What is it you see first?

 

What is it you see first?

            Is it the worst, the mindless, thoughtless deed,

            the violence, the selfish greed,

            the cutting word, the slur you heard

            the disregard for you, your creed?

Or is there something else you see?

            A vision of humanity,

            where each and every one has worth, 

                regardless of their place of birth,

            where what we say, and what we do, 

                is measured by a different view,

that sees the good and shouts it loud

and spots the kindness in the crowd

and looks to soothe another’s pain.

And tries its best.

Again, again.

 

After the clocks go back

I could use the extra hour to write a story,
or pass it penning lyrics for a song.
I might count each of the seconds very slowly,
to make the minutes linger on and on.

I could view the extra hour as a bonus,
as added time to read and think and be.
Three thousand and six hundred extra moments
a gift that comes from nowhere, burden-free.

But I look out at the slowly lightening morning,
at the windows of the houses down the street,
and wonder if behind those tight-drawn curtains
sits another woman wishing she could sleep.

Nobody knows what Penny-Rose knows*

Nobody knows what Penny-Rose knows.
But everyone knows that Penny-Rose shows
a remarkable knowing as each day she grows,
as her head stretches further away from her toes.
And the grown-ups all tap on the sides of their nose
to say to each other that Penny-Rose knows.

But nobody sees what Penny-Rose sees
when she gazes outside at the sky and the trees.
There she sits, chin on hands, with elbows on knees
and peers through the branches that dance in the breeze.
They’re getting a sense of her growing unease,
but no-one can picture what Penny-Rose sees

And nobody hears what Penny-Rose hears,
or knows why she’s frowning and holding her ears.
They can’t hear the noises that started her fears
or understand what makes her eyes fill with tears.
They marvel at how she seems old for her years,
but nobody hears what Penny-Rose hears.

And nobody thinks to ask Penny-Rose why
she sits there and gazes up into the sky,
and watches the sparrows and pigeons pass by,
and peers at the aeroplane roaring on high.
They don’t think to ask her the cause of her sigh.
So she never tells them.
                                       She knows she can’t fly.

------------

*last weekend I visited my grandchildren. While Eddie always runs to hug his Nana and is happy to sit and read books or play games, Penny-Rose always hangs back. Sometimes when I talk to her, she cries, and often when I look at her, she's just sitting there staring at me. One day, I hope she'll tell me why.

Caught*

Through wind-bared trees, I stare across the valley

Tangled branches frame the distant view

Here, the darkness gathers strength to hold me

There, the lights shine bright, of home, and you.

I stay here, on the wrong side of the valley,

Where sharp-thorned scraping bushes hold me in.

No reaching out across the hill to softness

Of fingertip on lip, of skin on skin.

The path beside that leads to other stories

Is littered now, with leaves that didn't tell,

Relinquishing the grip that held and nourished,

Knowing they were dying as they fell.

A misty silence seeps along the valley

The muffled, dampened hillside makes no sound

I stand and gaze out from the growing greyness

Crying out, but rooted to the ground.

*the title for this poem and the beautiful photo above it of the Darenth Valley, were both taken from The Domesticated Bohemian. If you haven't already done so, please go and read the poem that inspired mine.

The orchestra plays on - a poem

I wake to hear the orchestra is tuning,

The notes ring disconnected through my mind,

Fragments of a tune I can’t remember,

A melody I knew, but left behind.



A double bass begins between my shoulders;

The rage of age, that surges up my spine,

plucks and pulls at sinews, twists and ties them.

Jarring sounds I cannot quite define.



Joining in, the beat of the percussion,

Insistent tapping just behind my knee,

The rhythmic knock that hides a quieter clicking;

A hip that is no longer dancing free



The choir is getting louder, asking questions,

Shouting down the soothing call of sleep,

Insistent, as it builds to a crescendo;

Roaring past, the years I cannot keep.

Centre Forward - a poem

(As Bromley FC head for their final game of the 2011-12 football season, I thought the time was right to celebrate the difference one player has made to our year - the Supporters' Player of the Season - Hakeem Araba)

On the stand, behind the goal, I found a whole new world;
a different way of talking, of hopes and fears unfurled.

At first I played a solo game, pretending that I saw
the offside moves, the passing game, the point of four-two-four.
My terms of reference didn’t match your language way back then;
I didn’t have the knowledge, or the genes and balls of men.

But, gradually, I came to know that football meant much more
than slip-ups in the goal-mouth, when the favourites failed to score.
And then, it seems, I underwent a wholescale transformation
as slowly, I began to see what gained your admiration.

And now each week I stand with you and others as we roar
our faith and expectation that he will deliver more;
that stunning centre forward who, all thighs, and white-toothed grin,
can turn the game from sure defeat to
unexpected win. 

Jejune - a poem

In rising arcs of naïve aspiration,
in glowing pride and unbound admiration,
I saw great depths, a new sophistication,
a worldliness beyond imagination.

I framed a peerless man in my mind’s eye;
I gave you wit, decreed your dullness wry.
I sketched the cynic’s smile you’d never own,
described the haughty brow, you’d never shown.

But then. I came to know a different you,
the hidden artificial, far from true;
the depth of intellect I thought I’d found,
a shallow pool of superficial sound.

Your metaphors came clichéd, too simplistic,
a jaded language so far from realistic;
the symphony, a halting, jarring tune
of disillusion found, too soon. Jejune.

Construction - a poem

Starting out was simple,

a joyous thing to do,

you built without concern or care;

the palace of the new.


You laid each brick so carefully,

cementing it in line,

so focused on the task ahead.

Believing it was fine.


The walls grew high around you,

you laboured on within,

each interlocking fragment

an ever thickening skin.


Oblivious to the weather,

to rain or storm-swept sky,

you carried on constructing.

You never wondered why.


You built high, never pausing

on the task that you’d begun,

until the day you realised that

you’d never reach the sun.

Beginning it was easy,

but knowing now is tough;

however high you built those walls

would never be enough

------

One of the comments on my last blog post was from Joe Pereira, who, amongst other things asked me if I could "write something about "building walls" ?" this poem is my response to that. 

Thank you Joe - I'm not sure how well I've risen to the challenge, but I hope you like it

Shortfall - a poem

If I could close my eyes and turn away

Pretend I haven’t seen or caused the fault

Not know I was the one who disappointed

Nor face the truth, that I have fallen short



It seems so hard to take the errors’ credit

Or make myself accept my personal blame

Gather in the harsh accusing finger

Not whisper out some other culprit’s name



Oh. I wish I could return to childhood

Let someone else protect and make it right

Shrug away the weight of resolution

Sleep undisturbed throughout the longest night

Settle

To reconcile, resolve or mend

To calm down, slow down, face the end

To straighten out, to come to rest

To aim for only second best

To sink, or drop, descend or fall

To find the bottom of it all

To never float, or rise again

To dumb the hope and numb the pain

To pay what’s due and clear the debt

To spread the price of terms not set

To clear what’s owed, discharge the cost

And settle for a lifetime lost.

The Gate

Timber slatted,

flaking paintwork,

round-arched frame in high brick wall.

Clicking latch-key,

creaking hinges,

rusting bolt that slowly draws.

Secret door to unknown garden,

opening to another world,

entrance to a different lifetime,

exit gate from yours. 

After I'd written this, Pat posted a wonderful picture of a gate on her blog - you can see it, along with a whole range of other lovely pictures and writing at Past Imperfect

A way with words

I tried to make a path from stones and pebbles,

collected from the beach and carried home.

I chose them one by one from park and garden,

brushed off the soil, then placed them in a row

I piled them up, one rock upon another,

stood back and contemplated the effect;

the look and feel, the shifting shingle grouping,

a sometimes jagged sharpness that it left.

At first I hadn’t known they’d need containing;

their shapes and textures pleasing, smooth and round,

but then I sensed them knock against each other,

collide in changing contexts, shifting ground.

I saw them, trodden down and disappearing,

sink back into the earth from which they’d come.

I’d thought them mine; the world sought to reclaim them;

chiselling new meaning from the stone.

I tried again, I laid a holding membrane,

visited new sites, collected more.

Reordered, piled, and polished from my journey,

the treasures from each trip enriched my store

Until at last I’d made myself a pathway.

The pebbles came together underfoot.

Tho’ every now and then it shifted slightly

I’d found a road through words towards a truth.

Nobody does vincible half as well as us*

Our vincible band of writers

marched unseeingly on,

as the clichés flowed like hydrants

to extinguish wintry sun.

The images donned their armbands

for the struggle to the shore,

crawled through the sands of thens and ands;

the flotsam of the jaw.

The adjectives drowned the pronouns,

yet the adverbs missed their cue,

while the metaphors fought with similes

to outwit the plain and true.

Our vincible band of wordsmiths

described, unknowingly, on,

deconstructed by our verbiage.

The war of words not won.

*my thanks to @MrLondonStreet  for the tweet that prompted this poem 

(and brightened an otherwise gloomy day).

A measure of wellbeing?

Sometimes the idiocy of those in power outweighs my intent to keep my politics to myself.
Either that, or it would be a shame to waste a good prompt for a poem...

A Measure of Wellbeing

Can you legislate for happiness,

performance manage hope,

set a target for wellbeing

to manipulate my soul?

Can you define what makes life worthy

from your Ivory Tory Tower,

with patronising tactics

to maintain your worthless power?

Don’t you see that being happy

isn’t in the hand of state?

That your smug desire to lift our hearts

might burnish them with hate.

Almost a poet...

Ok. I know it's not the Forward Poetry Prize and I know there is absolutely no excuse for blowing my own trumpet, but...

A few weeks ago, for the first time ever, I submitted something to a poetry competition - the inaugural Royal Berkshire Poetry competition, supported by Beat Magazine The Royal Borough of Windsor and Maidenhead Library Services, and the Firestation Centre for Arts & Culture. 

I couldn't get to the awards event last night, which was a real shame, and I didn't win first prize, but I'm as pleased as punch that my poem was awarded second place.

For those of you on Facebook who would like to read the winning, third placed and commended entries - there is a page dedicated to the competition here - http://www.facebook.com/TheRoyalBerkshirePoetryCompetition

For any of you who want to read my entry (I know I've shared it with some of you already) here it is -

These Boots Are Made For Walking

You force yourself inside me

dead weight upon my sole.

Leather stretched by bones and flesh,

sharp nails against my toes.

Your fingers grasp my laces,

tie them, tight, across my tongue.

Double bows to hold me in,

trapped, yet soon undone.

My skin is cracked, unpolished,

worn out by rain and sleet,

broken down by years, and miles,

of service at your feet.

But as we move together

with your light-stepped rhythmic pace

I feel your warmth spread through me

I am moulded by your grace.

The Atlas

More than 20 years ago, my Dad bought a copy of the Reader's Digest Atlas of the World.
It's a huge book, not only because of its size, but for all the memories and possibilities it contains.
I have it still. 


The Atlas
Slowly, travelling through the well worn pages,

we gazed at all the cities never seen.

Through villages and hamlets, habitations

in unimagined towns in distant lands,

Browsing through those unexplored ambitions,

our fingers trailed a line from port to port,

passed through settlements, portrayed as blotches,
communities as specks on mottled leaves.

Before our eyes, the swarm of dots on paper

rose up. A swirling, thrumming storm,

A buzzing lilting whirl of foreign accents.
A flowing haze of wishes unfulfilled.
Vola con me.

So...what to write?

Philip was away for the weekend, his annual trip to Stockport to see his very fine friend Ian. He came home yesterday, and in the midst of our 'I'm glad you're back' 'It's nice to be home' 'what have you been up to?' exchange, he mentioned that I hadn't written a new post while he'd been away.
He was right. I haven't actually written anything at all for just over a week. I've thought about it several times, but haven't got as far as setting finger tips to key pad.
Why? I hear ( hope) you ask.
The answer is, quite simply, I got stage fright. This blog thing started out as an exercise in making me write -  it wasn't supposed to matter what the subject was, or how eloquently I expressed it as long as I went through the motions of writing - regularly. One of the appealing aspects was what I, somewhat naively, thought was the anonymity of the blogosphere; the fact that nobody would know who I was, and  I wouldn't need to know who was reading, or what they thought.  Oh how foolish I now seem with the wisdom and hindsight of a few short weeks.
I was thrilled that some people started to read my posts, some even became followers, they started to leave comments. I returned their visits, started mooching around on other people's bloglists, tried the random approach of clicking on the 'next blog' button. After only a short while, I'd built up my own list of blog favourites. I began to enjoy the mix of intelligence and humour, poetry and prose, fiction and opinion . I wondered about the events fellow bloggers were portraying.
Then a couple of things happened that really threw me. One blogger I'd been reading from the beginning, who was one of my very first followers, decided she was 'packing up and moving on' from Blogspot. There was a link to her final post on my reading list, but by the time I'd clicked on it, the blog had already closed down. I've no idea  what her reasons were for stopping. I hope it means there are other good things that she'd rather be doing. I'm sorry I didn't get to leave a final comment.
Charlie, a man I've never met, who lives half way around the world,  got sick and had to go to hospital - I love his blog. I enjoy the mixture of insight and rant, and I'm always glad when he leaves a comment at mine. I've been genuinely worried for him and his family. I want him to get better. Soon.
I'm not quite sure how or when it happened, but it seemed that, in a very short space of time I'd come across a group of people I wanted to know more about.
And that was when I started to care what they thought about me, about my life and my writing. From there it was a very short step to worrying about what I wrote. Suddenly I seemed to be writing for an audience - and it was then that I found I couldn't decide - what to write or how to say it.
I can almost hear Philip, exclaiming as he reads this 'oh pretentious moi', But I hope I'm not giving the impression that I'm caught up with my own ego. I'm not claiming writer's block or anything grandiose. It's only been a few days for goodness sake. I guess I'm just surprised at the impact that joining the blogging world has had on me.
Before I started this whole thing, I used to wonder at the way it had trapped Philip's attention and was using up so much of his time. I think I understand a bit better now.  And I'm beginning to recognise that I won't be able to keep writing unless I do just that - keep writing.

Blogger

There was a time we’d come upstairs together

a nightly rite, a cup of peppermint tea.

Often now, I go to bed and leave you;

captured by the laptop’s blue-lit screen.

We go our separate ways to end of evening.

Me to sleep in silence - dreamless, blind.

You to worlds of words and shared opinion,

where you re-write, re-site your shifting mind.

Perhaps too many times I failed to hear you,

- no more enough to speak to only me.

Is that why you need to seek endorsement

where others in their thousands might agree?

Reflecting on the life that you portray

Where is the man that, nightly, you betray?

Testa Rossa

I have, for as long as I can remember, loved the sight, sound and smell of a fast car. Some years ago, my very lovely husband, for a birthday treat, bought me a day's driving at Silverstone (home of the British Grand Prix). I cannot even begin to explain the thrill of driving first a Lotus, and then a Ferrari around the racing circuit. It was, without doubt the best birthday present ever.
Earlier this year, for another rather big birthday, Philip repeated his act of kindness and bought us tickets for the British Grand Prix in July. I am ridiculously excited, even though it's still six weeks away. When I tell you that he doesn't drive himself, needs to wear earplugs to escape the noise of the race cars, and finds Grand Prixs the least entertaining sport on the planet, you will appreciate the scale of his magnaminity. Perhaps it's love.
To keep my childish excitement at a containable level, I have been trying to occupy my mind with other pursuits. Below is a version of a poem I wrote some time ago when I was practising alliteration. It is my own homage to the symbol of the prancing horse.

Testa Rossa

I listened, lusted, longed for
the throbbing thrusty roar.
Three hundred horse power hammering home,
no music moved me more.

I joined, with jade-eyed jealousy
The Tifosi's swelling ranks
Saw seductive, screaming scarlet
through the swirling yellow flags.

Never wearied then of waiting,
wasteful, wistful hours and days
while you haunted, taunted thrilled and chilled me -
Cavallino rampante.

Keep remembering

Things we keep

Washed up pebbles from the sea

Old clothes that never fit

Underwear long past its best

A pile of magazines

Toilet rolls for planting seeds

Shoe-boxes filled with wool

Lottery tickets, out of date

A purse of two-pound coins

Tickets from a musical

Shelves piled high with books

The box that held the kettle

A broken mobile phone

Keep your temper

Hold your tongue

Keep remembering

Forever young.

Family favourites?

As I'm sure you'll realise from the non-too-subtle lines below, I'm a middle daughter. Though I love both my sisters dearly, I've often wondered whether our position in the family hierarchy has an impact on who we are and how we live our lives.

Family favourites

Pressed tongue in a sandwich,
cement between bricks.
Flattened and squeezed.

Pig in the middle.
Passed over and tricked,
taunted and teased.

No heir to the future
nor late-blooming bud
on a family tree

Never the only,
the first or the last.
The second of three.