William Morris has
wall-papered the pavements in
shades of grey and gold.
18 November 2008
After a long discussion at the Poetry Society meeting on Sunday, about the impossibility of not writing a cliched poem about autumn (having already tried a few weeks ago with Paula!), I thought I'd have another go, and have done two versions (see below). Still not sure which version I prefer/is less cliched...
I think I thought about William Morris because I went to an exhibtion of paintings, photos, sculptures and poems, inspired by him a few months ago. I also discovered there is a William Morris Museum in Walthamstow, which I haven't yet managed to go to, as its opening hours are a bit restricted!
Leaf Fall [Version 2]
William Morris has
papered the pavements in shades
of grey and yellow.
18 November 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Armistice Day
There seemed to be more
old-enough men
in the café than usual,
eating their set, roast lunches.
Had they just stood,
straight-backed,
cold-cheeked,
by the memorial,
as the Last Post soared above
the wreaths of remembered blood?
Had they dropped bombs
over Dresden?
Had they waited
with salt-wet boots
for the last boat at Dunkirk?
Had they marched under “Arbeit macht frei”,
to find corpse/s [piles],
dead and alive?
“Did you?
Did you?”
I asked, unsaid.
12 November 2008
This was another exercise with Paula during our creative writing workshop, the day after Armistice Day. The poem describes what I'd felt at lunch in my local cafe the day before. What surprided me when I wrote the poem, was that I assumed I'd do something about the First World War, for which I have always felt a particular affinity, but this is what came out. She felt she'd like another verse, bringing it even more back to the present. Not sure if the concentration camp line shld be just "corpses", or "corpse piles". I also wonder if the whole thing shld be in the present tense...
old-enough men
in the café than usual,
eating their set, roast lunches.
Had they just stood,
straight-backed,
cold-cheeked,
by the memorial,
as the Last Post soared above
the wreaths of remembered blood?
Had they dropped bombs
over Dresden?
Had they waited
with salt-wet boots
for the last boat at Dunkirk?
Had they marched under “Arbeit macht frei”,
to find corpse/s [piles],
dead and alive?
“Did you?
Did you?”
I asked, unsaid.
12 November 2008
This was another exercise with Paula during our creative writing workshop, the day after Armistice Day. The poem describes what I'd felt at lunch in my local cafe the day before. What surprided me when I wrote the poem, was that I assumed I'd do something about the First World War, for which I have always felt a particular affinity, but this is what came out. She felt she'd like another verse, bringing it even more back to the present. Not sure if the concentration camp line shld be just "corpses", or "corpse piles". I also wonder if the whole thing shld be in the present tense...
Organ Practice at St Anthony’s
The organ loft is warmed
by risen candle-heat.
Spot-lit, we float glowing
above the cavern of the nave.
The pipes release birdsong -
the sudden squawk of seagulls;
the swirl of nightingales.
11 November 2008
William has been learning the organ for a few months now, and we go once a week on a Tuesday, to the nearest church with a functioning organ, for him to practise. The church happens to be Catholic, so has quite a different feel from the churches we are more likely to visit in the UK (usually for tourism reasons...). Apart from anything else, it is always full of people: lighting candles, crawling up the aisle in bare feet, praying in front of the statues, and buying devotional items from the shop. Now it is winter, I was struck by the surprisng warmth of the organ loft; and now we can't rely on natural light at 5pm, the odd fact, that the nave is left completely dark, and even the side aisles are mostly lit by candles, whereas we are in an island of light, about 30 feet above everyone else. The varying sounds of the organ, capable of being very beautiful or pretty hideous, also seemed exaggerated by the darkness and our isolation...
by risen candle-heat.
Spot-lit, we float glowing
above the cavern of the nave.
The pipes release birdsong -
the sudden squawk of seagulls;
the swirl of nightingales.
11 November 2008
William has been learning the organ for a few months now, and we go once a week on a Tuesday, to the nearest church with a functioning organ, for him to practise. The church happens to be Catholic, so has quite a different feel from the churches we are more likely to visit in the UK (usually for tourism reasons...). Apart from anything else, it is always full of people: lighting candles, crawling up the aisle in bare feet, praying in front of the statues, and buying devotional items from the shop. Now it is winter, I was struck by the surprisng warmth of the organ loft; and now we can't rely on natural light at 5pm, the odd fact, that the nave is left completely dark, and even the side aisles are mostly lit by candles, whereas we are in an island of light, about 30 feet above everyone else. The varying sounds of the organ, capable of being very beautiful or pretty hideous, also seemed exaggerated by the darkness and our isolation...
Wraith
There was a hope once,
inside a living thing.
Now, a cold moment
in the empty air is her
refusal to say “Goodbye”.
22 October 2008
This was a homework exercise with Paula, set at our regular creative writing workshop. It was her choice of topic, and as Halloween was coming up, she thought it wld be fun to do something "spooky". I suppose this was my "take" on what ghosts are?
inside a living thing.
Now, a cold moment
in the empty air is her
refusal to say “Goodbye”.
22 October 2008
This was a homework exercise with Paula, set at our regular creative writing workshop. It was her choice of topic, and as Halloween was coming up, she thought it wld be fun to do something "spooky". I suppose this was my "take" on what ghosts are?
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