I read this set of poems  at a recital at Lanercost on the 21st July 2013

I read these poems by kind invitation of the Cellist Maja Bugge see: majabugge.com

The Poem Must be Spoken was the Title Poem of my first collection available at Amazon.com

The Church of the Sunday Jazz

The church of the Sunday jazz

gathers on the first Sunday

of each month to worship

at the altar of funk

Whether in heaven with Stephan

or playing classics with Stan

the time signatures

with a modernist twist

worship at the altar of funk

The church of the Sunday jazz

gathers on the first Sunday

bringing cool to the borders

New York sophistication

to worship at the altar of funk

Playing the blues, paying their dues

players keep their rhythms strict

as they divide time between sets

honouring the heroes of jazz

at the altar of funk

Placa de Pablo Neruda

Today on a whim

we walked west

past Placa de Tetuan

on past the Placa

de Toros, Monumental

to the Placa de Pablo Neruda

We longed for so much more

We longed for a statue

For metaphor. For rhyme

For sonnets or cantos of love

But all there was

a sign, that we dutifully

photographed, a woman

and two barking dogs

Like the poetry you called for

in the Green Horse, there was sweat

exhaust fumes, a smell of stale wine

a tramp in food stained clothes

unshaven, feeding the pigeons

But wait ………

The young couple, picnicking

beneath the trees

eating bread and jamon and cheese

squeezing the fleshy tomato

Biting, she takes the bruised fruit

from his tender hand

Lovers in Placa Neruda

a metaphor we can understand

Creed River

Turbulence of peat

Brown water, Salmon

Sing their spawning song

Tuned to the rivers

Symphony the chorus

Rises like psalms

Gaelic echoes, language

As old as these hills

As the spawning memory

Of these gallant

Majestic fish, lissom

Silver in the peat brown water

 St Olaf, Balestrand

A sanctuary on the Sognefjord

A ginger bread house of prayer, below the mountain

Where, even in the summer, snow reflects on the fjord’s shore

By the Rathuis, of Balestrand Kommune

At prayers on an endless summer’s night

The view through the window’s plain glass

Sings of the glory of creation shaped by

Tectonic force millennia before the Glacier

Above the altar the Saints window

Shows Olaf with his escorts, Bridget and Helena

Here also Margaret, Columba, Swithin

Celebrated in this land of Saints and Sagas

My Sunday words were broken

As was the bread, the wine

Was spilt and the story rehearsed

In this land of mid-summer fires

In the migration period before the glacier; mothers

Stored their secret gifts: the key, the whetstone

The loom weight ………………

The Poem Must be Spoken

Each day we plan careful progress

Some days are faster

Most are less

But now flowers grow where once there were none

A signature has

Replaced anon

In our garden we plant radish beds

The leaves come first

And then the heads

Each day we attend the newly planted garden

But after rain and sun

The ground begins to harden

But still the miracle is renewed

A delicate tracery

Of roots and stalks force through

The ground is hard and must be broken

As the poem, to be heard

Must first be spoken

Requiem

The surreal quality of the light

the air, the sounds of the night

echo in the square

The complex history of shadows

the interplay of earth and blood

the winter sun

the passegiata fills the busy

streets with crowds

In our attics high above pigeons bring

messages with greetings

from those we love

Lanercost

Approached gentle through the woodland

That stands guardian in the valley of the Irthing River

Flowing trout rich towards Eden and Solway

The long nave of the Abbey Church its sandstone

Chasuble gathered around its long skirts

As the Canons offer a time stretched liturgy

Settled into a soft landscape in a hard County

Where saints settled to sing their psalms

Which rise like wood smoke from winter fires

Their plain chant rises above the valley

Echoing the Irthing’s rippling songs

As it washes over the stones on the rivers bed

A half spent house of prayer, sacked

But retained as Parish Church

Where now the prayers and hymns of lay folk rise

Week by Sunday week, where

The marryings and birthings are solemnised

Where sins are forgiven and forgiven again

A Celtic Church built from Roman Stones

Looping across high fells from Coast to Coast

A curtain of definition, setting boundaries

Lanercost this quiet place where only the echoes

Of past conflict is chronicled, Priest’s raise the Sacrament

The bread and wine beneath the plain glass

Of clerestory windows that reflect the grass

And stone of the heritage beyond, a shadow nave

And sanctuary, a higher altar still to God

Whose presence has remained a steadfast rumour

Of the possibility that meaning lies here

As yet to be uncovered ………..

Rites of Passage

Generations


I remember a photograph

on a dust jacket of Samuel Becket’s

biography, icy blue eyes looking

into the ongoing distance



This photograph of my father

looking beyond the camera

into a far distance, his patience wearing thin

Like his silver grey hair, reminds me



His life now separated from mine

by oceans, he stares as though

reading my mind. He sees his

self written in a past that is also



my future. How we haunt each other

his broken memory and disappointed

dreams, my fear of the endlessness

of the tomorrow's yet to come



But still he persists in the life he has made

refusing to despair, wanting to return.

As Becket has it, his eyes say, I can't go on,

yet we go on, into the future foretold



To an unnamed granddaughter after a water birth



Water welcomes you, slipping from one watery

Home to another, rising to breathe the air, your form



Turns in the depths aqueous, a Mermaids tale

Divides as you seek to expel waters breath



Crest the wave, breathe air, breaking the surface

Waiting until your name is called for all to hear



But now as yet unnamed you bring delight

We smile and smile through tears



Hold you gently and pray

For happiness, for you and for ourselves



Our grandchild youngest

Now of four and all three … brothers



And cousins, seven of those, all loving

Proud as you the eighth join the family



Our name doesn't matter as much

As yours, after all Smith isn't a name



To mourn, but ... let’s hope they

Choose yours soon a name to speak of ...



Celebrate … your beauty, our pride

Our hopes ... for your glorious bright future.



What’s in a name? And do you care yet

Although in time you will, such responsibility



For parents to capture the infinite riches of possibility

Stored in the potential of your life ahead



The firmness of your grip suggests you will

Be strong as you grow, the smile in your enquiring eyes



Suggest that you will be seeker after truth’s promise

So you should be named for a life rich in possibilities.



We smooth the path ahead by singing the praise

Of Tuesdays child so full of grace and joy.



A Poem for Manny




Emmanuel, a gift, from

One we call God, these tears

These breaths, these tiny fists

Clenched in rage and triumph

Determined to fulfill the hope

To be the promise, raised

In a holy family



August, Prince

Of Seasons, crowning triumph

Of the year, before harvest

Corn waves golden in summer suns

This Caesar of the years days

Promising legions yet to come

A brave army stretching to

Horizons yet to be embraced

A year at a time



Valentine, the Saint

Of loves' promise rises, suckles

Smiles, offers both the promise and reality

Of love, warming rooms with laughter

Signing his name with flourishes ......



From one who thinks you are wonderful




Aubade for the Shortest Day

(After the painting Cimitiere en Provence byFrederic Montenard)



As the year turns the days lessening is done

And the shortest day draws slowly toward its end

Now the year grows steadily and we begin to taste

Spring even though the winter snows have not yet

Thawed but the signs of new life begin to emerge



These same signs in the lives of humankind the tell-

Tale signs of age, the greying, the slowing, without

The renewing of life, for people as winter follows

Autumn there is no spring ahead just the steady

Decay as life begins its final descent to earth



Some approach this time with settled optimism

Some with fear and anxious dreams of darkness

For others there is a raging against the dying

Of the light accompanied by the loss of senses

Reason that had served so well the dis-embodied

Voice of one who has become a stranger to himself



I take my chance with the darkness, launching

Myself into the coming night as though unafraid

Cursing the darkness, raising a glass in defiance

Toasting the gods who claim their victories

Before lying down to sleep through the years

That lie ahead, the rhythm of this eternal sleep

Will last for far more lifetimes than have been lived



And there will be no spring to warm the earth

No re-current pulse of life awakening the sleeper

Of the age, no return of summer, no warmth

To make the grave a less solemn cold bed

Only memories, only the name by which I

Was known, sieved through the memories

Of those who knew me until finally lost



And in a graveyard some future traveller

Might pause by the dried flowers on the dust

Covered stone and read my name and ask

Who was this man and what became of his

Hopes and dreams, his words and songs

Now all lost, all gone and pause to reflect

That his own final chapter has just begun



© Geoff Smith

Genoa

Wednesday, 22 December 2010

Sketches and Poems

The Poem

The poem was neatly printed in a legible hand

On a piece of plain white paper, before it was folded

First in half, then half again, the now creased paper

Was then crumpled tightly and pushed deeply into a crevice

In the gate post where the lane meets the road

The writer paused before turning finally to set out along the road

The paper was protected by the crevice, where it had been

Inserted, rain did not penetrate so deeply to dampen

Either the paper or the ink, the wind could not blow

It, one way or another, so it remained, a poem written

By one person for a possible future person to discover

But the lane remained untrodden, there was little traffic on the road

Aspects of weathering and aging occurred, the paper

Lost its white brightness and over time, yellowed

The ink lost its depth of blue and faded a shade of sepia

Until one day in late autumn lovers hand in hand

Walking the road, turned into the lane and paused

The woman happy on this warm day asked if her lover

Would carve their initials into the gatepost as a reminder

Of the day they’d spent? As he quietly worked their initials

Into the soft wood, he noticed the paper in the crevice

On the weathered post, and, reaching with his fingers

He withdrew and carefully unfolded the paper, smoothing

Each crease, and then with great care, amounting almost to love

He raised the paper to the air. A gentle breeze blew

Softly on the papers’ surface and the poem written there

Like a butterfly, moth or small bird, lifted itself to the breeze

And flew away, now hesitant, now more strongly until

It was gone into the warm air,

dancing,

dancing,

dancing


Viewing the Stones

On our guided tour of Ephesus
Our Turkish guide told us that:
Under the market square, an underground
passage ran from the scriptorium
to the brothel, where the ladies of leisure
promised pleasure upon pleasure.

So imagine Roman Maryport:
‘Alauna Carvetiorum’ meaning
'beautiful, wonderful, splendid'.

Imagine that the librarian is Venus
she waits at the gate as the senior citizens
return their borrowed vellum.
Leaving their wives to shop and gossip
they turn into the portico
pausing in anticipation
of the pleasures in store.

These unsuspecting wives
turn to the serious business
of shopping, sharing the news
setting the world to rights
whilst beneath their sandalled feet
Their menfolk walk the short passage
to where awaiting them on scented
day beds, oiled breasts and thighs
glistening in the lamp light, Aphrodites
handmaids recline with deshabille elegance.

Whilst their wives are leisured, their menfolk
are pleasured, after a brief but delightful
interlude they meet their wives in the café,
smugly listen to the reports of bargains found,
of tough negotiations that put supper on the table.

But the men’s thoughts are of Venus
of the next time they will return the borrowed vellum
unread, as before, and walk the dark passageway
to the pleasures of the striptorium.


An extract from a centurions letter to his Tuscan girlfriend

………………………………………………………… the days pass
We keep watch along this bloody wall, eat, sleep, march
Battle, drink, get drunk, gamble away our pay and march again
Days become weeks, months, seasons pass too soon, and the years
Will pass, and we will have defended the empire. Who gives a toss
Whether we live or die? Somewhere back there in Tuscany
Under a warm sky you sleep in some boy’s arms, maybe your body
Is swelling now with child, maybe it’s mine, maybe
Not, but anyhow who will ever know? You’ll tell
Him it’s his. He’ll believe you. He’ll become a father
And I will never get to know my son. He will grow
Tall and strong, but don’t let him become a soldier
It’s no life and he might end up here. Out there
Britons out to kill him and here in the Barracks hoary
Old legionnaires after his ‘arse. Last night
We took a young soldier. Six of us, it took five of us
To hold him still. We took it in turns. By the end he was in tears
Bleeding, we left him crying himself to sleep
There were blood stains on his sheets and this morning
We were hungover. We’d got drunk. He was in the wrong place
That’s all there was to it. He’ll recover soon enough
Our passions were inflamed by the Goddess we call Venus
And the Greeks Aphrodite, either that or the air in this wild place …
Marching towards a place called Vericovicium, we came
To a magnificent high fell. The wall follows the edge of a high
Cliff dropping steeply away as far as the eye can see. The moor
Runs away to meet the sky and the winds constant buffeting
Tosses the sound of the legions’ marching ………………………



Googling the Venus Gate



Venus/Aphrodite, the hunter and the hunted

Adonis' lover and mother, her hearts’ desires

Falling fast into lust and love with son and father both



Come close to Venus lighthouse

Get out the (google) map and into

The lighthouse entrance, pass the guards

(don't read what they say on their shields)

Enter the lighthouse and go through



Into the Venus Pizza Parlor

2615 Santa Ana Street, South Gate, CA 90280



Jessies’ helpful review is on google too

‘great mom and pop spot, pizza is good

various selections in deli meats and subs

They deliver if you live close by

Bad part about it, only two tables to eat at

But I still like their pizza’



Thanks Jessie! and according

To Angus (who knows these things)

In Farringdon you can meet

The Venus Table Dancers

In person at London's premier

Fully nude table dance venue



Early birds take note, only £10 before 12pm

Up to sixty gorgeous dancers

From the nations of the World

Air conditioned waiter service, a bonus



Venus seeks the challenge of competition

Aphrodite affirms her beauty

Through the affection of her lovers



Never gives herself away, always demands the price

Due to the Absolute Goddess, fire-formed into a passionate

Embrace nurturing all, the lighthouse, the pizza joint

The lounge, without the slightest hint of hesitation

Google the Venus Gate and be left in no doubt

Well being


A dark night Falls the moon Casts a shadow On my soul

On this dark night Of the souls Patient waiting I tell the beads

They answer Clacking in my head Forcing me to weep As I fall to sleep

And in my dream Fall from a bridge Of sighs down To the River of Cliches



The Accordionist in the Square



Morning:



Early washing dries

Beneath a window

Above a dusty street



Daily bread

Freshly baked

Displayed in the local store



As the sun rises

The apartments

Open to the day



People set about

Their business greeting

Neighbours in the street



Cars are started

Seats adjusted

The drive to work begins



Dogs are walked

Their daily exercise

Free to run in the local park



They pause to interpret

Yesterday’s messages

Answering in kind



The trees glisten

With the morning dew

Drying in the warming sun



In the piazza

The accordion player

Plays a faintly recognisable tune



He smiles in greeting

Hoping for a tip

To pay for his morning caffé



The neighbourhood

Quickens with the passing

Of the hours and the morning sun





The Accordionist in the Square



Afternoon:



As the day passes

The pizzeria opens

For the lunchtime crowd



The trattoria

Fills with a gaggle

Of giggling girls ordering glasses of wine



Stores close

Shutters lowered

As the afternoon trade slackens



The cafes and bars

Fill with the exchange

Of idle gossip the flower sellers



Pass by offering

Roses for a pretty lady

A Euro or two for the wife or girlfriend or both



In the piazza

The accordion player

Plays the same recognisable tune



Smiles in greeting

Hoping for a tip

To pay for his lunchtime Foccacia



The scooters

Are parked in the tightest

Of places as the riders stop for lunch



The interior of the taxi –

Drivers favourite bar

Is cool as the barrista works flat out



Offering the coffee

For which he is known

Espresso, Americano, Caffè Macchiato



And above the piazza

The shutters close

As the old retire to their afternoon beds





The Accordionist in the Square



Evening:



Pasta cooks in the pot

The Ragu is warming

In readiness as footsteps sound on the stairs



The dogs become

Restless as the family eats

Knowing that it will soon be time



To check for messages

Again leave their mark

Again by the fountain and the trees



Soon it will be time

For the evening

Passeggiata as families walk round the square



Pausing maybe

Trying to name

That same vaguely recognisable tune



The accordion player

Plays. As they pass

He smiles in greeting hoping for a tip



Every day he plays

The same vaguely

Recognisable notes in a sequence



That resembles

A familiar tune

Similar to one his mother sang



When he was a child

It’s comfort for him

A warming memory as he sits in the square



And dreams

The dream of an old

Musician carefully pulling his blanket



Around his shoulders

And settling for the night

Before another day in the familiar square begins





Vespers

South into night Light fades The journey lengthens Strengthens Shadows on the land

Band of indigo Above azure folds Tolls the bell

Our dreams Seem to capture Progress

Less we travel Night prayer

Shared echoes Across the land

Moonrise


Twenty Text Messages



Text, she said

I’ll give you text

He smiled

She was as good as her word



Is this your ‘phone, Sir?

She queried

No she replied

I’ve had a text change



He had text on his mind

So he left a message

Text. text, text

She replied, try

Your options button



He wanted a long

term relationship

she insisted on

casual text



The problem

With, I think of you often

Is that it Rhymes

With soften

When it should rhyme

With hard



It started

In a relaxed kind of way

But soon it gathered

Momentum, gosh

She gulped, you’ve

Become a text maniac



Texting alone

No hands

Free to ‘phone



Skating on thin ice

Cracking the thin air

Words carved

On the ponds surface

Winter, text, spring

Autumn, summer, message







Text messages

On underpass walls

Heighten

Textual tensions



Times have changed

You can’t Text yourself

And expect a reply



He thanked her by text

She thanked him for text

She wondered what he might do next

But even she did not expect

Such a turn of events



Broken words

Empty screens

Spaces where the text

Should be



Special mention

Should be made

Of the textual tension

In the games they played



The pre text was poor

His options soft

He had to withdraw



Textual criticism

From above

Textual satisfaction

From below



Switching off

Her phone she

Felt complete

Textually satisfied



The text was written

On her body

She kept abreast

Of amendments

Greeted lovers

With thighs

New Poems

Searching for meaning whilst walking the dog

At the forest's edge I pause, uncertainly
She races ahead regardless, over confident
Despite trees fallen in the last storm upturned skeletons
Despite the River in the valley floor murmuring threats

I hear wind whispering through branches, whispering
Like so many voices, a chorus of warnings and welcomes

My fears assuaged, she returns to find me, greeting
As together we search for meaning in the signs

Fishing with Ruby

A circular tunnel entrance
It could have been a rat hole
Or a vole could have drilled
Into the soft earth by the river

But Ruby sat entranced
Whilst we fished for Trout
Unblinking she guarded
The entrance to the burrow

As we cast our float into
The stream, the worm wriggling
In the flow, we waited for the tell
Tale sign of fish on the line

Once from the corner
Of my eye, I thought I caught
Sight of something small, black
Whiskered, running above the bank

Turning I saw her move as well
She gave chase, lost the scent
Spent a penny returned to sniff around
Then sit, staring beneath the ground

Let the dog see the rabbit
Or the vole or even the rat
But we left empty handed
Her prey still hiding, the fish uncaught

This year my daughter
Turned forty I have a photo
Taken under the Brooklyn Bridge
It was nineteen eighty five
She was fourteen

Last night I stood under
The Tyne Bridge, oily water
Lapping the south bank
Of the river it reminded
Me of time passing twenty
Six years ago under
Another city bridge

I was in Newcastle, more
Accurately Gateshead,
To see Debbie Harry
Apparently now she's sixty five
It's Deborah no matter
But it was nineteen eighty nine
In Chelsea, New York

I had gone back for my wallet
The guys I was rooming with
Waited on twenty sixth street
When i caught up they
Were so full of it Man they screamed
You missed Blondie, she came out
Of the Chelsea Hotel into a Limo
This close, She was this close
Smell the perfume

Tonight Deborah Harry
Sang her concert with the Northern
Sinfonia and the Jazz Passengers
I had my wallet, I didn't miss her

But there under the High Level Bridge
Spanning continents, time zones, epochs
I was in two places at once


Tsunami

The earth trembles with tectonic echoes
As the geology shifts with elemental forces
The volcano sends out a gentle burst of steam
In the hissing morning, you brace for the impact

Then the silence, the long drawn rushing
Of the tide back, back to where the threatening
Ocean pauses, drawing back its power until
Forcefully flooding the foreshore and silence

Carrying all before it scornfully casting to one side
The structures of the cities in its path, forcing its brutal
Way along avenues where the fleeing crowds panic
And in its wake? just a tumble of wreckage upturned

Like lives torn away, uprooted people searching, desperate
For news of those they once loved and now know no more


Waiting for the weather
to improve the forecast
poor again a rising wind
drives in another storm
The rain streams down
Windows the temperature
Refuses to rise mercury
In the glass falls talk shifts
From global warming
To the return of another ice age

We become prepared for inflation
Depreciating our frozen assets


The bristles of the artists
Moustache trace the canvas
Like kisses on the upturned
Cheeks of the young girls
The mystery of oils traced
On the stretched fabric
The tragedies of paint
Spoiled images strained
Through the imagination
Of the artist each brush stroke
An indication of desire of hope
Images realised and set
On the fabrics outstretched skin
The desires symphonies songs
Reaching to the critics yes

poems for International Poetry day

Vespers

South into night
Light fades

The journey lengthens
Strengthens

Shadows on the land
Band of indigo

Above azure folds
Tolls the bell

Our dreams
Seem to capture

Progress
Less we travel

Night prayer
Shared echoes

Across the land
Moonrise

To an unnamed granddaughter after a water birth

Water welcomes you, slipping from one watery
Home to another, rising to breathe the air, your form

Turns in the depths aqueous, a Mermaids tale
Divides as you seek to expel waters breath

Crest the wave, breathe air, breaking the surface
Waiting until your name is called for all to hear

But now as yet unnamed you bring delight
We smile and smile through tears

Hold you gently and pray
For happiness, for you and for ourselves

Our grandchild youngest
Now of four and all three … brothers

And cousins, seven of those, all loving
Proud as you the eighth join the family

Our name doesn't matter as much
As yours, after all Smith isn't a name

To mourn, but ... let’s hope they
Choose yours soon a name to speak of ...

Celebrate … your beauty, our pride
Our hopes ... for your glorious bright future.

What’s in a name? And do you care yet
Although in time you will, such responsibility

For parents to capture the infinite riches of possibility
Stored in the potential of your life ahead

The firmness of your grip suggests you will
Be strong as you grow, the smile in your enquiring eyes

Suggest that you will be seeker after truth’s promise
So you should be named for a life rich in possibilities.

We smooth the path ahead by singing the praise
Of Tuesdays child so full of grace and joy.



Tsunami

The earth trembles with tectonic echoes
As the geology shifts with elemental forces
The volcano sends out a gentle burst of steam
In the hissing morning, you brace for the impact

Then the silence, the long drawn rushing
Of the tide back, back to where the threatening
Ocean pauses, drawing back its power until
Forcefully flooding the foreshore and silence

Carrying all before it scornfully casting to one side
The structures of the cities in its path, forcing its brutal
Way along avenues where the fleeing crowds panic
And in its wake? just a tumble of wreckage upturned

Like lives torn away, uprooted people searching, desperate
For news of those they once loved and now know no more

March 15th


The season opens today, so
Today I went to the river
Stood and stared into fast
Flowing water and searched
But there was no sign of fish

I cast, sent a perfect parabola
Of line into the water, which
Grabbed my fly sweeping it
Downstream, but I cast in vain

Retrieving the fly gracefully
Allowing the fish time to strike
A slow retrieve always my
Preferred method waiting for
The chance to strike, to hook

The voracious trout for supper
Or the freezer or the smoker
But these fish are wiley, they know
The anglers’ ways and how

To avoid the traps he lays, the lures
He uses as enticement, the fish rise
I return home to read the works
Of Izaak Walton and listen to the music
Of Handel, after all the day’s excitement

St Gregory’s Vale of Lune

plain glass would have been enough
they would have seen The Howgills on a sunny
summer afternoon or wreathed in mist or deep snow
their reflections might have been on nature
its glory and its many varied seasons as they laboured
bringing progress and the railway to the isolated valley

but this was an age of steam of making and transforming
so instead amazing stained glass scenes were designed
to tell a different story natures glory seen through
pre-lapsarian scenes designed to calm the rough, working men
whilst the preachers word calls them to repentance

these scenes drawn from memory and life stories from scripture, images from the Cumbrian fells the tree of life laden with the fruit of knowledge absent human footprints unspoiling the bucolic vision
no naked pictures of Eve or Adams’ lost innocence to stir wickedness just the startled hare the deer the rabbit give the sense

making these panes in the sulphuric atmosphere
of the city workshop leather aproned men handle the hot
glass breathe the health sapping fumes swelter in the intense heat
melting the silica sand as cobalt fumes turn the air blue
staining the workshop roof and walls molten glass poured into moulds

no hymns were sung here no prayers were offered
just the steady refrain of the railway navvies thoughts
of solidarity with the glass makers in their work
as they breathed in unison with the harmonium pedals
and the preachers solo voice soared into the lantern roof



Homecomeing

Palmerston smiled a shy
greeting, a reticent hand
waved as we approached.
‘The fishing’s poor this year’
he announced, as though
to no-one in particular.
‘Maybe there’ll be a run
before you go, maybe at high
water you might spin for Bass?
Truth to tell, there’s too much
water in the river for Trout
after all the rain we’ve had’

As we unloaded the luggage
inside, he stood aside shyly.
‘I’ve made the fire, there’s a stack of
peat. There’s plenty of dry kindling.
I’ve aired the rooms and the food
you asked for is in the pantry
but Dermot’s are out of bacon
until tomorrow’.

A bottle of Powers and five glasses
stood on the kitchen table, a hint.
‘Will you take a drink with us?’
He nodded, ‘and then I’ll be off
leave you to settle in, if you need
anything, you know where I can be found’.

Under the stars that night, in the cool
air from the lough, I unzipped to pee.
It’s good to be home I thought.
Good to be home again.

1914

(i)

My name is Frank Oswald Wilde, farrier at Mossley Pit. Each day I made my way through early morning streets, boots echoing the clatter of the girls clogs starting their shift at Medlock Mill. Then down the pit
-shaft to the stables underground and the ponies. They’re tough, full of heart, they rub silky noses against my dirty, calloused hands
gently nuzzling with soft mouths for the treats I bring, an apple
or mints, it varies their diet, hay and chopped maize, hot water
to make a mash, keeps them fettled for their work, hard gruelling
work, they only see daylight once a year, at Wakes week
Rest of the time they drag heavy wagons along the rails
loaded with Coal and Slate that weigh heavier than they do
They could smell the damp, the gas that could kill or explode
sooner than any Canary, they would warn me, I would shout the others
The day of the call-up picture I asked if I could have a pony
Just to stand with him and show how he helped the miners
how we would win the war. The answer came back from above, No!
So I held two horseshoes, people should know the ponies work

(ii)

Now here I am in France. I’d heard the ponies were being drafted
I volunteered so now I’m here, getting the ponies ready to fight
for their country, here in this bloody, never ending, war, a farrier still.
They work twenty four hours a day, quiet as lambs, carrying
food, water and ammunition to the front, starved, sodden and spent.
Little did I know, here above ground, they would still let me know
they smell the gas the Germans call dampf, the terror of the trenches
Like the Tommies these ponies die in their thousands, it makes
Me ask, which is worse, struggling on in the darkness of the pit
Or struggling here like this, blown apart and stitched together again? This terrible world they’ve entered frightens them and the poor bloody soldiers, conscripts mostly like the ponies, the blasting at the coal face is nothing compared to the barrage of the constant Guns that drown us in the rattling death of the front and the choking of the damps

(iii)

When the gas came I wasn’t ready, the gas mask was a nuisance
It scared the ponies, first I knew they started to go down, front knees
first like they were in church starting to pray, then I knew, ‘the damps’
over they went, I got the mask on too late, so I joined them in prayer
Now I’m back home, my war is over, I’ll never go down the pit again,
the airs too poor underground, I can’t breathe. They say it will kill me

Three Poems

We fly in on a rising storm

We fly in on a rising storm
Wind whips the rain into squalls
Turbulence in my soul
I consider the days ahead

Newspapers tell of worse to come

America buried by snow
Signs in cloud and sky

My heart chilled to weeping

These storms will blow west
Growling stones scoured

On west facing beaches, tides

Rising under glowering skies

This grey reflected in my heart
This growling in my bones
This low insistent scouring
As I am lowered as into a grave

Dead again buried alive. Earth
Rattling on the wood of my coffin
The hard growling of the stones
Pressing the breath out of me

We fly in on a rising storm
Storms blow west scouring
Earth’s weight growling, screaming
Pressing the breath out of me

Zimmerman

This wandering minstrel brings

songs to illuminate the darkness

beyond the camp fire glow

a still figure on a silent stage
growling into black night beyond footlights
an audience gathered by familiar words

inviting them to the dance

From the songbook

of life these pictures become

the soundtrack of our lives
times that were ready
for change needing
only a small jangle from

his tambourine to fall

as scattered pieces of decades jigsaw
re-assembled newly drawn

Standing, not rolling
stoned just outside of stone not memphis
hitching by a roadside cafe
car park juke box playing
those dirty words demanding
how does it feel to be here on the A34

Over those long down
at heel days heading down
dead end streets until
waking again love sick
at the climax of another
dead end day

In pillbox hat and troubadour
sleeves thrilling to the electric
storms passing overhead
moving on never
standing still the never ending tour

Spilling out into the dark night
by the river, slack at high water
reflecting a perfect moon
on the car radio music rolling
like aberdeen waters

Home

Home three days now
It has rained all day every day
On each of these three days

The stream is a raging torrent
Of angry brown water impatient

Charging through the garden

Eroding the banks, Snowdrops

Lose their tentative footing as

Collapsing foundations threaten stability

Nothing seems to enjoy these days

Birds are not singing, the dog lies
Before the fire dreaming of summer

Wishing this interminable winter will end

That the rain will stop, the skies dry their tears

The days grow long and the bees begin their rounds

Awash with water the garden
Is drowning in tears, the wind has blown
The roses to the ground where they rot

What can survive these bleak days
What pain can be assuaged
what other dreams and possibilities

Lie beyond the gloom and darkness

Of the skies, the constant down pouring

Lifting our spirits with spring’s promise

Al Palazzo

Sotto Corvetto, l'ombrello
Venditori vendere i loro prodotti
Sotto Corvetto l'arte
Drips con condensazione
Scintillanti alla luce

Attraverso Assarotti, tenendo
La tua vita nelle tue mani
Attraverso Assarotti si rischia
Assassinio da parte di Berlusconi
Cappe Mafi fingendo follia
Nel calore della notte

Qui Ruby danze, i suoi vestiti
Scartato la sua modestia a brandelli
La sua biancheria intima drappeggiato suggestivamente
Dalle luci della strada, nuda
Forma detenuti come un violoncello in una chiave doppia

La pizza della legna
Forno della trattoria è pronto
L'organo della Chiesa
Romba il suo basso profondo note
Come i venditori di gelato di cui

E il vino viene travasato
Corretto il caffe abbattuto
E noi siamo pronti ad affrontare
La musica di un'altra notte
Mentre gli ospiti si riuniscono presso il palazzo

More Poems from Genova

An Evening Service

The gathering crowds assemble by the gate
Arriving early so as not to find themselves late
They turn the corner to spot their friends
Desperate to settle scores and make amends

The peace they seek is celebrated with song
And you will be welcomed should you happen along
They have been enemies for so long these two
Their squabbles have been petty a settlement long overdue

Today the beggars hold out their hands and plead
For loose change to buy the things they need
Responding with such open generosity may seem
To say the least somewhat more than just extreme

Disasters sent by God are clearly meant to hasten
The day that humankind is finally chastened
And then the final trumpet call will be heard at last
Then what was present or in the future will be past

Visiting Figarolo

The road snakes steeply twisting
Through trees to the tall house
Where eagles soar in the evening sun
Above the castellated terrace

The gradient twists steeply as it rises
Engines struggle as they attempt the hill
Gears grinding, clutch slipping on the ascent
Across the valley two dogs bark their warning

On these steep terraces vines grow
Leaning out towards the warming Sun
In spring the grapes fill with the promise
Of soft Ligurian wine in the first blush of autumn

The year turns gently as months
Pass breezes stir the trees rustling
Like conversation between people
For whom time holds neither fear nor meaning

The dogs continue to bark their warnings
Across the valley between the houses clinging
Precariously to the steep hillside echoes
Resonating between pastel coloured walls



Fetish Dolls

A steady walk
through difficult
terrain avoiding cracks
in pavements

Can’t risk the chance
of falling through into
an underworld
of fetish dolls

The dangers
are clear to see
the risks of harm
the lesions, wounds

Infections
passed by the meal-
worm boring under
the itching skin

The dolls fashioned
by the witch doctors
are carved and painted
the curses uttered

Poison inserted
where it counts
in vagina, anus
hair and mouths

Before they bring harm
you must wash in
pure water under
the sacred waterfall

The cold will chill
as the beams of bright
sunshine warm
your soft skin

In time, covered
again you walk
back clearing a path
through the forest

Until the road
re-appears
and you tread more
carefully to avoid
the cracks

Not risking the chance
of falling through into
an underworld
of fetish dolls

At the Palazzo

Under corvetto, the umbrella
Sellers sell their wares
Under corvetto the art
Drips with condensation
Glistening in the light

Across assarotti, taking
Your life in your hands
Across assarotti you risk
Assassination by berlusconis
Mafi hoods feigning madness
In the heat of the night

Here Ruby dances, her clothes
Discarded her modesty in tatters
Her underwear draped suggestively
From the street lights, her naked
Form held like a cello
In a double clef

The pizza in the wood burning
Oven of the trattoria is ready
The organ in the Chiesa
Rumbles its deep bass notes
As the ice cream sellers set out

And the wine is poured
The caffe corretto downed
And we are ready to face
The music of another night
As the guests gather at the palazzo