All 11 entries tagged Poetry

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February 16, 2005

Sonnet

When doves fly, but fail, and in failing fall,
So is my love, a broken, flutt’ring wing.
When oaks are cut and burnt that once stood tall,
So is my love, burnt twisted ashen thing.
When dove’s found and killed, nevermore to sing,
So is my love, dead, unans’ring your call.
When oak’s chopped to bits consumed by fire’s sting,
So is my love, shattered, burnt by love’s gall.
When dove’s cooked and ate, feeding starving child,
So is my love, on just that can you feed.
When oak’s cut, in flames, feeding child in need,
So is my love, it warms you in the wild.
Wings may fail it, let it be burnt and fall
Things change through love, if we can change at all.

January 18, 2005

The Oak, and Sick Oak

The Oak

The first oak that I ever knew
And the first tree I ever climbed
Was strong yet kind, was knarled yet soft,
Chanting with me perched on his knee.

"Howdy-do-di-do-di-do-di
Howdy-do-di-do-today?"

Comforting prayer, 'fore God was found,
I knew a sturdy tree was he,
Roots reaching deep in family,
Boughs sheltering, sturdying round.

"Are you living where you're living now?
Or have you moved away?"

Roots spread, seeds grew, as I did too,
Around him forests were sprouting,
Families held beneath his leaves,
Though maybe we held him.

"Don't you look so disagreeable
I've only come to say:"

He lifted us to other trees,
Pushed on and up into branches,
And from the leaves we chucked apples;
His labours finally bore fruit.

"Howdy-do-di-do-di-do-di
Howdy-do-di-do-today?"

Sick Oak

No matter how stubborn,
Or strong, maybe lucky,
No matter how much you will it to be,
No oak can live forever.
And if Nature thinks you might try
She'll trim your sickly tree.

A gardener will come unbidden
With shears who's shadows show scythes
You'll see the shadows, not the shearer,
You'll see Him slowly pruned.
Reason, knowledge, even rhyme is cut away, until
Oak can't remember he was your tree.

Even my tree was cut down,
Under a roof, not leaves, does he rest now,
The apples I chuck down (can't bear to come close)
He must stoop to collect,
And I hear his back crack.
No rest for us, we see him cry, not want to leave,
Among the lost sick trees he's at home, he's lost
Sleep, appetite, about 5 stone, and to us.
In dirty sheets, dingy beds, on shitten floors,
A sick tree, my ever-oak, fails to sleep.

"Are you living where you're living now
Or have you moved away?


January 15, 2005

Blessing – A war poem

Blessing. Something precious, given not earned.
Life. Something precious, given not earned.
Theft. Something stolen, you had no right to take.
Death. Something stolen, I had no right to take.

Death. A field run red in a far-away land,
Our blood mixed with foreign blood
In the foreign dirt of that foreign battle,
In a foreign place, we had no right to be.

Life. Poppies growing in that far away field,
Which once was red, is red again,
And the ghoulish roots, that feed on the fallen,
Give strength to blooms, which was given, not earned.

Theft. Spectres howling in my far-away mind,
Where they twist and turn, wail and writhe,
Stopping me sleeping, in my soft and safe bed,
In my tainted soul, they have permission to be.

Blessing, a blade that misses the all too close flesh,
Tearing through sinew and bone and my soul,
And Devils never twist their knives in my heart,
And I have peace in oblivion that I never could earn.


November 09, 2004

Love is

Love is

I don’t know what love is,
Just how it feels,
Perhaps no one does,
Maybe I should ask.

But I’m embarrassed,
What if they look at me
Funny, Why should they?
Answer me.

What if what they tell me’s simple,
I just missed it,
Because their love is better,
More solid than mine.

Still I ask, as not knowing what love is,
Is embarrassing enough,
That I go red when I try to describe
What it is I feel.

Sexually Repressed (i.e. singe/teenage/young married/living) Male:
“Love is when she doesn’t say no.”

Middle Aged Married Male:
“Love is when my wife says yes.”

Old Married Male:
“Love is when my wife stops minding,
If I have my teeth out.”

Women: “Love is when they don’t ask.”

Married Woman: “Love is when he asks first.”

Old Married Woman: “Love is when I don’t have to ask Him
To put his teeth in.”

Other men,
Top ten:

“Love is when she talks to you, says what she means.”

“Love is when she doesn’t always have to talk to you,
You can’t know what she means.”

“Love is in the morning, you wake up every day,
Thinking last night you got lucky.”

“Love is when she lets you keep your porn.”

“Love is the key to unlocking your own maturity,
By locking up the rest of you.”

“Love is holding her like you did when young,
Yet knowing every wrinkle, and loving them too.”

“Love is in her eyes, reflecting your own gaze back,
To you”

“Love is unspectacularly spectacular,
(Especially if she is)”

“Love is when you don’t have to say it”

“Love is your mutual fantasy,
That you no longer need to fantasise.”

I was still confused,
Asked more people,

Women, top 6 (some laughed,
Or slapped)

“Love is when he actually changes when you nag,
And doesn’t call it nagging.”

“Love is when he says I love you.”

“Love is 24 Carat”

“Love is when he’s as simple as we think,
Or as complicated as we hope.”

“Love is when his only fantasy is you.”

“Love is stupid. So are you.”

In the end I decided, that Love is the answer,
To the question you were too embarrassed to ask.

love is embarrassing.


November 01, 2004

Seven Years

Seven Years

I dropped the mirror of life,
I didn’t mean to,
But I did.

It fell from my hands,
When I lifted a pen,
To make sketch of my reflection.
The mirror fell and cracked,
Shards broke out, a million flying doubts,
In every possible way.

I dropped it when I looked inside,
Myself, to see my life,
Pen fell from first hand,
Mirror from second,
I saw someone standing behind me.
Watching what I wrote.

As shards fled fast away,
I glimpsed some sights inside,
Fragments of reflections held
Behind the mirror’s glass.

I saw the homeless man on the street,
Outside a house that could have been mine.
In an instant light was gone,
Then the sun came up.

Frozen to death, I saw him,
The morning after,
The night before,
I could have helped him.

The house could have been mine,
Could have been,
I wasn’t sure,
Didn’t see the number.

I saw the starving boy in the desert,
jungle, mountain, delta, village,
Thin as a pencil,
Twice as dry and brittle,

Much easier to snap, but he doesn’t,
Not because of a pound a week,
But sheer stubbornness, that keeps him up.
Stubbornness that makes him ignore,

The snapping pain,
That makes him want to weep, fall down,
And instead force another spoonful,
Jealous it isn’t his, into sister’s mouth.

I saw the young woman,
Watching helpless, a mere spectator,
As a man proves he loves his country,
More than her.

Boarding the plane, she cries, he sighs,
Embarrassed by the tears,
That she didn’t have stiff upper lip,
She cries some more.

Having lost him once to a war,
She loses him to war (abstract noun).
Alone, still, she walks the streets weeping,
A soggy mess, a used tissue thrown aside.

I saw the mother trying to decide,
To keep or kill unwanted child,
Wondering what a life she could give,
To a child who could have no father.

Thinking that if all she could give is life,
Why bother?
Split down the middle, like a guillotine,
About to fall on someone’s neck.

She wonder’s too, whose child it is.
The man who left her twice for war?
Or the homeless man who clutched at her for warmth,
On the street, took warmth from her, gave life back.

I saw the old woman, alone,
Knuckles knotted, gnarled and creaking,
Like wood. Indeed she seems to all
The perfect old oak, seedless, clutching to its roots.

With none to visit and shade themselves,
Under her boughs, benefit from having a tree,
With strong roots to protect them,
To put a fence around and protect in turn.

So the rend doctors tore with their knives,
That made her feel the snapping pain,
Is filled by adopted, starving boy,
Who no longer starves, or pains.

I saw the girl that might have been,
Beautiful, but sad, not knowing mother,
Lighting up the orphanage,
Bringing joy to sad places.

Or, joyous and radiant, happy family home,
Her mother caring with all her love,
Love wasted on man who left twice,
Lights up a little girl.

A girl who, motivated by happiness
Or sad, decided to bring joy to others,
Cure disease, a big one, maybe cancer,
A lighthouse, shining healing rays.

In the last shard I saw the man standing behind me,
Saw him reading my work and sneer,
In disdain and pity,
Knowing already what I would write,

Angry that I’d try to match the mirror
Knowing what I’d write would not match what I saw.
He knew, as he was my reflection,
Being opposite, he knew everything about me.

Being opposite he knew he couldn’t change,
What I’d seen, didn’t want to
Try. Instead he did, not write and hope for money, or sympathy,
To change. Things. He did. Whatever.

In the end, I was in the way,
Shards, bright as knifes, sharper still,
Cut into flesh, I feel the snapping pain.
Stomach empty, crying out; for food,
For baby lost, for warmth, for love, for help,
I feel it all, pain all round, neutralised by joy.

After I saw all this I walked out on street,
Saw suffering and love, saw pain and joy,
In perfect chaotic harmony,
Natural hideous neutrality.
Felt it all, and found peace.
I passed suffering and did nothing.
This is what the mirror of life teaches.

My reflection saw this through the mirror,
So he smashed it.


Simple Words – A Love Poem

Simple Words – A Love Poem

Some words are simple,
And some are complex,
We use them to describe,
What colours cannot.

The complex are beautiful,
Elegant and ornate.
They tie up the tongue in tricky sounds,
And stumble out the mouth.

But when they escape,
Trying hard to fly,
Their wings flutter and falter,
Not bearing the weight,

Those long, heavy words,
That now vainly reach,
To be heard by you,
Fall and fail. Unheard.

They could not reach you,
So feelings go unsaid,
You will never hear,
My beautiful words for you.

I will never pompously profess
How where once my lonely arms held only air,
They now reach out into space,
Knowing you’ll be there.
These words would never reach you,
Even if I had the heart to speak them.

But small stream-lined words,
That fly straight to you,
As I want them to,
And as I too would do,
Will always be heard.

The simple words are the best.
Three of them.
Little ones.
Guess what they are.


Performance

Performance

Written by James Webster and Lucy Ayrton

When all that’s left is sweat stained sheets
When all you are is gone
When all that’s real is incomplete
Whenever gentlemen

Are not,
Go far too far, yet leave you cold
Submit, but will not yield
Yet submitted, still not speak
Too alone to sleep

Eaten like a slab of meat
Still held, and yet apart,
Awake alone,
Eaten up, digested, vomited up,

Treat sluts like innocents
And fend them off,
Defending purity that they forsook,
Defending virtue themselves they took.
They defend what’s there’s,
Not yours.

“You always knew that anything you gained,

*Came at a cost – just flesh, or paradise you lost?”*
“So why no PEACE
_As ugly thoughts dance through my mind-”_

“you slut, you bitch, you whore, you-”
“heartless freak! You willing slave! You-”
“Willing slave, you won yet lost, you-”
"won. But what? A life alone?

I’ll never sleep”

*“I’m
EASY AGAIN”*
“At least I’m not alone.”
“At least I’m virtue’s son.”
“AT LEAST I’M FREE!”

NO, WE’re not.


October 15, 2004

Modern Women

Modern Women
Hello my modern women,
And your modern men as well.
Hello to single mothers,
Struggling all alone
(Not Modern by choice,
But by another’s,
Who did not know at all).

And Hello to career-ladies,
Too busy for children (or men),
In chic and stylish, 2 bedroom flats,
With that rich unlived in smell.

And Hi There all you Lesbo’s
Childless, for obvious reasons,
You steal our modern women,
And that’s why we like you,
(Not that they were ever ours).

And Hello to all you others,
Who I care for not too much,
Not that you care,
Or know,
Or see,
Me.
I have no time to list you,
And you have none at all,
For I must cook the meal,
My modern women shall soon be home.

Most Modern Women, almost all the old,
Enjoy shopping to extremes,
Musky, fruity, sweet and sour fragrances flying,
Against the air at us
Your Modern Men,
Who wait patiently by the counter
Offering to pay for what you want,
But do not and are unlikely to ever,
Need,
Knowing you will say ‘no’

I apologise if this poem is disjointed,
However my reasons are perfectly good,
My Modern Woman could not stand still,
Upon her pedestal,
While I paint her portrait,
In words.

I am sorry again, to all modernity,
For I must now swiftly go,
A Modern Man must cook the meal.
Though many hours have you been,
I have none, now.


Imaginary Britain

Imaginary Britain
When I think of “my Britain” I think of the local,
Heads of beer more attractive than the people drinking,
The lads making bad innuendoes and belching,
Loudly.

When I think of “my Britain” I think of football,
England struggling against minnows,
And getting paid an infinite more than doctors,
And TEACHERS.

When I think of “my Britain” I think of multi-culture,
Children glad to sit bored outside assembly,
Because their God is not our God is not our Queen,
Is not us.

And “my Britain” is William Regal sipping tea,
In a wrestling ring, in America, in tights,
And the British Bulldog is another wrestler showing that in Britain,
Tights are traditional.

And “my Britain” does not exist,
As Britain is no longer a place where St George,
(Who never visited, or wrote, or called)
Slayed the dragon or convinced him/her/it/they/who?
With cold British charm,
That vegetarianism was the answer.

Because “my Britain” is a dream,
A vision, illusion, delusion, hallucination, or phantasm,
(Delete as appropriate or not at all)
Of a view of the Thames from Embankment,
The Bridge under cold blue light, warmly seeing,
The best view in Britain.

And Britain is a bubble,
That restricts, holds in, and is my house and street,
In which resides, at our discretion,
A bench on the river where one can see
People’s houses reduced to candles lighting a view just for the bench,
Where I once cried for “my Britain”.


Death is

Death is
Death is thug,
Wears hoodie,
and poses as cross with bloody pagan graffiti
symbols.

Death is Supervillain.
Wears cape and mask in attempt with,
dark wings blotting sun,
to look like saviour.

Death is Blade.
Each and every,
that has ever reflected Hell’s looting fire,
one.

Death is Crashing.
Used by us, blood turns black, and vainly pulling up,
we splinter him/she/
IT into tower.


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