I'm just putting some poems together for my trip to the Beehive tonight....
...
you have to be fair
you forget - in those stories in which you were the hero -
how much of childhood is spent following and not leading -
how often it was you standing by the drinking fountain
watching others run laughing - in a time out
or the wasted time spent trying to be friends
with your friends - and the compromises -
that as an adult are unacceptable - because -
well just because you've got better things to do
than worry about the opinions of people who don't matter -
and you want to say - because it's the reality -
it doesn't matter - you did 127 sums on friday
and nobody has ever done more - and I'm so proud of you
but you see the sadness - and try and cuddle it out -
and remember those times when socially awkward
you ran in the perfect direction that would win the game
but tasted the unfairness of those who would not be tigged
...
father forgive me
it's in that bedtime kiss
we miss out - at our peril -
that our worth as a parent lies
or listening when we cannot
to the whirl of chatter -
and from it picking strands
of past conduct to chastise
and finding words beyond
the three simple words of love
to express that deep - deep -
expression of our hope
but none of this makes any sense
to our children grinning in our face -
waiting for the closing door
and the monsters beneath the bed
time has to pass -
for them to understand
why it is we fear the road
- hold tightly to their hand
....
reticence
asked to write a memoir -
a thing that at present
- for reasons of accused introspection
I wish not to address
rather like the red celandine
drying in the envelope
which one day I will send
by way of apology
...
thirty years
I am reminded of why I take pictures of flowers
with each intrusive click of the camera
the sky has a hungry air - ribbed white clouds -
above an unusual stillness in centenary square
there are professionals circling
looking for the money shot of a woman crying
and one man consciously edges out of my pictures
despite my consciously not edging him in
what looks exchange are thin as the upper atmosphere
equilibrium rushing to fill a vacuum
...
england
so let us start with an invocation of the hills
and green to stand stark contrast to yon mills
and towns or the springtime pull of daffodils
for no matter where one chooses to begin
some disagreeable type will toss their tuppence in
for england is a not a place - but a sin
pull the bunting down - break the window pane
stamp on the flowers and stone the train
england must be cursed - for sanctimonious gain
....
56
one hears stories of the day the fifty six died
whispered tales over a whiskey at closing
the words coming more from the eyes than the lips
....
peace:)
The Blue Book
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