Poems (to 2015)

The Ballad of Windmill Hill
For Keith…

The man clambered to the windmill, blunt pencil in his hand;

Head empty as his notebook: as nothing yet was planned.

But he sat down on his jacket: spine cold against the stone

Where the bread had once been moulded; the seed had once been blown;

Where the stooped-back miller once had toiled for hour upon hour

To turn the labour of the harvest into finest golden flour;

And he soon began to scribble, as the wind began to call

From the houses far below him; from cottage, church and hall.

And this is what he registered – inspired by what he learned –

Never passing any judgment on what his neighbours clearly yearned.

All we want is something simple, that we all can understand:

Nothing complex or beyond us; notions rooted in the land;

A village with a future; where each to each is known;

A place which folk find welcoming; that is everybody’s own;

Where, gradually, in union, with corresponding power,

We spread this presence evenly, and remember well that our

Stay upon this well-tilled soil means little to time’s sprawl;

Though man is one of many visitors whose impact may be small

Next to heaven’s mighty globes and the voyages they’ve turned;

But that yet we must be wary of the furrows that we’ve churned.

What wisdom can we manifest; who amongst us will take stand

To garner our agreement; stop our wishes turn to sand?

How will we ever vanquish those who want to reign alone:

Whose voices shout much harsher, whose only word is sown

On fallow ground, whose every thought is selfish, sharp and sour;

With no empathy or sympathy: their lust set on the tower

Of ruling over everyone; of leering over all;

Of meeting our petitions with an egoistic bawl?

Are there those amongst us brave enough – whose regard we know is earned –

Who will help us stand together; guarantee such fools are spurned?

And then the breeze veered westerly; and light glowed on the hand

Of one, then two, then several more, until a mighty band

Of villagers of every class who all had always shown

Great steadfastness and loyalty to the place in which they’d grown

Stood strong and straight in unity – no longer would they cower:

This was the land they loved – each tree, each bird, each flower –

And they would hold forever, brought together by that call,

To ensure that all three Tysoes could never ever fall;

Would from here deal right and fairly with each resident concerned;

Would from here shine bright with passion that in every heart now burned.

Upon the hill, the man awoke; his blank pad on the grass;

Yet sure that all he’d seen and heard would shortly come to pass.

123 or not 123…

a jay punctuates the air

and suddenly the sky is full

of apostrophes and commas

parentheses and chevrons

asterisks and hyphens

colons and ellipses

all in syntactic flight

the primates are at Hamlet again

stuck on the numeric keyboard

This knave would go sore

I’m riddled with pain like a rat is with fleas;

And yet I’m not ill – I don’t have a disease:

I’m simply disabled – it’s all in my neck –

But, bugger, it hurts: and I feel like a wreck.

No pill has an impact; no medicine helps;

And each time I move my poor body it yelps.

There’s no chance of sleeping with comforting dreams –

Only dark, spiky nightmares, riddled with screams.

All doctors can offer are ways I should cope:

Not proven solutions; or proffering hope.

I’m all on my own with my torment and hurt –

Descending so low that I’m left in the dirt.

So I form my own methods to deal with the aches:

A very large whisky; and a mountain of cakes.

Written on Windmill Hill

A walk – a metaphor for a life –

beginning and ending in mist:

the spindrift confetti of gulls

and crotchety staveless rooks

bursting beneath the robbed-out windmill,

and fading facets of connection

kidnapped by the crawling clouds.

The Bard’s epitaph (in the form of a bench)

Here would Tysoe sit and writ,

And rest his bum a little bit;

But now it’s yours to stop and weigh

In the posterior of his day.

Holofernes: The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent, and measurable for the afternoon. The word is well cull’d, chose, sweet, and apt, I do assure you, sir, I do assure.

– William Shakespeare: Love’s Labour’s Lost

aflitterfortwitter (#thinkofapoem #thinklikeapoet)

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notthemoon anothersatellite

sat a float afloatingpontoon

set a light insight

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For the Guardian of Minack (October 1987)

This afternoon I found

          that you had died

     And I was glad

          that I was all alone

For inevitable rivers

          of tears flow

     And waters leap

          where you have gone

And this is all I know

          save

That deaths and entrances are all we crave

And where will you go

          now that all your goings are done?

     A subtle lightening

          in the new child’s eyes

     Much more than such

          a suitable joy

     For this you gave

That deaths and entrances are all we crave

And through this joining

          although it may force crying

     I was so glad

          that I was all alone

And as the fragile life force

          leaps

     It’s old to new religions

          now

          that vow

That deaths and entrances are all we crave

The path to Wroxall Abbey…

Though fresh-furrowed,

ghosts – having trod this field before me –

have signed the track new with silent boot and scythe.

They came to pass; made my way plain:

my bearing clarified by clover beribboning the glebe’s brink –

a shock of verdant stripe, bright after slack stubble –

sharp after soft: an excised edge keen as the blades

stopped short of earth’s full mastery.

So I move on with grace and gratitude:

true as the plough; and pure as those prior souls.

The renal calculi reds…

My kidney stones

are shaped like Toblerones:

and thus get stucked

within my duct.

They may be spikey:

and – oh my crikey –

do the buggers hurt –

I really wish they were as soft

(especially as I have them oft)

as real Swiss chocolurt.

Renal colic

is no frolic.

Soon I’ll be an alcoholic.

meadow rue

the gold of cups

     has freely been replaced

by royal thistle purple

     whilst I was gone

a textured tapestry

     of swaying sorts

multicoloured limelight

     and no more one

hue

     now dominates the raw summer grass

and yet I move on slowly

     and sad-faced

the present image in its palette

     thwarts

my fast memory

     as onward I pass

Composed upon Stannals Bridge, June 23, 2015…

I have rested on your bench so many times:

     faced the blind sun;

          dreamt of poor rhymes;

     but never really thanked you,

          or those you left behind –

who really miss you still – for being quite so kind

as to leave this limping poet a handy place to sit,

     when halfway round his walk,

          to rest a bit… –

     So thank you, Dan Diamonds:

          a shining soul so worthy of such name;

I am glad for your memory; and happy that you came.

The Adrian Mitchell blues (Christmas 2008)

I use rock and jazz and blues rhythms because I love that music.

I hope my poetry has a relationship with good-time rock’n roll.

– Adrian Mitchell (Shadow Poet Laureate; 1932-2008)

Woke up this mornin’

Got a space within my bed

Woke up this mornin’

Got a face that’s full o’ dread

Woke up this mornin’

Got a bass within my head

Playin’ the Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

Bump

     Crump

          Frump

               Grump

Thumpin’ out the Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

                    Hump

                         Lump

                              Rump

                                   Slump

Trumpin’ out the Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

Woke up one mornin’

And found that you were dead

Woke up one mornin’

And found a world of lead

Woke up one mornin’

And found all you had read

Writin’ the Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

Bound

     Crowned

          Drowned

               Frowned

Poundin’ out the Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

                    Ground

                         Hound

                              Mound

                                   Round

Soundin’ out the Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

But now my head is better

Read so much of what you wrote

Nearly every single letter

Heard the words sing from your throat

I’ll always be your debtor

You will always get my vote

The perfect antidote

Our greatest ever… pote

Floatin’ out the Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

Floatin’ out

     the Adrian Mitchell

          blues

               in all

                    their laureate hues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

The Adrian Mitchell blues

After dropping my tiny migraine meds for the umpteenth time this week

In my hand I have some pills:

But not the kind that give you thrills;

These ones should stop my hands from quaking,

But I cannot pop them without shaking.

I may catch one, I may catch two;

But some will fly to join the few

Rolled under chair and under table.

Because my grasp is so unstable

I cannot take the answers to my ills

Without the probability of spills.

The irony is not beyond me:

Although my failure does despond me.

But until they make my tablets like Maltesers

I shall have to learn to medicate with giant tweezers.

Make it real: a rap (sort of) – but not on the knuckles – for those in chronic pain…

Remembering Ian Dury (1942-2000)

Build me a butty

(fry the bacon

fill me up)

Hand me the pills

(hate the flavour

gulp them down)

Push me to putty

(play the music

turn it up)

Help me walk hills

(climb through torture

feel let down)

Up

down

spin me around

Tell me you’ll cure me

and make it real

Help me be frisky

(feign my comfort

buckle down)

Hand me the cream

(smooth my aching

lift me up)

Pour me a whisky

(take your time now

come on down)

Build me a dream

(brighten the world

give it up)

Up

down

spin me around

Tell me you’ll cure me

and make it real

Up the creek

Down and dirty

Up and about

Down and out

Lighten up

Knuckle down

The game is up

So knock me down

I’m coming up roses

So lead me down

the garden path

Up

down

spin me around

Tell me you’ll cure me

and make it real

Up

down

spin me around

Tell me you’ll cure me

and make it real

Make it heal

Carol for Christmas Day…

Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!

The Lord is born today.

Come on, rejoice,

With heart and voice,

The Lord is King for ever.

Be happy and glad,

Be joyful, not sad;

He’s come to save us from our sins.

Hurray! And let us sing

Our praises to the King.

Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!

Sing hymns for Christmas Day;

Of shepherds and kings,

Of ox and ass,

Of Bethl’em’s lowly stable.

The star, on high,

Lights up the sky,

And welcomes Jesus to this Earth.

Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!

Sing hymns for Christmas Day!

Set to music by Stephen R Ward (child genius), for unaccompanied SATB; dedicated to Keith Bond (the church musician’s musician); and first performed by the astoundingly accomplished Blackburn Cathedral Young People’s Choir (YPC) at Matins on Christmas Day 1976.

If this field… (In memoriam Joseph Ashby)

If this field could cry, then it would;

If this field could cry, it would cry

For hare, for badger, for silence,

As the owl cries, but not for care.

If this field could weep, then it would;

If this field could weep, it would weep

For unity, for history,

As the cloud weeps, but not for rain.

If this field could grieve, then it would;

If this field could grieve, it would grieve

For tilth, for furrow, for the plough,

As the horse grieves, but not for ease.

If this field could pass, then it would;

If this field could pass, it would pass

For myth, for symbol, for tribute,

As the days pass, but not for night.

What once was plenty was all our fathers’

And our mothers’ too; was shared in labour

And enjoyment; was permanent and firm

As the ridges and footsteps they planted:

Knowing never to cry, weep, grieve, or pass

By this field that grew them, formed them entire.

If this field could cry, then it would;

If this field could weep, then it would;

If this field could grieve, then it would;

If this field could pass, then it would;

But it will not lie easily

Entombed beneath base usury.

If this field could live, then it would;

If this field could live… it would live.

Anatomy of a migraine

A migraine may begin in many ways:

Quite instantly, or with some challenging delays,

With auras like the borealis, or the singing of the whales –

But however it may start, the pain then never ever fails

To lay you low, with potions, pills and ice,

In darkness and in silence, and not feeling very nice.

It keeps you down for hours, or even several days,

And punishes in many different ways:

Not just the hurt, but losing half your sight,

Or even half your body (that’s not right);

And feeling sick and dizzy, and quite crushed –

But then, a migraine is not ever to be rushed.

And even when it’s gone, it leaves you out of phase:

Your brain feels ground from diamond into clays;

Your appetite is gone, and you feel weak;

And sometimes you don’t even have the strength to speak.

Some sleep will do you good, and give you energy to burn –

Until, of course, the damned thing cruelly chooses to return.

Charred-brown these ringèd fingers

Charred-brown these ringèd fingers sway,

Scattering their summer clay

Of leaves that billow, then stop still, until

Again they fly.

Golden-green these crusting, rusting leaves

That fall like feathers to the breeze:

Down to the frosty, mossy ground, where, still,

They wait to die.

The hedgehogs (postscript & epitaph)

There were three of them – poor souls –

Old before their time it was said

We fed our brothers as one does

As – unlike us –

It was said that their mother was dead

There were three of them – now two –

One other slung without the pomp

Over the broken wall with shame

We – cowards all –

Had her say that they had gone away

There was one of them – with shame –

The maggots taunting with their smiles

Wicked in their beckoning guiles

One – stomach split –

Had lost both mother and his life

There was one of them – their mum –

Old before their time we had said

Crushed by a rubber bomb slow speeding

As – unlike us –

She fought for fodder and their feeding

There are two of them – poor souls –

Hidden from the prowls of night-time

We fed our brothers as one does

But – eating not –

We prayed that with the warmth they would

(And then there were none – all gone –

Old before their time they had tried

To suffer as brothers but they died

One – to the end –

Fought hard – but that stench of pain will stay

For the three of them – poor souls –)

Mindfulness

Hale: sound of body; sound of body breathing

in with out; a lifetime’s lifetides ebb with flow,

full with empty; inhale, exhale; endlessly

repeating, pulsing, pushing the breath that moves

the brain; the source; the beating drum; ceaselessly

calling the surge within marking mariners’ time.

…Never fair

Fly unto a curlew’s weeping distance;

But grant your arching wings a closer hold,

That, reaching down, their feather fingers fold

My saddened soul into your breast. Entrance

Your wandering, restless flight with love of me,

And pale not your roaming heart, but brighten

All with my fond love of you. Go: tighten

Our strong bond – but yet return, and softly

Cry my name from that sad curlew’s weeping;

Grant my aching wings your hold when sleeping.

Missingness

I knew she wasn’t home

When the cat came to greet me

Cuddled up on the window’s ledge

And hungry for his love

He knows my returning tones

No-one had been there to keep him warm

And he pounces to the door

To welcome and to beg me

I knew her for some short time

Before I presented her

With a parcel of myself

Gilt-wrapped and silk-tied

Many hours had been used in preparation

Of that second skin

And with a lightness of touch

And tenderness of intuition

She undid my heart

And unveiled the reality of self

I know not what mysteries she uses

In her companionship of me

But I know the missingness of her

Is impossible to bear

I knew she wasn’t home

The curtains too were parted

And the milk lay idle on the step

Where the cat cries for love

So I lifted the bottles

Closed the door and gave him warmth

And switched the television on

For false comradeship

We knew each other longer

The intricacies perhaps now too easy

Our parcels so emptied

That we cannot further rip the paper

Of our selves

But still the missingness

Is perhaps the thing that excites us

With no missingness

Will those selves find stagnant love?

I knew she wasn’t home

The dishes still need washing

And the home still lacks the willingness

I knew she wasn’t home

because I’ve waited there for too long

And she didn’t come down

And the bed was cool

PS: I told the cat

I told the cat it was called loving

This warming stroking snuggling thing

He nuzzled my hand and padded my lap

And fell curling asleep

Rose

The rain washes his eyes

(I rose before the stars wanted to dim)

They suppose that he cries

With sadness that his love is not with him

But she is always there

Who rose before the suns and earths were made

(You whom I think most fair)

With echoed smiles of joy that will not fade

And he is always here

Who rose before the stars had walked above

Two eyes and one small tear

(Why? I would say my spilling fuel is love)

An edited extract from the original accompanying notes

The ideal audience the poet imagines consists of the beautiful who go to bed with him, the powerful who invite him to dinner and tell him secrets of state, and his fellow-poets. The actual audience he gets consists of myopic schoolteachers, pimply young men who eat in cafeterias, and his fellow-poets. This means, in fact, he writes for his fellow-poets.

– WH Auden: Poets at Work

My poetry has always been private – born of emotion-of-the-moment into a world where I’m afraid to let my offspring wander, in case it is harmed, rejected, or simply scorned. But we all crave praise for our creations, I suppose, as well as wanting to coddle them – qualities, which, after years of being a father, I realize are instinctive in us all. We have to trust not only in our child’s ability and right; but in the world, to offer its acceptance.

Prior to this semi-reluctant untethering of my poems (to a pride of my “fellow-poets”), then, my audience consisted usually, only, of one: of “the beautiful who go to bed with [me]”; plus an occasional close friend or two; and it has usually also been the case that my poems were written to, about, for – or occasioned by – such companions.

I described myself in my submission as:

A chemical engineer by degree(s) – a modern romantic by nature – most of my working life has been spent sitting in front of various computers: marketing IT (information technology); writing about IT; editing newsletters about IT; and designing annual reports about IT. I only write poetry when I’m sad. (My personal life is happy; but my working life is sad – which is not to say I only write at work.) And I’d like to be as good a poet as Robert Graves. (One day…)

…which was supposed to make the point that much of my emotion – and thus my poetry – stems from antithesis, from conflict: whether flippancy and earnestness; art and science; good and bad; happiness and sadness. (Isn’t this the same for all artists?) But, also, to ‘warn’ that my particular brand of ‘lyric poetry’ may not be to modern taste.

I started writing poetry, as many do, I suppose, in an adolescent blur of angst: sometimes for “myopic schoolteachers” and the school literary magazine; but, more often than not, to burgeoning blondes and brunettes who I worshipped, unrequited, and from afar.

Perhaps at fourteen every boy should be in love with some ideal woman to put on a pedestal and worship. As he grows up, of course, he will put her on a pedestal the better to view her legs.

– Barry Norman

But real love came much later. And it was only with the pain that comes with the realization that one’s love is not always perfect that my poetry also ‘matured’. (I hope.)

This poem was written in a telephone box in the rain at six o’clock, one rainy Saturday morning, a few years ago – in a micro-depression caused by having to ’phone for an ambulance for an elderly neighbour suffering an obvious, life-threatening, cardiac arrest; as well as an aching absence. Unusually for me, the poem originated completely in my head, waiting for the medics, watching the rain; and I only scribbled it down later, as one of many “pimply young men who eat in cafeterias”, eyeing the early-morning buses going by.

Of Mirage and Echo

      “To love beyond infinity,”

My godhead said to me,

      “Not even to divinity

Is granted – nor shall be.”

      She searched through her inventory

Of mortals quick and dead;

      “None such in any century

Are listed here,” she said.

      “Except…” – and here her finger traced

The heartbreaks and the lies,

      The trusts and promises erased,

The bluffs of compromise –

      “Except there is a partnership

Outlasting words and wars,

      Exceeding clear the farthest tip

Of miracles or stars:

      “A truth of perfect unity,

A heart and soul that fly,

      That soar beyond eternity:

That is… but you and I.”

Vesper

Your name strides

Sculpted on my landscape mind,

Its racing arches rooted firmly

In that host of thoughts

Which we have christened…

Memory –

And wide, vast nothings

Echo round those blocks

Of chiselled retrospect,

And suns set beneath them –

Whilst crescent moons paint blue…

The conscious Memory.

Plough and scatter

Impossible perspectives,

to eyes trained on more rugged climbs:

gouged strands of tilth

that race, but never touch,

scarred by the ferrous digits

of a lifeless claw,

of both bird and bough –

a euphony for all my senses;

a concrete palimpsest;

a manuscript complete.