Where do poems come from observations, passions, curiosity, life events? My book was a mixture of my efforts over the years and many were new poems. It was after my book had been published that the celebrated poet, Ian Duhig no less (who had also persuaded me to write a sonnet, on this blog somewhere) said I should have added one or two notes. So here are a few belated ones.
I now have another 14 new poems (maybe a bit better than the last lot) but decided to try a few comps. with before I blog them. I was thinking of a little blog collection by the 1st September!
Reconciliation - sometimes there is nothing one can do to re-build a relationship.
Reconciliation
Seeds take flight with softest blow
on dandelion clocks you know.
Forever?
How long can that be?
And who’s in charge of time. Tell me?
Twin spirits drift and sometimes fly?
but cannot separate for die
Distance is all in the mind,
a word for space I think you’ll find.
Alienation is a choice.
but takes an angry tone of voice.
Despite the walls. the gates, the locks,
think of seeds around the clock.
They drift, they fly. they find some ground,
and safely grow until they’re found.
Weaving Spells - I am not sure any one would quite recover from a childhood, where both parents were marionette makers and performers. The following poem is about my father.
Weaving Spells
He was a magician to us
weaving spells with wood and clay
Other people’s dads went to work
and reappeared for supper.
Ours spent his days
and most nights
carving marionettes
in his cluttered workshop
He was always engrossed
kneading clay or carving wood.
The music of Glen Miller blaring
from a battered radio
We would clink through the chaos
with mother’s homemade cakes
the smell mingling with the stench of glue
boiling on an ancient cooker.
Our faces shone with shy smiles
as his hand took the teacup.
He had been whisked away to war
we barely knew him.
We lived at Gran’s
and discovered him one day
in the hallway
with a battered trunk
A soldier
in a coarse khaki uniform
a clarinet in a case
and chocolate in his pockets.
Recent Haiku’s in the making
My son Paul presented me with a hand made purse yesterday. So in the spirit of Haiku thinking, which states the motivation for writing them is often ‘I want to share this’ are two of mine.
Hand tooled leather leaves
Threads of life on crisscrossed planes.
A touching present.
I went up to my eldest son’s cottage on Monday, the goats down the lane had escaped and it was an unexpectedly sunny day.
Bronzed brass bells jingle.
Winter shimmers on white fleece.
Deep brown doleful eyes.
Oleander - This one was after the death of my mother when I was still in grief and had dreadful difficulty adapting to life in Brighton.
The Oleander
We found it in Albi,
no gentle sketch
but boldly painted
bright and blowsy
heady with scent,
out for a good time.
In London.
loving the culture
pink petals
flirted with passers-by
revelled in attention
posed for pictures.
Uprooted to Brighton
in a white fleece shroud
it faltered
leaves fell
naked boughs mourned
sensing life had passed.
Two years later
in a new pot
on a south facing well
tiny green shoots emerge,
pink blossoms
show their party faces.
Moving on was written at Totleigh Barton, where I also discovered that no else one knew about twisting newspaper into strips to lie between the sticks to light a fire. All too young! But the poem came to mind, sitting alone by the dying embers, ten minutes before the taxi arrived to take a group of us to the station.
Moving On
Luggage abandoned in the hall
and trains won’t wait for late departure.
But here we sit
lost in the dance of life.
Mirrored in this tiny drama
and willing it never to end.
The heat of the fire
lulls us into companionable silence.
The flames leap and flare
reminding us of past passion.
Logs shift and fall
but we are motionless.
Showers of feathery dust
and final embers fall away.
We rise reluctantly to go
and face our fond farewells.
As if in a dream
fading into uncertain futures.
To download my book in full colour illustrations or the b/w version, see home page for link, also available on Amazon and in The Open Art Cafe Rottingdean in b/w about 60 poems…a bargain! Ann
