Regeneration

frozen lake

Strangely I submitted this to an online literary magazine and it was accepted. Unfortunately I can’t remember which one;  shows how important it is to make a note of where we send pieces!

 

Remembrance & Redemption

Apologies to St John of the Cross, George Herbert, George Barker, George Macbeth, Edward Lucie-Smith, David Holbrook and Jack Clemo.

In the darkness I crept out, my house being wrapped in sleep.

I am the man who has seen affliction. My enemy has driven me away and made me walk in darkness. He has made my skin and my flesh grow old and has broken my bones.

I leaned into the driving sleet. I found them between far hills by a frozen lake on a patch of deep snow. How could I have been the only witness? Whoever lived in that house must have seen and heard what I saw and heard. So severe the black frost that it bent the white burden of the bracken. Only one red shoe and a discarded glove showed through the snow. I had a vision of the world’s dark deeds. I could smell incinerator smoke; I saw bodies shovelled into dark pits. Children buried in a frozen lake. How long must I bear the unbearable; how long in this shadow of death? I retraced my steps but only succeeded in going round in circles.

It goes, the fever leaves me – my clumsy tongue no longer bursts my lips. I wore a black band on my arm. I thought they’d crucify me; I heard howling throughout the dark night.

Two of them came like bears out of the white forest; one held me in his arms. Dead wood with its load of stones brought to life again. He touched me lightly on the cheek. I lay quite still. I threw away my care and left my fear and trembling behind. Bright sun flooded the forest floor.

I rose up from my ancient grave. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright!

 

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The Matrix Meets Midsummer Night’s Dream

sf image

Neo puts a hand to his head and touches his hair. This….this isn’t

real?

No, it is the mental projection…of your digital self. Lovers and

Madmen have such seething Brains, such shaping Phantasies, that

apprehend  More than cool Reason ever comprehends.

This_ is the world that you know. The world as it was at the end

of the twentieth century. It exists now only as part of a neural-interactive

simulation, that _we_ call the Matrix.  You’ve been living in a dream world, Neo.

This…is the world as it exists today. Are you sure that we are awake? 

It seems to me that yet we sleep, we dream.

What _is_ real? How do you _define_ real? If you’re

talking about what you can feel, what you can smell, what you can taste

and see, then real is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain.

Tell them that I, Pyramus am not Pyramus, but Bottom the Weaver,

this will put them out of fear.

The earth, scorched . . .the desert of the real…We have only

bits and pieces of information, but what we know for certain

is that some point in the early twenty-first century

all of mankind was united in celebration, and then apocalypse.

We marvelled at our own magnificence…. the poet’s eye turns dreams to shapes and gives

to airy nothing a local habitation and a Name. . .

A singular consciousness that spawned an entire race -then you will see, it is

not the spoon that bends, it is only yourself.

If we Shadows have offended

think but this, and all is mended: that you have slumbered here while these

Visions did appear and this weak and idle Theme, no more yielding but a Dream.

pulsar poem

pulsar

(Just trying out a new way of posting. This is a recent poem written quickly after listening to Jocylyn Bell talk about pulsars.)

travelling too close to a pulsar

at the start     only a throb

like a lighthouse beam     sweeping

the dark in narrow arcs     beware

spaghettification as you    get closer

you’ll find your head      separated

from your feet     your chest pulled

violently from your    abdomen

the magnetic field    will wipe

your credit cards    clean

along with     all your memories

On False Perspective

300px-hogarth-satire-on-false-pespective-1753

Most writers and poets say a poem should stand on its own without reference to an image, if that is what triggered the poem. While I agree, I find this drawing so fascinating, I have no hesitation in posting it with my poem! No doubt my attempt doesn’t do justice to the drawing, but there you have it. The technical term for poems which re -interpret other works of art is, Ekphrasis.

On False Perspective

After William Hogarth

See how our concave faces confront contradiction,

we can never read what’s inside; each daily meeting

gouges a deeper groove. Lets face the facts

to avoid false perspective: from a mile away

a man lights his pipe from a candle

held by an apparition leaning from a window next to us.

Sheep grow as big as cows as they wander into the distance;

we stand still as the path beneath our feet speeds along;

a rock face descends as we cling to its cragginess;

horses stand while the bridge moves under their hooves.

*

Two-faced Phil folds into a clock tower; waits his chance to strike.

*

The moon in a dewdrop shows its full face

yet we can’t see both sides of a church

if we stand in one place. Two-faced Phil

jumps out and strikes his lover dead. The murderer’s

reckless act can only return to innocent reflection

in the moonlit depths of a puddle.

Summer

nightingale

At our last Writer’s Group we took one of Bernadette Mayer’s prompts. Pick a phrase at random and let your mind play freely around it until a few ideas come up. Seize on one and begin to write. I took the anonymous poem ‘Sumer is icumin in’ and played around with representing bird song by using phonetic spelling which I hope is onamatopoeic!

Sumer

Apologies to Anonymous (mid 13th century)

Sumer is icumen in sing cuccu

cuccu summer is icumen sing

sing soprano nightin-gal nu-ipp

nu-ipp nu-ipp tweeeeeeeeee pi-oo!

Jug-jug-jug choc-choc zeeeeeee!

Summer is icumen in sing sing

cuccu cu-cucco cuccu cu-cucco!

70th Birthday Picnic

eric70picnic2 008

It has been a while since I’ve posted here due to my working on my book. You can just make out some of us playing French cricket in the background! I had about twenty guests – not a bad turn out for a semi-recluse! The weather was sunny on Sat 6 August and it was good to see everyone enjoying themselves. Friends came from my Yoga group and Writers’ group.

The poem is a bit of intentional semi-doggerel, if there is such a thing! (I was rather pleased with the rhyme for ‘cricket’- in the last stanza.)

 

Birthday Poem at 70.

The day dawned like any other day;

I’m still standing and not yet lame.

Seventy circuits of the earth around the sun,

I hope I’ll never need a Zimmer frame!

*

My daughter asks what’s it like to be seventy,

I reply no different to being sixty nine.

A friend writes keep the child within alive,

keep writing poetry and you’ll be fine.

*

Lets give thanks and salute the sun today,

play French cricket in Saltwell Park

eat chocolate, Barack Obama and samosas

before our journey into the dark.

*

If I live to be a hundred, I wouldn’t want a plastic heart

In all honesty I don’t think I could stick it;

I wouldn’t want Botox or any replacement part;

I’d just like to be able, still to play French Cricket!

*

Note: Barack Obama is what I called barm brack cake.

The Morning After

sf image

I am busy writing a book for publication so will not be posting so often from now on. I will try and post something once a month though! ‘Weddings’ was the topic for my writers’ group this week.

I can’t remember any church bell

but imagine we drank many a toast.

You danced and pranced like a young gazelle

but I recall snorting candy the most.

*

I can’t remember giving you a ring

but can see your purple wedding dress.

You said you didn’t want a freaky fling

I said these days we couldn’t care less.

*

I admired your beautiful blue eyes,

you said you’d travelled fast and so far,

I wondered if you often told lies,

we sped home in a spanking new car.

*

I caressed your shapely malachite ears

but wondered how you saw with three eyes,

you told me you’d travelled ninety light years

from a world of terrible red skies.