#amwriting #poem #poetry Coutning the Unseen Bird-nests

Counting the Unseen Bird-nests

It is with mild surprise, I see again
the tint of mauve leaves
spread within the autumn trees. That refrain
I hum each year, of hankies left knot-free,
as once more I have carelessly forgotten
to remember to learn the names. Perhaps
this is how death feels: or Parkinsons:
either way it is strange. At the bottom
of this train of thought, on a bench, wrapped
against the first refreshing cold pale sun

jagging between almost rain, I decide
it would be fun to gatecrash my funeral.
To sit at the back, with a pad jotting
the names of those who came: who laughs, who cried,
who came for the white wine and sausage roll.
The nail-tappers, the cheque-cashers prying
in every conversation for their gain.
And then that certain misty light, shifts, lifts,
soaps away the stain,
and I find myself thinking of Christmas.

#amwriting #poem #poetry Autumn

Autumn

Through morning misty rain, the berries bright
with temptation:
we watch the distant hills.

High upon the moors, slowly creep the smoke
of clouds, colder
than our dew soaked boots.

Something has changed, the sweet chestnuts split
from their shells
to whisper Christmas.

And we walk by, looking ever upward,
smelling only the gathering shower
now falling on the cairn.

#amwriting #poem #poetry #sylviaplath Sylvia Came to Visit

Sylvia Came to Visit

My children, hot from the sun and dragged
around, perhaps having fun, do not see
why we have come to this walled pen of graves.
Nor why I tramp the trampled grass, a ragged
path between the plots and stones, glance reading
the waiting names: all strange, all unknown, save
a few that have their story carved in brief.
And out beyond, lies a landscape, soft, steep
and green. Relief
comes quietly here. Noiselessly as seeds

falling, and as jumbled as the chatter
from the church fete.
I have come to find a poet who matters
to many, but not to me - much. I rate
Ms Plath good, but too wild and hidden, mad
in all the wrong ways. A consumptive, drawn
to the sea but choking in fear of flood.
Why else climb up here, to lie? To bring sad
searchers for saints to celebrate and mourn:
and offer tokens, like pens. Anger should

shine not dull, or roll like beads of sweat down
necks. Having not
found the grave. And children eager to go
find food, and play more games - then a grey dog
comes wagging toward us, it's body eel
through grass: lithe snake. In search of affection
on light toes, begging leper, blackberry
eyes squeezed from dark to opal blue; peels
us away from this garden of perfection:
back through the iron gates. With all we carry.

#amwriting #poem #poetry Almost Love

Almost Love

The last busker cleans coins into a sock
as we, fresh fucked,
end the weekend by walking to the bus.
We hurry slowly, your heels catching
echoes in the empty street: as we rush
to fill the last minutes with everything
we forgot to say, or could not say,
our mouths filled to the fullest sigh
of touch. What different way we move
when gripped and pulled by almost love.

#amwriting #poem #poetry disposed

Disposed

She wasn't there at nine, and ten minutes,
later, she still wasn't there. You took her
from my knee, leaving only the scratch of time
and an angel. She wasn't there at nine.

How clumsy - why say water, when we mean
no, and did I say you or we, press on
and don't look back - but why say water -
when you mean, I don't know, and never did.

I saw God, in this, moving the curtains
with shadows and shadows with curtains
until all that bore colour gained rigor
unless with our tapping finger made real.

Somewhere in love lies the call of pity -
perhaps you'll agree, to agree, that body
and water refers to sea - no - not sea
but pity called out by him - somewhere.

I wasn't there at nine, and ten minutes,
later, I still wasn't there. You took her
from my knee, leaving scratches of angel
and bits of time. At nine, I was not there.

#amwriting #poem #poetry list

List

Your letter comes laden with moral veils,
more welcome, in what you say in winking
than the words you choose. In fiddling song
a blackbird, somewhat in mood, flies between

the fence and the brushed concrete of the yard.
Not hard, you say, when speaking of love from
yesterday, and a vantage reticent
to see what we have. And weigh that we knot

in faddle, more heavily still. Do you
still wear your hair to the shoulder, I think,
your eyes greenish bright when smiling - I think -
then think no more of love, crumbling crumbs

between thumb and ring finger, scattering
them upon the nothingness of concrete.
When we meet, you excuse everything, your eyes
more willow in tone, as if caught in water.

#amwriting #poem #poetry With Knobs On

With Knobs On

How nice it must be to paint, to squiggle
a bit of colour in the corner and not
need to know it vetch or parsley, just green,
enough to provoke the eye to say, 'yes
that looks like that.' And move on. I hear you.
Not another poem about death or ideas.
Mawkish adolescent pointing at skies,
poking deities, wondering if fingers touch
with divine fire when illuminating
the purchase of this small necessity
or coincidental half remembered barn.
What punned rhymes we do weave when
a broad-brushed tree would do as well
to fit the theme, of cantering to stretch
the lines to match Auden's Limestone in length.
Lord give me strength, and let not the child die.
As we hear the lark sing against the bricks
where once a meadow grew, perhaps you do,
perhaps, almost cry, and consider why
I'm still not courting death. Nor clinging to
some hip new cant of tagging or coffee,
that gets the virgins wet. Some have cunts, and some
have caves, and I have fags and booze
and when I wake up in that disappointment
of failing to paint the scene I saw, I could bore
at the petite slight, or say fuck it. Count
the lines....
No Auden's longer.

#amwriting #poem #poetry Fen - 13

Fen - 13

A mitten on a gate but less - dropped,
ploughed around the old pigsty in the middle
was the place where no one went. To see
the remains of the door, hung at the hinge,
propped in angle, dug in the floor. Rotten
concrete pebbled with age and the attentive lime
of passing birds. With nothing to see but
a few fading scrawled words, of almost love,
for which boar fucked which sow - and when.
Both, like the roof, long eaten - now.

#amwriting #poem #poetry Fen - 12

Fen - 12

Mellow, misty, sort of grey, as tin' pears
in tinned cream, never quite enjoyed but
liked, so came the apple picking time.
Perhaps it wasn't so cut and dried.
For in prelude stubble was burnt away,
and when the wind was wrong, a stench
from the sugar factory pervaded smoke,
that sickened the nose and choked the throat,
and firemen battle untended blazes,
while departing gypsies rob unguarded homes.

Yet, when the winnowed wind caught perfume
in the orchard row, it dragged distended voices
calling from the children below, calling up
to old Jack, or their ring-less mother,
before they danced away to hide, like swifts.
Leaving only the almost of the twist
of ripe fruit, and somewhere, a woman singing.

#amwriting #poem #poetry Fen - 11

 Fen - 11

The yew tree spilt over the iron fence,
it's roots in the growth unscrewing the black
Hammerited poles from the posts. Holding
true to our secret bond, we lay aside
our bikes, cast a second glance, and slipped
through the squeal of gate into the churchyard.
There, we knew ourselves officially out
of bounds. Our cover story was that we
were brass-rubbing, which caused us to laugh,
and make limp-wristed jokes, as we crunched
our way up the path to the shadows
of the south end nave, where we couldn't be
seen by Mrs Swiggland, who came everyday
to lay flowers for her daughter and tend her grave.
From the pen-pocket of my flying jacket sleeve
you produced a pinched Dunhill, and
insisted I pull hard, which sent the world
spinning so fast, you saw, or claimed to see,
Jesus's brother James in the plain tracery
of the transcept window - left forefinger raised.
This you recanted, kissing away the vision
like butterflies, while the weathered faceless
saint looked down, hands firm against stone
thigh. Then with a sigh it began to rain,
soft raindrops that melted away before
they dampened the skin, And we stood
before what we came to see, the little
headstone tucked away. And I asked if
this was the pageboy holding your mother's
train. And you nodded, and called all women
'whores'.

#amwriting #poem #poetry #sketchbook profane

The yew was spilling over the iron fence
it's roots in the growth unscrewing the black
Hammerite poles from the posts. Holding
true to the bond of our word, we lay aside
our bikes, cast a second glance, and slipped
through the squealing gate into the churchyard.
We knew ourselves officially out of bounds.
Waxy suggested we pretend to be
brass-rubbers, which brought laughter, and jokes,
about being queer, or not, as we made
our way to the shadow of the nave
where we couldn't be seen by Mrs Swiggland.
Waxy had pinched a Dunhill and insisted
we pull hard, which sent the world spinning
so fast that he claimed to see Jesus's
brother James in the tracery of the window -
forefinger raised.

#amwriting #poem #poetry Fen -10 (revised)

 Fen - 10

The bookcase, glass doored above the bottom third,
ran beside the lines of desks. Propped against
the end were the linseed canes. All but one,
the new boy, bore a ring of coloured tape.
When choosing a book, having done your sums,
we would peek and giggle, and discuss
which would hurt the most - the gnarly black, red,
blue or green, or the unseasoned yellow
fraying at the end. Then hurry away.
Of course girls did not get the cane, being
so nice and all, only boys faced the fall.
Faced the green leather of the desk, felt
the un-closed drawer dig into their shin,
the hand in the small of the back, the begging.
And of course you couldn't cry, that was for girls.
So you counted the strokes, and bit your lip,
until by four, hot tears burned more than the biting
of the cane against your buttocks and thighs.
And you would look out to your classmates
to see who was smiling and who looked down,
and who was judging them-self in your place,
as you took the final two. And having thanked Sir,
you would make your way through silence
to your desk, sit in the hot-seat, pretend to do work,
open the lid to rearrange your pens.

#amwriting #poem #poetry Fen - 10

 Fen - 10

The bookcase, glass doored above the bottom third,
ran beside the lines of desks. Looming pink
above us as we worked our way through arithmetic.
Propped against the end were the linseed canes.
When choosing a book, having done your sums,
we would peek and giggle, and discuss
which would hurt the most. Then hurry away.
Of course girls did not get the cane, being
so nice and all, only boys faced the fall.
Faced the green leather of the desk, felt
the un-closed drawer dig into their shin,
the hand in the small of the back, the begging.
And of course you couldn't cry, that was for girls.
So you counted the strokes, and bit your lip,
until by four, hot tears burned more than the biting
of the cane against your buttocks and thighs.
And you would look out to your classmates
to see who was smiling and who looked down,
and who was judging them-self in your place,
as you took the final two. And having thanked Sir,
you would make your way through silence
to your desk, sit in the hot-seat, pretend to do work,
open the lid to rearrange your pens.

#amwriting #poem #poetry Fen - 9

Fen - 9

Often, when half way through the bottle, I offer
to remember the smell of a wrought iron coke stove
or the thrill of sliding in the wild half turn
on knees across a polished floor, knowing
nostalgia ain't what it used be. Though the dull
cling to that faux critique. And so, to foxgloves
and violets, and the green-black hawthorne,
and the rainclouds gathering at ten to three
as we push Walmsley in to bowl out Sir,
because he's the best we have, and he has the ball.
And I stand between gully, and just about there,
and notice the fox emerge from the trees,
browning to red, and up on his toes,
loping across the yet ungrown field. But
what I really see, is that space behind the hedge
when you revealed yourself to me when I
released the snake belt. And you, with your knickers
round you knees, holding the hem of your skirt
and smiling at the naughtiness of being
an only child. Yes, the sexless world of those
who only wear slacks.

#amwriting #poem #poetry Fen - 8

Fen - 8

To prove we were still English, we still sat
down to Sunday dinner, in that un-English
summer of ladybirds and stand-pipe queues.
Jean Metcalfe sent greetings to Cyprus when
it came, splatting the Windowlene like
a fat bee on a windscreen while over-taking
on the by-pass. What manner of weather
was rain. The sky gave no clue, still fighting
to be anything but blue, though a shadow
hung heavy at the far end of the hall.
And, pummeling the roof, stampeding hooves
slow marched at Coldstream pace across tile.
Cooing, dove-like, leaving our food, we went
to watch from my parent's room, explosions
of raindrops lifting the dust, flattening
the parched white grass. My father opened
the window, and we took it in turns to catch
the blood-warm rain which puddled in our palms
and sipped it like dying men in afternoon
films. The sun-baked soil gave no ground, as inch
by inch the water rose, and we lulled
into silent witness watched, to a background
of love songs on the Robert's radio.

#amwriting #poem #poetry Fen - 7

Fen - 7

Between new and old the space was filled
yards to the pound, with all options included.
And so, what from the outside looked the same
contained variation - serving hatches and stone
effect fireplaces, and concrete drives to the garage.
Neat cul-de-sacs of bungalows all with a car
and immature conifers. At night, you might
step out from the backdoor, and stand upon
the pilfered kerbstone of the step and count
each star, unhindered by the streetlights
that hung upon the horizon, of the town we fled
to forget. And hold your arms outstretched
to the luke-warm scent of nettle growing
by the creosote' fence. And then a light
would flick on. Or someone late home from work
would be heard collecting dampened washing.
Or the quiet silence would be broken by voices
saying thank you and goodbye. Until bit
by bit, the old village slowly slipped
unnoticed from view - as if, never having
beech trees.

#amwriting #poem #poetry Fen - 6

Fen - 6

I half suspect my father acted in spite.
Coming home early one day, and feeling
what guilt he managed, he threatened me
to be less sullen, then tried joking, before
taking me to the shop, without promise.
As the dutiful son, I sided with mummy
in their war. Not that it didn't wound
when the small acts like drawing a picture
of me and him together, were rebuffed.
I can't say I was frightened of him, just
grown tried of trying. And each greased slight
chaffed a little more until I grew as hard
as his hands, ingrained with the soot of oil
from engines that would soon need repairing
again. The day was so hot that a Mivvi
would drip on the second lick. Lightings streaked
sudden thunder as we crossed the road.
In the cool of the shop I place my wrist the glass
of the refrigerated counter, where a single
tray of bacon turned green beside tubbed brawn,
as he chatted with David about this and that,
swiping the coins rasping from the dropped
handful, to pay for the cigarettes and matches.
Then looking down, he nodded, and I ran
like I did in the bean bag race, to the sweets
before he could change his mind, without breath,
without thought, without looking, straight into
the lighted cigarette that burned my left eye.
And I cried. And I cried, and ate Opal Fruits
as we watched the cricket, and I, like Micheal Holding
made him grovel.
 

#amwriting #poem #poetry Fen - 5

Fen - 5

Later we went back - dropping though the roof
tapped out by the sweet chestnut and time to rot -
into that kitchen of familiar ghosts.
In the grimy light, creeping through the crusted
single pane, that stared blank down the garden
to the playhouse next' the sump, we looked
to the shadows where once had been the cooker
and the fridge, and to the warping laminate surfaces
now thick with dirt and seeds, blown and dripped
but never quite of life.Yet still upon the wall
between black tracked damp, unturning
was the calendar stuck forever in July. We shared
a stolen No6, and let our memories run
to a fancied scene with party food,
and blue iced cake, and paper plates. and paper hats,
and a golden mat of sunlight, dabbled to the weight
of sandal'd feet. Until spooked into mockery.
We went into the living room peeled of all but
the leather settee, on which we stood to inspect
the bleached silhouette of the gun. So many summers
had it hung in the laze and stretch of afternoon
that the paper fossil trigger seemed in motion,
not as yet released. but taut against the cock.

#amwriting #poem #poetry Fen - 4

Fen - 4

I would see her by the school gates of course.
But, who really pays attention to someone else's mother
when fighting for attention from your own. They said,
with her black eyes and hair, she could have been
a gypsy, or a Spaniard, but they said Italian, but no one
really was outside the television set. In the hip height
world of boys, and blood, she was just Luke's mum. Who held
the fasces rod, of nod or nay to pleading for an hours play
after school. When the sticky goose-grass darts
were sticking through the chain-link fence, Luke and I
became friends. Without strong feeling we declared
ourselves the best of pals, by the book-slat of paperbacks,
held in place by wire. And thus I was invited to the party.
To add to her foreign air, there were grapes in the jelly
and hard-candy cartoon characters wobbled on the top.
I killed one with a single bite, that split the head from body
and everybody laughed as we sat upon the rug, in that garden
fringed by willow, peppered out with meadow flowers.
And then came the holidays. Luke and I would meet
on the path, beyond the lane, to build dens from dead wood,
and whittle with penknives, or use them to play chicken
until a knife had cut our foot. Half way between our homes.
Just beyond the calling range. In the hollow tree we found
dead starling chicks, eaten by an owl Luke said, we each
took a skull and argued who should have the dripping eye
before we threw them in the running stream to see
which floated fastest. Then we sneaked across the horse field
to the stand of bamboo for spears, and back along the trench
of dike when Mrs Prior shouted, I didn't stop to look, just ran.
Only on days when it rained. Only on days when Luke went away.
Only after his father shot his mother, did I have to find new friends.

#amwriting #poem #poetry Fen -3

Fen - 3

The harvest came in with the rattle of tinned peaches
and ham, soup, and baked beans snatched in haste, all
to the ruddy-faced cheer of the Reverand Ian. Who appeared
in his garb once a year, faintly smelling of myrrh, and
whispered Chanel, to give a speech, between hymns, of thanks.
And then we would all give our two shillings, now called
ten-penneth, into the box that hung on the wall, for Sabi,
the Indian boy we sponsored through school, who
would write a letter once a year to inform us he knew
how to spell orchestra. But for me the harvest brought
that delight of high windows, when the elm leaves redden
before turning to naught, And the shortened days
brought that light that forced the shine in paper
and a silver to the still wet ink as it dried between words.