of that day
On the road over the Pennines
From Greenfield to Holmfirth
Ostensibly the road was closed
But being young, foolish
And filled with bravado
I passed the road closed sign
Thinking
If I can get up the hill
Then it’s flat, or downhill
The rest of the way
And if I can’t get up the hill
I will turn around
Then it will be downhill
As I come back
Surely you see my logic
On the so called easy bit
That is the flat bit
The road was
Only a car widths wide
With twelve feet tall
Drifts of snow
To either side
No room here then
For turn around manoeuvres
To go forwards
Or to reverse
They were the only options
Pure white snow
Clean white snow
Virgin white snow
Yes, virgin territory
For the brave one
Slowly becoming terrified
By the abandoned
Snow virgins
Time moves on
Time moves on slowly
With only a single colour
To keep one company
With a singular concentration
To focus upon
Keep going, keep going, keep going
Keep those wide wheels turning
On no account pause, or stop
But watch the temperature gauge
Keep an eye on the fuel level
And the tyre pressure
No way today
To call in the AA
Today is before
The mobile phone was invented
Yet this is the solitude
Which you dreamt of
This is you
You alone with nature
Yes, this is the silence
The silence you dreamt of
This is you
You alone with the snow
Absolutely, this is the heaven
The heaven you dreamt of
This is you
You alone with the light
But is this the end
The end you never did dream of
Is this you
You; fading, or emerging
But only a few
Wispy blustery affairs
Yet sufficient
To remind me
Of that day
On the road over the Pennines
From Greenfield to Holmfirth
Ostensibly the road was closed
But being young, foolish
And filled with bravado
I passed the road closed sign
Thinking
If I can get up the hill
Then it’s flat, or downhill
The rest of the way
And if I can’t get up the hill
I will turn around
Then it will be downhill
As I come back
Surely you see my logic
On the so called easy bit
That is the flat bit
The road was
Only a car widths wide
With twelve feet tall
Drifts of snow
To either side
No room here then
For turn around manoeuvres
To go forwards
Or to reverse
They were the only options
Pure white snow
Clean white snow
Virgin white snow
Yes, virgin territory
For the brave one
Slowly becoming terrified
By the abandoned
Snow virgins
Time moves on
Time moves on slowly
With only a single colour
To keep one company
With a singular concentration
To focus upon
Keep going, keep going, keep going
Keep those wide wheels turning
On no account pause, or stop
But watch the temperature gauge
Keep an eye on the fuel level
And the tyre pressure
No way today
To call in the AA
Today is before
The mobile phone was invented
Yet this is the solitude
Which you dreamt of
This is you
You alone with nature
Yes, this is the silence
The silence you dreamt of
This is you
You alone with the snow
Absolutely, this is the heaven
The heaven you dreamt of
This is you
You alone with the light
But is this the end
The end you never did dream of
Is this you
You; fading, or emerging
Sunday, 24 June 2018
Hang On, Turn Back, Opened Up
The first lines came automatically, from the deeper subconscious, almost a stream of consciousness thing; it was with me the instant of waking, yet not within the poetry notebook until a few days later. Then written as an epigraph, in two lines. Only when typed up and edited did it become the first four line stanza; something about my losing the nerve to be too pretentious.
And in becoming a stanza the vagueness of the double meaning enters the fray; am I talking to the you who is really me, or is the you a past or present lover, or is the you further away, a deity, or its non-religious equivalent. Am I truly trying to mislead, or hoodwink, or beguile; is to be ambiguous my way always; whether by design, or by default.
In the second stanza I bring into play a couple of words from Ray Bradbury’s book The Zen of Writing. He says to look for zest and gusto; these are both words which I have previously used in my own writing. That I am enthusiastic to share these words says something about how important both zest and gusto were at the time. One of my old bosses said that the thing he loved most about me was my enthusiasm, my can do attitude, my great belief that more could be achieved than we might imagine. I took that as a huge compliment; that’s me, zest and gusto.
The third stanza gives a clue as to how long sometimes the poem is in the soup steadily cooking. I talk of meditation and doubt; that is because in our previous meditation sangha I had come across doubt as I meditated. As a non-religious man I had questioned my own faith in myself, as opposed to my being in need of an external faith or force.
The fourth stanza takes me back to memory, several years worth of memory in fact, but culminating in a very recent memory. On our last vacation we stayed in a swish, contemporary, energy-saving villa, almost on the beach, at Widemouth Bay near Bude. Everyday we were able to walk on the beach, beside the wild February Atlantic surf; the hours and hours which we spent taking photographs and writing are now condensed into these four short lines, indeed only the last two lines are specific to that time.
And in becoming a stanza the vagueness of the double meaning enters the fray; am I talking to the you who is really me, or is the you a past or present lover, or is the you further away, a deity, or its non-religious equivalent. Am I truly trying to mislead, or hoodwink, or beguile; is to be ambiguous my way always; whether by design, or by default.
In the second stanza I bring into play a couple of words from Ray Bradbury’s book The Zen of Writing. He says to look for zest and gusto; these are both words which I have previously used in my own writing. That I am enthusiastic to share these words says something about how important both zest and gusto were at the time. One of my old bosses said that the thing he loved most about me was my enthusiasm, my can do attitude, my great belief that more could be achieved than we might imagine. I took that as a huge compliment; that’s me, zest and gusto.
The third stanza gives a clue as to how long sometimes the poem is in the soup steadily cooking. I talk of meditation and doubt; that is because in our previous meditation sangha I had come across doubt as I meditated. As a non-religious man I had questioned my own faith in myself, as opposed to my being in need of an external faith or force.
The fourth stanza takes me back to memory, several years worth of memory in fact, but culminating in a very recent memory. On our last vacation we stayed in a swish, contemporary, energy-saving villa, almost on the beach, at Widemouth Bay near Bude. Everyday we were able to walk on the beach, beside the wild February Atlantic surf; the hours and hours which we spent taking photographs and writing are now condensed into these four short lines, indeed only the last two lines are specific to that time.
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