Wednesday, 24 April 2013

such a winter

white witchcraft winter
chosen frozen limbs
deliver
daily december
to grey gloomed Denethor
in such a time as this.

taut and icy mind-map,
web of willful wilting,
seeming endless morning
carrion crow creeping
under door-frame,
seeping
curtaining the darkness,
lilting,
willing
to sickle this sickly psyche
hammering hindsight
to the forefront
of a thawing, thriving mind's eye,
glimpsing its twenty-twenty mission.





shared with poetry jam-carry on

Monday, 8 April 2013

St Andrews Days





i) prologue:
learning the f words 

forget fear
forge fun
for everyone's sake
forgo failure
find the faith
for your feet
and run...


ii) my two figures

fresh in the afternoon sun
a glimpse of spring has sprung
and
my two figures go skipping
down
a pine tree avenue
bouncing the ball of childhood
jumping shadows shaped by light,
lightly tripping leaves and moss
and tree root fingers shooting through
away away from me they go,
always
racing on to grow.

iii) postcards home 

bones of the brother
brought to Christ
         ***
martyrdom stories
come to life
        ***
fifty-two types
of flavoured ice
(entice)
         ***
twice Tom Morris
rests in this ground
       ***
ping of the oldest
swings in town
      ***
castles of sand
built up washed down
     ***
east and west shorelines
surfboards speed
     ***
Swilken Burn bridge
crossed by your feet
     ***
sniper gulls glint
(a) beady-eyed greed...
   

iv) you hovered on the water

last night i swear
your whisper slipped the waves
reverbing a prelude long gone
as you hovered on the water
shaping shells and
tipping tides in truth
i heard you share and rush the shore
the sculptor, potter, artist, singer,
writer, painter, universe maker
you hovered on the water
and let me listen.


NOTE:
Our family spent the weekend at St Andrews on the East Coast of Scotland. I came across this quote at Kellie Castle near Pittenweem, by renowned Scottish sculptor Hew Lorimer. It seemed a good one to me, in light of poem iv above:
"I came to see that human is not what is paramount in the creative process; what is paramount is ‘The Creation’ and He who created it, and that what the true artist is expressing is not himself but his response to the eternal process of creation"

Tuesday, 2 April 2013

Big Society

pacing the halls,
finger in the walls,
i'm
papering the cracks,
still
breaking on the back
of your fathers' tracks,

...and so you lack
the drive to fly,
the tremors ripple in your sigh:
a seismic shy
or play the angry guy,
no matter
i will see you through
the piercing,
screaming
new tattoo,
you live to lie,
you've learned what's true...

we're more alike
than you will know,
the cracks appear
and
grow
and
grow...


Written for Poetry Jam: Castle of Glass which uses this Linkin Park song as the theme for this week: