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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The 1951 Rolling Review Show … (Midweek Melody) # 104

The 1951 Rolling Review Show … (Midweek Melody) # 104

Welcome to the 1951 Rolling Review Show which twice weekly features pieces of music I have enjoyed at some time in my life. I hope you enjoy them as well. Let me know if you do.

My Sunday Poem … # 19

My Sunday Poem … # 19

Dingle, Tingle and Shingle

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 … # 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 … # 10

my sunday poem … # 10

Today’s poem is called The Waiting-Bell. I wrote it during a period when I was quite heavily into the work of poets such as John Donne and Gerard Manley Hopkins. I so admired their use of  imagery.

The waiting-bell

 in the garden at dawn
tremoring trance-like forms
lie hidden in the early mist
cold-cast in a wintery spell
silence hangs heavy as a waiting-bell

one
piercing shaft of light
and life begins again
like a shattering glass

spider’s web quivering
the birds’ glad song
and beat of wings

and when I think of you
where the pain of loss first fell
my heart hangs heavy as a waiting-bell

my sunday poem … # 8

my sunday poem … # 8

This poem was inspired through many things. Myths & legends of old. Pop culture. Art. Being young and foolish. All those things and more.

the lady & the swan

velvet jewel of twilight
crimson lake of dawn
shimmer in the waters
a silver swan is born

silent wings of silver
o’er the waters cold
far beyond the west wind
there lies a sea of gold

lady of the morning
hair of golden sun
lady of the blue dawn
tears that sadly run

eyes that watch the water
rippling in jest
softly moving breezes
thoughts that feel no rest

ruby red the sunglow
crystal wings that fly
palace of the white swan
glimmering on high

lady in the moonshine
silent in her song
dreams of golden gardens
visions made of stone

my sunday poem … # 9

my sunday poem …  # 9

This was inspired by a friend of mine who worked in repertory theatre for many years. 

the actor

and so I bow
before the final curtain
a star without a name
of that I am quite certain
as I go back to my dressing room
down the stairs.

into the night
from the backdoor of the theatre
out of the limelight
to the quiet of an evening
and throw away my lines
for another day.

into my house
number one rehearsal street
put the kettle on
take the weight off my feet
and read the morning papers
much too late.

into my bed
the stage on which I sleep
blanketing my thoughts
by counting sightless sheep
and dream of all the parts
i used to play.

my sunday poem … # 6

my sunday poem … # 6

When I was a student in the early 1970s, the class I was in was asked to write our own versions of a poem called The Spider and the Fly by poet Mary Howitt, first published in 1829. It begins …

Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly.

You can read her lovely poem here

Anyway, suitably inspired I wrote the following effort.

O creepy crawly spider
Spinning silken sticky web
Don’t you think you ought to try
To spin magic instead.
For this it is a wondrous thing
And you can bide your time
Oh please release me from dying
Before you change your mind.

Thus said fly to the spider
One warm and golden day
Just as the sun was setting
Over the woodland glade.
And all the other insects
They gathered around to see
Whether the spider would be kind
And realise his plea.

The spinner of the cobweb
He eyed his trembling prey
And in and out the spindle thread
Began to weave his way.
You’re but a common housefly
You are no more no less
Your buzzy buzz annoys me
To kill you would be best.

O creepy crawly spider
Forget the things you’ve said
Cast all thoughts of harming me
Completely from your head.
One looked upon the other
In such a kindly way
But nature loves a winner
So nature won the day.

 ……………………………