Welcome to a marathon: National/Global Poetry Writing Month
A poem a day for the month! And as raw as you might imagine…more like notes for poems (!) Usually, a poem’s gestation is much longer than a day…
(WordPress playing April Fools with the format!)
+++
In 30 days (XXX)
A visit to Northern Ireland.
Two poetry workshops, the funeral
Of a much beloved aunt…
Tyres on an asbestos roof.
Easter horror in Sri Lanka.
A happy wedding, & birthday.
A Yorkshire Pudding burning, aflame.
Groundswell London & Gaia 2020
A poetry reading in Cheltenham Playhouse
A first time helicopter flight
With my son, the pilot…
followed by stories of Stone People…
+++
Verisimilitude (XXIX)
I may not have found the words exactly,
but I flew in a helicopter,
my son at the controls, skyward,
and I shared a reading of truth and fiction,
of breakdown and recovery,
with Derek and Roy
and a very lovely audience.
+++
Jellychopper (XXVIII)
We’re going up in your
little red helicopter –
countdown, engine on!
+++
Groundswell London (XXVII)
I never would’ve believed
I could be here. Twenty Years later.
The resurrection
Of a dream.
And to share Gaia 2020
to applause.
It can happen.
There can be change…
+++
Speak (XXVI)
Is a silent voice
no voice at all?
+++
Penguin (XXV)
Treading on thin ice, Emperor,
Climate Change underfoot,
thousands of your chicks died,
populations unstable.
P-p-pick up a penguin, donate now –
stem the rising tide, with a flood of action –
keep those feet happy!
Stay in touch with little Fairy…
World Penguin Day 2019
+++
Youth (XXIV)
Imagine you have a boyfriend
Imagine he rests his hand
on your slight breast at night
Imagine you fit tight together
Imagine you share your dreams
Imagine you imagine you may die young.
+++
Sri Lanka, Easter 2019 (XXIII)
The whole planet has heard the news,
and cries with God in grief –
hundreds dead in churches and hotels,
this ignition of explosive, a mortal sin.
How can so many young lives be taken?
Our question vacuous, lost beginnings –
a world with an all too sudden end –
if there were only some way to ease the pain.
+++
Earth Day (XXII)
Tell me what I can do to heal the Earth
I know we’ve treated it like shit
but what have I done wrong?
Let’s open the eye of the satellite
to see what lives and what decays.
As you sleep and as you snore, the world dies.
+++
Resurrection? (XXI)
In the event of my death
naturally, the world will carry on
the TV will keep churning ads
the radio talking
and playing music, into the ether,
dear family, friends, relations, living
and my words, my words, what of…
+++
Tim (XX)
Yesterday was your birthday,
five days ago you gave me
a VW Beetle Dinky Toy
in memory of childhood
of lives lived…
+++
Our Lady Burns (XIX)
Millions of bank notes
go up in flames
while the homeless
hold out their hands
for loose change.
+++
Grandparent (XVIII)
I’ve reached that age –
the possibilities of life
seem real again…
+++
+++
It’s a Sin (XVI)
My Dad loved the song, by The Pet Shop Boys,
tho’ hardly contemporaries, When I look back
upon my life, it’s always with a sense of shame…’
What regrets did he have? Why would I want
to guess? Strange perhaps, but I wish there’d been
more moments to engage, and to embrace.
Of course, we have his poems, no longer
the depth of the man, and yet his words exhale
like a forest of bluebells on a Spring morning.
+++
Anniversary (XV)
My birthday, the anniversary
of your death, is due her wedding day.
And that is how you’d want it –
her on your knee, not long in England.
A granddaughter, not a grandson,
Together a lasting connection…
+++
Easter Bunny (XIV)
Approaching Easter – the weekend
seven years ago, when you began to let go.
And we couldn’t reclaim you – wrecked
by chemo – there was no way back.
+++
One for the road (XIII)
I take a drink – self-medication,
and fall asleep ‘til three.
For a moment, I feel my mouth
will not quite articulate
the shape of a poem, imagine
one day, I may not be able
to use my voice. How many in care
homes are bound up in fear?
+++
Groundswell (XII)
A deep wave, created by shifting ground
a global movement, to be awakened.
Our mission: to awaken and unite
spiritual concern for the Earth and its people.
It has begun, with the children striking from school
the wake-up call: climate change!
I rediscover an email folder in his name,
how much they would have wanted this uprising.
+++
The Hen Night (XI)
The Engineer, Primrose Hill, one of your
Old locals, a corner of London
My brother introduced me to,
Remembering his basement flat
The colour of the door in the crescent
This is your night, may you be surrounded
With countless blessings, everlasting love.
+++
The Stag Night (X)
Brewdog Camden – Google knows!
A small, packed and cosy bar,
Amy’s night but she’s not here,
this is for the men, and here we are.
+++
Anniversary (IX)
My birthday, the anniversary
of your death, is due her wedding day.
And that is how you’d want it –
her on your knee, not long in England.
A granddaughter, not a grandson,
together a lasting connection…
+++
It’s a Sin (VIII)
My Dad loved the song, by The Pet Shop Boys,
tho’ hardly contemporaries: When I look back
upon my life, it’s always with a sense of shame…’
I never shared regrets – why would I?
+++
The day after the Stag Night (VII)
+++
The day after the funeral (VI)
She is not here any more, and yet she is…
+++
+++
Leaving Belfast (IV)
It’s as if they’d flattened the original
International airport
and replaced it with a shack:
a WH Smith, a cafe of sorts and two
brightly coloured children’s rides.
But there is WiFi, and the cafe sells beer;
Heineken on draught. I’m earlier
than expected, but have to wait,
no hop-on hop-off planes likely
to be introduced. I leave no one
behind, except for a friendly
facilities manager, and a bunch
of acquaintances. If I had the choice
I would’ve visited The Giant’s Causeway.
+++
Jenny (III)
You slipped away this morning
without me knowing –
last week I held your hand.
Good to have family with you
to witness your final breath,
help ease your passing.
Always you had an eye for detail:
the subtle, the delicate, beauty,
found so much in everything of life.
The love you have for your
husband, children, friends, relations,
for the future of planet Earth,
will remain forever.
+++
Letter from Belfast (II)
Back then, my friend was from Castlereagh.
One New Year’s Eve, we drove with his sister
and another friend to Sligo – to catch salmon!
We slept in the car, penniless, a noisy pub
party, nearby, and at dawn we caught nothing
all morning, we left the frozen river bank
for cliffs overlooking the atlantic, New York
a land of which we could but dream
not knowing: would I really visit three times?
+++
April 1st (I)
There are signs everywhere – watch out for them!
Signs, telling you what to do: blue and white
mandatory; fire door keep shut; what to wear –
personal protective equipment, ear defenders
protective footwear, goggles, hi-vis, hard hat
or what speed not to exceed, where not to park,
there are even signs from God, tho’ more subtle,
less obvious, they appear unannounced
mixed in with circumstance, coincidence,
synchronicity, serendipity, often a blessing.
Until somebody dies, when the signs become
jumbled, uncertain, confused, at least
that’s how it seems losing a loved one,
the air sucked out of the moment
to leave an empty, spiralling wormhole.