Inception

Sometimes you have to write
Even when there seems to be
So little to write of
Then perhaps to remember flying the kite
Or to think of memories to write thereof

Some days you have to rely on
Brian Ferry singing
Or to light the Jasmine, Chamomile
And Rosewood candle

Especially if it is too far to walk
To hear the bells a-ringing
You can rest in your lounge
Wearing slipper or sandal

Some ways you know are shorter
And some ways ever longer
The garden path twists and turns
Beneath the blossom tree

The tree whose leaves and blossoms
Once were stronger
Before the autumn and the winter
Asked that they go free

There isn’t anywhere really
For this poem to go to
My mind being freed
Of all thoughts and repercussions

So back to the cricket field
To recall your boundary throw
Or to football in the snow
After negative family discussions

Sometimes the past
Is not the cure-all after all
When the images do not bring
Good cheer to the game

Better then to let the present
Make a welcome call
When what is to see
Is the beauty of the beautiful flame

Some days the song is just right
How to say, somewhat tight
Is it that old Tom Waits, in a most
Ingeniously theatrical guise

A life reflected from Belgrade
Out and onto the Eastern light
Giving indeterminate pleasures
Such is the entertainer’s prize

Some ways you have to begin
With your hands in the sands
The roads to the beaches
Having been rolled over and over

Silver Birch and Aspen become
The joy-spreading strands
After the sycamore and oaks
Over by the four-leaf clover

The wasn’t really anywhere
For this old poem to try to go
And who else will hear, or see
Or know of the background

So back to the photographs
And the old stories going slow
Or the magnanimity of the roar
Of the less than silent sound

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Christopher's Collected Works

Reluctantly

I thought I might try close reading
Close reading of my own work
Just to be sure of the cognisance
Both for myself, and also for others

Although it is not strictly true
To say that I thought of this unaided
No, actually it was after a critique
Another sense, or meaning of success

Also, and this was of my own doing
There were typographical mistakes
And my back to front isms
Did not always ring true (pun intended)

Anyways I listened to David Whyte
Who I have heard many times
And I realised how often he uses repetition
Today’s words are yesterday’s words and so on

Then I turned the oven on
Almost exactly as instructed
(In preparation for cooking the turkey)
Thereby proving that my memory still works

Yet soon I was back to writing
Writing about close reading
Which I have done with others works
But never before with my own

Is this a glorified form of editing
I ask myself, two times actually
Still I do not start, some force holds me back
I will call it: The unknowing of the unknown

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Christopher's Collected Works

Confirmations

I’ve posted to you
I’ve posted to I
I’ve posted to everyone

I searched for you
I searched for I
I found you and I in everyone

I looked for the flow
Was I, or was I not
Already in there

I read the messages
I watched the videos
I was enjoying simply being

There is desire
There is longing
Yes, it is true, there is everything

And now the singer sings
There is going to be a big one
And who am I to argue

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Christopher's Collected Works

Working Back

And so I ask you to write your life story
Instead of asking that I write my story

And I ask you to be clearer with your poetry
While not saying
That I should steer clear of ambiguity

Yet, when asked who is the you that I write of
I am at first reluctant to say, but eventually I say

The you is many people throughout my life
The you is also I
That is I in its many incarnations

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Christopher's Collected Works

Allocations

I have brought my focus
I have brought my concentration
I have brought my coffee
I have brought my mince pies and biscuits

I pay full attention
To taste the fruit in my biscuit
Similarly, to the coffee
In which I dunk my biscuit

I think about the Swami
Also the Gita
But most of all
About the words of Patanjali

Who said something to the effect
That my new project
Would breathe life into me
And so it seems to be
As I devour my second biscuit

On the side table
There is an empty can
Of caffeine-free Diet Coke
Which was one of yesterday’s projects

As was also writing a love poem
In a book which I cannot now see
Yet I can believe in it
For it contained focus
Concentration, and attention

That is for all of the while of its writing
There was an awareness of moments
There was a feeling of emotions
For how else could it be written

Now I have to tell you that I distracted myself
So it is time to return
To the coffee
To the mince pies and biscuits

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Christopher's Collected Works