Tag: poem

night noises

The last few posts have been fairly rural – which is reasonable given where I am at the moment. But to carry on from yesterday’s insomnia, I’ve dug out this older, rather more urban piece:

night shades

Sounds rise through plaster, wood and dust; they twist
between the ceiling joists, and round ceramic tiles to twine
with moonlight, drifting, woven in dreams, until
they filter into consciousness. Then,

there are no more dreams:

the sounds contract
to words as hard
and tight as fists that punch
into the sobbing night.

I hear the darkness
catch its breath
and a banshee wail
drags the dawn
closer.

Continue reading “night noises”

insomnia

In A Far Cry from Kensington, Muriel Spark wrote:

the quality of insomnia depends entirely on what you decide to think of.

I don’t suffer from insomnia. Ever. I do have a few sleepless nights. And when I do, I tend to try and write poems in my head. The repetition is often just as effective as counting sheep.
Continue reading “insomnia”

first day of autumn

bullrushes by the river
I really intended to post this yesterday – on the last day of summer. It’s a glass half-full or half-empty thing.

We’re always so keen to be moving on to new beginnings, I though it might be good to dawdle a bit, like the river is doing at the moment.

Unlike the year we moved here, when I heard the water through the open windows on the first night and thought it was pouring with rain, this year the river is very low and practically silent.

So, however inconvenient the heavy rain is, I’ll have to hope for a wet winter. Or a very cold one, so there’s plenty of snow to thaw and fill the rivers next spring. (See what I mean about always wanting new beginnings?)
Continue reading “first day of autumn”

21st-century pugilist

Albert Stanley (Stan) Roberts; all-in wrestler
Albert Stanley (Stan) Roberts; all-in wrestler

You what? He spits.
His knuckles clench, thumbs
tuck to fists and elbows flex;
he squares up, rises to his toes,
knees bent, ready to dance, then
stalls.
Hands dip to hitch
his slipping jeans.

 

The photo was kindly provided by a friend, nephew of Stan Roberts, when I said I didn’t have any ideas about what to post to the blog.

I think the intention was to inspire me to write a new poem. Instead, I thought it made an interesting contrast to the modern wannabe fighter in this piece written a couple of years ago, inspired by a lad in the village.

(And, yes, despite knowing very little about fighting of any kind, I do know that wrestlers and boxers are not the same.)

time passes

2:00 am
Crickets creak a tripwire grid
across the garden.

4:00 am
The hoot of an owl glides like a shadow
from the heart of the tallest pine.

5:30 am
The rooster’s crowing wakens the hens
who peck and pick, unravelling
the fraying edges of the night.

6:00 am
Now, all the valley dogs are worrying
at the straggling ends of dark; they tug
and bark and run with them towards the morning.

 

(A draft – or perhaps just notes for a poem – which is very much a variation on a theme. I posted an earlier interpretation almost exactly two years ago as Alarm)

Incidentally, trying to find out what type of owl I was writing about, I found the Owl Pages site with its extensive selection of recordings. And having cross-referenced with the Iberia Nature site, I think I must be thinking of a tawny owl.