My Sunday Poem … #21

My Sunday Poem … # 21

Some years ago I remember walking along the beach at Brancaster in Norfolk when I chanced upon an old fisherman’s hut. It was long abandoned and the interior open to the elements. It made me think on a time when it would have been new and probably in daily use.

It also coincided with me having recently read a wonderful poem by William Butler Yeats called The Lake Isle of Innisfree. It began:

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee loud glade.

I was thus later inspired to write The House of Stones …

I will build myself a house of stones
And dwell there by and by,
Close to the wild sea shore
And the seagulls’ cry.

And if,
In time to come,
My house becomes a hollow
For the wind’s lamenting song,
A temple for the moon and stars
To gaze upon,
Then chance may guide
Some weary traveller to my door.

Perhaps,
In thoughts of me,
He may brush away the passing years
And make a fire
Of all the empty wordless days.
This man of dreams
This man of clay.

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My Sunday Poem … # 20

My Sunday Poem … # 20

My Sunday Poem … # 19

My Sunday Poem … # 19

Dingle, Tingle and Shingle

my sunday poem … # 18

my sunday poem … # 18

spells & shells

Here is a silly wee verse I wrote way back in the summer of 1969 when I was all of 17. Me and my best pal Charlie Parker spent a couple of weeks down in Devon and Cornwall. We tried our hand at surfing off Minehead beach and chatting up girls. We were rubbish at both.

 

my sunday poem … # 17

my sunday poem … # 17

Hello. You find me in reflective mood today. The seasons are gently slipping by – just as they surely must. Life is a wonderful gift and we must never waste a moment.

I am reminded of some lines from To His Coy Mistress by the 17th century metaphysical poet Andrew Marvell.

Had we but world enough, and time …
But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingéd chariot hurrying near;

I wrote Summer Song quite recently. It concerns the transient nature of life. Carpe diem and all that. It is also about my deep-rooted love of literature and writing. When I was young I could draw upon the creative energy, joy and crazy hope that the world constantly offered. It all seemed to be achieved with comparatively little effort. Now I find myself drawing deeply from the well of memory and experience. Hope is an ever-present flame and joy is the reality of being here with the people and things that I love.

My Sunday Poem … # 16

My Sunday Poem … # 16

The Ruins at Castle Acre

 

Castle Acre is a village in Norfolk, England. Just outside the present day village are the ruins of a castle and priory built in 1089 soon after the Norman Conquest. I used to visit them sometimes during the 1970s. This is a poem I wrote shortly after one such visit.

My Sunday Poem … # 15

My Sunday Poem … # 15

A painting by John Singer Sargent. ‘Gassed’, 1919. The most terrifying new weapon was gas, whose first major use occured at Ypres, in April 1915, when the Germans released a lethal mist of chlorine that killed, disabled, or panicked hundreds of French and Canadian troops. Gas was used by both sides during the Great War.

One hundred years ago the world was in the grip of the Great War. (1914-1918). The horrors and deprivations of trench warfare visited upon the combatants on both sides were almost without boundary. New weapons technology and almost unlimited manpower led to four years of mass slaughter and misery. The widespread use of chemical warfare was a distinguishing feature of the conflict. . Gases used included chlorine, mustard gas and phosgene. The casualties caused by gas attacks were relatively light when compared to those caused by artillery. But its use and effect were absolutely horrifying …

My Sunday Poem … # 14

My Sunday Poem … # 14

This is a poem I wrote many years ago when I was living in the wilds of north Norfolk. I’d joined a small group of mostly well established local authors and artists. Most of them could quite literally write (and drink) me under the table. Occasionally I came up with something half decent. 

To Spring 

Spring
Sweet lady of the flowers
Waiting on the golden gates of Summer
Queen that lends thy beauty to the earth
Out of Winter’s bleak and lowly rags you came
A child of the mist and cold
And though each being in time created
Calls thee by a different name
They love thee with a single knowing Soul.

My Sunday Poem … # 13

My Sunday Poem … # 13

I wrote this week’s offering way back in the summer of 1969. I was all of 17 and quite heavily into Arthurian literature at the time. I’d been hitch-hiking in Devon and Cornwall with my pal Charlie Parker. One of the places we visited was the ruins of Tintagel Castle in Cornwall which had long been linked to the legend of King Arthur.

my sunday poem … # 12

my sunday poem … # 12

I wrote this poem in January 1977 while I was living in Norfolk.
It could get pretty bleak there in winter when the cold wind blew straight across from Siberia like a breath of ice and the hard frosts could almost freeze your bones. It was the price you paid for such stunningly beautiful landscapes.

The Winter Gallery

I had a winter gallery
Set in deep woods and wild fields.
And there I would linger
Among the portraits and glass-flower images
Until the last glimmering rays of sun
Had left pale-red rivers in the darkening sky
And the twilight world was cold and still.

I would wander in the moonlit garden
And find myself an avenue
Lined with white-tinsel trees
Etched with the mystic silence
Of a thousand half-held dreams
That lay beyond the garden wall.

Walking through the frozen fields
The air so crisp and still.
The evening lights stood out
All glistening stars of ice and fire
Each holding in their distant gleam
A promise of the coming spring.