Eight

I am in the second meditation room
I think they call it the protector
Which I take to mean
That it keeps evil spirits from the main room

The flowers are silk
Which is a disappointment
Though the water is real
As are the offerings of Bergamot and Coffee

Actually, the protector is there
To ensure that I am not prevented
From reaching my spiritual realisations
Why, how I thank you for that

I take a few minutes out
For a breathing meditation
I breathe in, I breathe out
Exactly as the instruction card says

But I also think to myself
Of what photographs I could have taken
To accompany the words
To justify the words

The ploughed field
The partridge, or pheasant
The tree line on top of the hill
The orange-tint, on the distant tree

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Seven

I take a drive out to Millington
I assume it is on the Yorkshire Wolds
A pheasant struts across the road
From stubble field to ploughed field
He puffs out his chest
Shakes his feathers
Vainglorious, that is
Until the shooting season
He scuttles away
As the muck-shift lorry races by
Then settles, to turn his green head
This way, then that
The day began so bright
Indeed I think I said so
In my morning words
But now the raindrops fall
The wind picks up
Ruffles the many coloured feathers
It is time to move on
The orange-tinted distant tree
Has lost its sunlit sparkle
As a country boy
I ought to know its name
But I don’t, no, I don’t
This was a short excursion
A place to find no place at all
But a chance for the iPad
To recharge its battery
Such that later on
I might type up these spurious notes
Of the day's proceedings
Pheasant, partridge, or otherwise

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Six

The stairway place is now free
I sit right up to the Georgian window
A young woman wheels a wheelbarrow
Across the field, past the trees
It is not so silent as Bow
Doors bang, doors crash
I can hear conversations
But van Gogh’s blossom is still here

A young oriental woman
Climbs the stairs energetically
She smiles, says: Hi, hello
Before moving on to the door
This is the main thoroughfare
Between upstairs and downstairs
The wallpaper is rather grand
Exotic birds, with feathered tails

Outside in the field
There are masses of molehills
Each peppered by pigeons
Another woman wheels her barrow
Though this time she moves
In the opposite direction
Before stopping, in the middle
Maybe for a Karma break
I tell you this as a momentary record
Fifteen minutes of a life
Quite possibly never to be revisited
With, or without the wheelbarrow

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Five

The real writing, the screaming, then began
The writing did begin again
Yet first to tell of a significant oversight

The black dog took me at my word
I left my job, I sought other pleasures
I left my wife, my two beautiful children

For twelve months I lived in Devon
For twelve more months of heaven
I lived on the Channel Island of Jersey

I want to tell you this because this is where
The poetry of poetry came into existence
It is from where it still on occasion hails from

Fuelled by high-octane selfish obsession
Energised by compulsive desires; my needs
Confirmed in those peak-experience moments

The poems are endless, even now
Years after our time together crumbled
Crumbled, burned; in a harshly distasteful way

I could not reach her
I cannot reach her
I should not reach her
Yet once I had breached her

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Four

The poetry stuttered and stumbled
As did the relationship
Working away from home did not help
Yet I did find a four leaf clover

Dartmoor could have been a place to settle
But we did not settle as it happens
My seven-day work week was relentless
Poems on cabin steps, poems at the intake

Cards, letters, notes from my travels
Distanced further still from those at home
Train stations, trolley bus stops
Time to write, time to suck lollipops

My own office in the country
With a landlord who murdered his wife
I too talked of sadness, of forgiveness
Love itself mostly was returned

Yet the silence slowly took me
Immersed myself in Internet poetry
I lost sight of the light of love
I lost sight of the meaning of love

Until, after the end
I was gifted a poem
Which spoke eloquently
Of love, of dust, of cobwebs

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