If I was a stamp collector
I would find one for this morning
All blue skies and frosted grass
All peace and tranquillity
All mindful time for the writing
If I was a sculptor
I would take out the plaster of Paris
All brilliant white and tactile
All solid mass and inner soul
All mindful time, for chiselling and filing
A stamp collector, a sculptor?
No, I am not any of these
Though of course I dabbled
What with friends at play, and on schooldays
Isn’t it just what we did
Sunday, 15 July 2018
Saturday, 14 July 2018
The Choice
Books change peoples destinies
What did I see
What did I notice
What did I feel
What did I say or do
What didn’t I say or do
Those five small prints by Joe Tilson
What did he see
What did he notice
What did he feel
What did he say or do
What didn’t he say or do
Those ten small shelves of books
Might I choose one at random
That you might retire to a quiet place
There to read it
How does Hesse’s Siddhartha sound
Yes, let’s go with that; or no, maybe not
What did I see
What did I notice
What did I feel
What did I say or do
What didn’t I say or do
Those five small prints by Joe Tilson
What did he see
What did he notice
What did he feel
What did he say or do
What didn’t he say or do
Those ten small shelves of books
Might I choose one at random
That you might retire to a quiet place
There to read it
How does Hesse’s Siddhartha sound
Yes, let’s go with that; or no, maybe not
Friday, 13 July 2018
The Paper House
Within a month of your gift we had parted
Thirteen years on
Can I measure the loss
Can I measure the grief
Can I explain away the obsession
The feet and the inches of loss
Never again to be close enough to touch
The kilometres and the miles of loss
Never again to bridge the inevitable distance
The pounds and the ounces of grief
Always to be in fear of the tears
The kilograms and the tonnes of grief
Never again to weigh in with a lover’s words
The one thing on top of another of obsession
Maybe, yes always, one last sprig of hope
The last time before the next time of obsession
With otherness, yes, worthy to carry the doubt
Thirteen years on
Can I measure the loss
Can I measure the grief
Can I explain away the obsession
The feet and the inches of loss
Never again to be close enough to touch
The kilometres and the miles of loss
Never again to bridge the inevitable distance
The pounds and the ounces of grief
Always to be in fear of the tears
The kilograms and the tonnes of grief
Never again to weigh in with a lover’s words
The one thing on top of another of obsession
Maybe, yes always, one last sprig of hope
The last time before the next time of obsession
With otherness, yes, worthy to carry the doubt
Thursday, 12 July 2018
Discuss; If You Must
How does one make sense
Of a watercolour painting
Or a contemplative pastel sketch
I look across the room
At my own work
From thirty years ago
I could say to you
That there is lightness
That there is love
Yet, if I move in closer
I would talk of frustration
I would talk of dismay
But, and I smile as I write this
I must speak today of satisfaction
I should talk well, of my minor achievements
Of a watercolour painting
Or a contemplative pastel sketch
I look across the room
At my own work
From thirty years ago
I could say to you
That there is lightness
That there is love
Yet, if I move in closer
I would talk of frustration
I would talk of dismay
But, and I smile as I write this
I must speak today of satisfaction
I should talk well, of my minor achievements
Wednesday, 11 July 2018
Questions Of Ownership
Who but I
Yes, a good question
Or who but you
Yes, equally so
To sidestep
To foxtrot
To line dance
To hide away
Who but I
And where but here
O yes
Keep those questions coming
To intensify
To mystify
To be courageous
In the absence of love
Yes, a good question
Or who but you
Yes, equally so
To sidestep
To foxtrot
To line dance
To hide away
Who but I
And where but here
O yes
Keep those questions coming
To intensify
To mystify
To be courageous
In the absence of love
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