Geoffrey Winch
Since 1992 Geoffrey Winch's poetry has appeared regularly in journals and anthologies in the UK, US and online. Purple Patch magazine awarded him the accolade of 'The UK's best small press poet' in 2011. He is an active member of a number of poetry groups in West Sussex where he has lived since 2001.
The following four pieces are extracts taken from Geoffrey's latest poetry collection: Encounters With Oscar & Other Sequences
From Face to Face
New York: photographs of Oscar Wilde
by Napoleon Sarony, 1882
The spirit of the devoted aesthete
he flamboyantly displayed
with those long loose locks,
while his wit – intent on comedy –
is marginally quelled by misgivings
about humanity: truisms apparent
only when seen in black and white –
see them there deep in his soul,
see them revealed by his eyes.
Paris: Roman Busts
at the Louvre, 1883
With his hairdresser in tow –
the one who claimed to be
a physiognomist too – he devoted
a whole afternoon to the study of Roman heads,
persuading him he ought to cut off his long loose locks.
His coiffeur, of course, ought to have
informed him he’d look fuller in the face
before crowning him with
Neronian curls instead.
London: portrait of Oscar Wilde
by R. G. Harper Pennington, 1884
He did not sit
for Harper Pennington
but stood tall before him for hour
on hour – so tall, he appears to be
aesthetically aloof: his relish and wit
replaced by some mysterious intent.
No sparkling eyes; no allusion to tragedy;
no worries about the human race –
these the artist chose to conceal.
Sentences
“Would you like
to read a book as well?” –
the first kind words Oscar heard
since he had been in gaol,
thus ensuring his intellect
would endure.
Unlike the one with a soul-of-a-rat
who’d gone before, James Nelson
proved, instead, to be
a Governor extraordinaire –
book-reader, bender-of-rules
who instinctively knew the way
to save a beautiful brain from
sinking beyond despair
permitting Oscar gingernuts
when the Palmers prevailed;
pen and paper that he might write once more,
but now from the depths
of his tortured soul,
then permitting him to take
De Profundis with him when
he was finally freed
and free to write The Ballad,
to tell
how Trooper Wooldridge looked
“With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky”
when he was about to die,
and free to write
in the Governor’s copy
“In recognition of many acts
of gentleness and kindness.”
signed Oscar Wilde.
NEW YORK : FINAL CANVAS
“For our New York summer I thank you. For showing me around; sharing with me the sights, the sounds; prolonging our season; paying the rent; your love of living with me way-up here in the clouds, I thank you.” You ask me “Why?” and turn your gaze from our high-rise window.
fog
filling the streets the squares
our park
I let the drape covering my canvas slide to the floor till it rests on the city’s colours spattered across the boards. “The last picture I’ll paint in New York – my parting gift for you.” You scratch your head, your eyes don’t smile: “It’s you and you’re walking away!” you say. “An English road taking me back, the one Mister Shakespeare would have used when, from London, he was travelling home.” “Then why the snow and cloudy sky?” “Because” I reply “I am alone,” to which you command: “Take your palette knife and scrape those clouds away!” I scrape the sky, re-paint it blue, allowing warmth and sunshine to begin breaking through. “And the snow: that too can go!” I apply shades of green to the roadside grass: somehow it starts to grow.
snowflakes –
I’ll say, instead, they are
petals of cherry blossom
Now the weather’s turned out fine I patch the road with drying puddles. “And paint me walking home with you: I’ll follow in Mister Shakespeare’s footsteps too.” So I paint us looking at a little sign on which I start to scribe our destination. You mark my hesitation, so I paint-in a very minor junction. “At this point he would have been nearing home, two days after leaving his friends in London,” I explain, “but we must turn off this pilgrim way: my home is not far from Stratford-upon-Avon.” You nod: “Just as long as we stay together now we’ve left New York behind.” We turn down the narrow lane, pause upon the old stone bridge, glance down into the swirling River Stour.
waters
swift beneath our bridge
captivate the sun
“Come, we must leave this river, leave it to flow on to join the Avon.” Arm-in-arm we carry on listening as the afternoon’s hedgerows’ song – we’ve resisted the urge to join the pilgrims and now we’re heading into the Red Horse Vale: all Shakespeare-land as the poet himself would have known when into the countryside he’d roam. It’s late in the day, and when the inner heat of our city shoes becomes too much, you say, “I don’t think I can walk that much further,” and this is the point at which a terra-cotta chimney-pot comes at last into view –
lowering sun
gilds rural domestic stone:
I lay my brushes down
OSCAR & ANDRÉ (Coda)
That Oscar was free to influence André
and André was free to create Ménalque
the Immoralist whose soul was akin to Oscar’s;
that Ménalque then appeared in Fruits of the Earth
to freely tutor Nathaniel in the ways
of seeing the sacred as secular
and the secular as sacred;
that Oscar stepping ashore at Dieppe
when at last he was free of prison
was able to experience for a few days at least
nature and life as if for the first time
with all his senses rejoicing:
as if Nathaniel was there with him.
***
Coffee at Cockburn's is a collaboration with Worthing poet Cherrie Taylor ( https://cherrie84.wixsite.com/website ) and contains both individual and collaborative poems. Two examples are presented below.
AS THE SUN GOES DOWN
[ inspired by, and partly found in
Walt Whitman’s ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’ ]
in gatherings
we play
our own roles
some voices loud
some voices small
on the street
we walk
apart from others –
sight hearing life love
are ties between us
many cross
from shore to shore
on the ferry boat
together we witness
the lowering of the sun
before clouds gather
to close the day
we’re all dazzled
by the river’s
blood-red spirit
approaching home
alone in twilight
I think of others
and strange questions
stir within me
BEACHCOMBING
[ Cherrie & Geoffrey ]
at the seas edge I find
a mermaid’s purse
no powder or lipstick
just a wisp of hair coiled
around a cowrie shell
finding mysteries
along the littoral
as the tide turns
I sense my understanding
is less sound than the sea’s
holding the shell
to my ear I listen
for her cries
the sound breaks
my heart
for a moment
between breaking waves
foaming sea
makes lace on the sand
then is gone
she weaves
a net of lace
for her lover
he casts
it wide
on a far-off shore
he finds a sand dollar, bleached
a sign of luck
but not enough to pay
for his journey home
MINCING LANE
[ Cherrie Taylor ]
I cross the river and walk to the Town Square
crossing the cobbles I reach Cockburn's
the cakes and smiles welcome me
I sit at my favourite table
upstairs by the window
what shall I order – a coffee of course
with a warm Craggy Rooster and butter
then a light lunch – a Sussex Rarebit
I sip my coffee and spread butter
on the Craggy Rooster
my friend is late but I’m happy here
I think about writing a poem…
the light dims
voices from past times echo
I look out of the window – it’s Market Day
the Town Square is bustling with people
stalls line the High Street
vendors are crying their wares
pigs and cattle held in pens are noisy too
soon to be sold to those bidding
children race along with hoops and sing rhymes
dogs chase after them barking – cats scatter
horse and cart wheels clatter
‘Move along don't block the lane.’
Mincing Lane is busy today
the slaughter house has fresh mince
traders are impatient...
the sounds fade…
I’m brought back to today...
the voices from past times – gone
I open my eyes
a waitress appears at my table
‘What would you like?’
‘Oh!’ My voice echoes...
‘A Sussex Rarebit – of course.’
[ Note: Mincing Lane originally ran from Tarrant Street to High Street in Arundel, but was blocked by a building constructed in about 1750, which is now occupied by Cockburn’s Tea Rooms, A commemorative plaque is displayed inside. ]
VENUS IN KENSINGTON GARDENS
Leon Underwood: oil on canvas, 1921
they’re perfectly aware
that she’s sitting among them
and she’s wearing no clothes
they look away or pretend
to smoke their cigarettes –
it’s only polite to do so
but the one feigning to read
his newspaper, the one with smoke
in his eyes is taking a sneaky look:
they’ll not talk about this episode
until later when they’ll relish
discussing it in depth –
and we don’t look away since
we realise it’s only Kitty Malone
who’d had too much to drink again
and, though she made an okay Venus,
pictures are, after all, painted to be
discussed, so let’s discuss it now –
shall we consider whether or not
the brown dog is fast asleep? shall we
ponder over who scattered the crumbs
under her chair for the birds to eat?
since it’s unlikely we’ll ever get
to consider whether or not
there’s a message in it
about love
SENSE AGILITY
Landscape in a gallery:
picture-light reflecting
off its painted lake –
I put on my shades
and the lake reflects the sun.
No persons depicted
beside the lake, though I feel
another’s hand in mine –
the one on which I rely
whenever we go visiting.
Swans come gliding towards us
so we hurry to consume our BLTs
convinced our tastes are more refined
than theirs – though we share with them
our crusts.
The cafeteria’s coffee aroma comes
spilling into the room: we seal it in
our flask – then as I unscrew the cap
it mingles with the incense of the trees
and now I’m drifting intoxicated through
those landscapes where we’ve made love.
Sometimes the loudest voice one hears
is one’s own; sometimes it is another’s –
other times it is that of a familiar god,
but often it’s that of an unknown spirit.
RESURRECTION
once consigned to history
but resurrected now though,
as we slip from stanza into
stanza, every emphatic action
or rhythmic shift could be
an evocation of a treasured
fragment from our roller-
coaster pasts –
interim lovers will remain
tantalizing mysteries never
to be named – but now it’s
our sighs that really matter
as they exorcise futile games
which all-too-often played
upon our minds – so, as we
reach this envoi, it embraces
all those exotic adventures and
the pleasure in giving way now
sets free those lovely butterfly-
wings of carnal histories
FLESH
its vitality first realised
with finger-tips touching
though the awkwardness of
finger-joint angularity may
have left a cool space
needing to be filled
so in the pressing-together of
palms the moistness of desire
was discovered:
the softness of its femininity,
shyness of masculinity despite
dirt still caught under the nails
thereafter the ache of separation
could never be denied:
the country-air taste of it,
the saltiness of everyday toils,
the fragrant water-warmth of it
always re-pleasuring hands
tongues eyes
now, to forbid its rites, to refuse
one flesh to the other would be
to deny the ecstasies it generates –
the essentials of its being
THE SUN REMINDS ME
time exists
permits history to exist
enables the future
and so the present arrives
but only at its predetermined time
hi-fi digits
light-up my mobile and microwave
seemingly with static time –
they move without emotion
they are not real time –
they merely measure
with precision
the length of every second,
every minute –
they are counters-of-time
they are not really a clock
with its hands on time –
hands able to choose any time
they think they’d like to tell;
that can manipulate time by
stretching my minutes to hours,
compressing my days into
fleeting recollections
a real clock will stop my time
at random – on a whim;
a real clock is comfortable
about gauging life – tells me
at a glance how long I have,
how long I’ve had – but
every day the sun reminds me
it is in command of time:
clocks may do as they please
STANDING LION
‘Maiwand Lion’: George Blackall Simonds, cast iron sculpture,
Forbury Gardens, Reading, 1886
There was a time a Royalists’ gun
stood close to the Abbey’s walls:
now there’s silence — the gun long-gone,
the walls’ cold flints fallen.
In the bandstand out muted voices;
in the lily-pond the fountain’s plash
and the silence of the fish —
close to the heart of town
only a murmur of traffic-throb —
peaceful gardens even for a child.
Here our black lion stands on his plinth:
we believe he actually turns his head,
his mane is quite majestic.
He bares his fangs
but never roars,
his eyes proclaim our peace.
Some have pronounced he’s out of step —
he doesn’t argue, simply declares
he stands there for silent men,
fallen.
*
(The Maiwand Lion commemorates 329 men lost from the 66th Berkshire
Regiment during the Afghanistan campaign between 1878 and 1880.
There has been much debate as to whether or not the lion’s stance is anatomically correct.)
NEGATIVELY CHARGED
‘Electric Ladyland’, The Jimi Hendrix Experience: U.K. album cover photograph: art director, Dave King, 1968
Not even one of the photographs Jimi chose,
courtesy of Linda, with young friends
and dedicated music-makers — pictures
he’d mapped out on an hotel’s writing paper
(any change from these directions would
not be appropriate, he wrote, according to
the music and our group’s present stage ...)
but, instead, a photo of nineteen ladies
who, although unclothed, failed to turn
him on. Too much flesh appearing all too
tainted, too demeaning to femininity —
not electric ladies who could connect
with the music in his head.
No with-it chicks with winning smiles;
no pounding hearts grooving to his vibe;
no rousing looks for the camera’s eye —
no gypsy eyes — only shallow black:
eyes that could never hypnotize.
And no ring of truth from the narrow band
around the pale finger pushed to the fore —
gold not from Jupiter’s sulphur mines
or sourced from a Venus-witch’s forge.
Ladies not positively charged;
not one angel spreading her musical wings —
not one amazed to see a voodoo child;
not one, fumbling with his photograph, spell-
bound by the sounds he conjured
from a Stratocaster’s strings.
*
(Photographs by Linda Eastman selected by Jimi Hendrix
for the original UK album cover were eventually used when
the CD version was released in 1997)
HOME-HUNTER
Photo used with kind permission.
[ Link: Nic Fiddian-Green: Artemis, horse’s head,
monumental bronze at Goodwood, 2010 ]
Through alchemy of vision you came
with your borrowed name, and breath
drawn from Selene’s horse
to stand on our downs’ ancient fort –
no sweat from chariot-hauling:
any latent heat that of the forge.
Radiant with moonlight you charmed
the nights when spiteful weather
failed to blow up from the English sea;
gloried next in a grand-standing season
reigning over highborn racers –
their flesh mapped by coursing veins.
Then, resting on the lower lawns,
you welcomed guests
to your transient home where
within your eyes they saw
not empty holes but hollows
filled by rapid learning;
in your ears heard the toiling
of countless horses’ hooves, felt
the unease of horses’ histories,
and from your gently-flaring nostrils
your heady breath
they breathed.
(In November 2011 Artemis was purchased by a private buyer and transported to Australia.)
JAZZ STRIPES BY A WATER’S EDGE
white and brown-black bars – a medley
graded paralleled manifold-angled
arrayed and rippling along a water’s edge –
the herding instinct defies decoding
dazzles an eye if it tries to count
so it begins to count bright eyes instead –
long and lush their slow-blinking lashes –
or striated manes softly-bristled; mule-
muzzled heads as they dip to drink;
then twitching ears suddenly prick
intent on listening for one alien sound
that will instantly turn the peaceful medley
into a zigzagging jazz-stripe frenzy,
into dust drumming with hooves
OLD SALT
Roaming the shore
in search of a poem
first I watched dark vapours shift
to give shine to the dawning sky
where gulls on ultra-static wings
swerving, lifting, dipping
screeched keynotes of their speech
with the sound of shattered reeds –
I listened
but failed to hear a poem.
Foaming fairies
riding little white ponies
contentedly cantered ashore
but not one could I catch
as each was sacrificed
on the fine sand’s thirsty floor.
At noon a shimmering hull I saw
wavering on the glittering rim,
yet not a single word reached my ear
from lost souls who were sinking.
Encountered then the old Aranjuez –
unmanned, de-sailed and laying at ease
in freshening tones of a blissful breeze
that strummed her B minor strings
and turned her tattered pennant shreds
towards a quixotic garden park
where stood a palace with grand façades –
but they could only dazzle.
Then as the sun’s last lowlights jazzed
the dim and dusted horizon
so cool-night mists conjoined their blues
to deprive me of that line, leaving
bewitching and long-tentacled weeds
to watch and wait for me,
weaving and waving shadowy limbs
to a slow-beat shanty rhythm
that couldn’t conjure-up my poem – so
towards the greensward I strained my eyes
to search for the spot where an old salt sat,
and there I saw him sleeping,
dreaming in the gloaming.
TIME AS A LION
The moon was a captured lantern
when aging was only imagination
at the margins of a child’s blue-sky day,
though sometimes night’s shadows
had eyes that could see far-away places.
And that was when time was just a cub
hugging a child at play – paper boats
and teddy bears, wooden ducks
and dinky toys – until tired clock faces
declared time for bed.
Time later turned hunter hungering
after days, but now is the lion we hoped
would bring flowers, tamed to prevent
life slipping away – roaring ever-louder,
devouring every blue-sky day.
3 SHORT POEMS
Nightdress
imagination --
such a wonderful thing --
sometimes content
to leave things as they are --
your pink nightdress for instance
Time and Space
time and space --
one and the same thing
when they are barriers
between
us
Walking Shoes
when your arms are free
to reach out for me
write or give me a call
(text or e-mail if you must) --
my long distance walking shoes
wait by my door
*
NO EASY LIFE
On a sunny day it may be okay
for an upholstered chair to take the air
and go for an amble across the green.
And if the upholstered chair
should happen to meet a wooden seat
it may wish to stop for a little chat
about the weather, of course, --
and the bums they have to bear.
They will probably like to compare
the amply-cheeked with neat backsides,
and large posteriors with elegant derrières
but, being polite, they’ll not wish to discuss
those musical notes and tasteless odours
that cause them real despair.
Then, when they’ve said all there is to say,
they may be content just to sit and stare --
the wooden seat and the upholstered chair --
while keeping an eye on the weather.
CHAMPAGNE IN MOSCOW
With only personal secrets to divulge
to ears buried deep inside silent walls
we, even so, assumed prudence to be
our watchword, kept our voices low so
only we could understand.
But where would our journey now begin
since the Intourist has been razed?
Plunging out into snow-heavy streets,
our destination Gorky Street to browse
the evening through the city’s book stores,
to connect with those foreign words --
language the only irksome barrier
until Yuri, reading our visitors’ minds,
beckoned. We followed round blind corners
of a back street maze in deeper snow where,
in a dimly-lit alleyway, he opened an unseen door
from which light poured out with the warmth
of convivial chatter, and we went inside.
He took our coats, hung them with the cloaks
and furs, and invited us to join the crowd --
young people in free discussion, about what
we never learned. He served us tea from
the steaming samovar, chocolate bars broken
and shared. Moscow’s youth filled our glasses
then filled them again -- champagne flowed,
balalaikas played and unrestrained we sung
together freely celebrating communication.
Geoffrey Winch
OVER THE GATE
No sign that said trespassers
would be prosecuted -- if there had been
we probably wouldn’t have understood.
So we followed that overgrown path,
found angels playing tennis, serving
each other with compliments, volleying
friendship and laughter.
On the bowling green saints glided
over the neatly-shorn carpet, studied
the jack head, discussed how to refine
the fine line of their next wood --
concluded restraint was preferable to a smash.
On the archery field
real-life Maids and Robin Hoods
with bowstrings true and taut, honed
their arrows’ trajectories towards
their target’s golden centre --
a bull’s eye earned a kiss,
a rich reward.
A match in progress
on the cricket square was being played
at a leisurely pace, interrupted only
by an emphatic owzat to which
a minor god calmly raised a finger
and a batsman walked acknowledging
polite applause for another useful innings.
Needless to say the sun shone that day
and spectators cat-napped in safety
but, as we climbed back over the gate,
we kept ourselves small knowing
we’d have to grow-up
in an altogether different world.
Geoffrey Winch
LIGHT RELIEF
Like you’ve been driving hundreds of miles alone,
blind, through a seamless dark desert at night.
Time is suspended on the unwinding black ribbon,
not changing in texture, unrelenting monochrome.
No moonlight, no starlight, and not one car’s passed by --
it’s as if you're not moving in your main-beam light.
The radio’s music is the sound of space --
the distant DJ may not even exist. Your lungs
squeeze your breathing like negative assurance --
next time this journey will be under the sun
(to hell with the raging heat!)
Then an uncertain light – just a pin-prick, not a star –
elusive at first, finds somewhere to rest
upon your imagined horizon.
You don’t let it drift -- its steadiness is comfort --
you are, after all, not the sole inhabitant of earth.
Your foot, heavy as rock, eases back on the gas
when a second dim light twins with the first.
Now you purposely rest your head on the headrest,
take a hand from the wheel not owning relief.
You laugh at the DJ -- his silliest joke --
tap your fingers to his music, watch the clustering lights.
Deep-breathing becomes easy -- you cruise your way home.
Geoffrey Winch
LIGHTS OF MONTEREY
Remnant shadows cast by
a decaying sun were closing-down
my final Monterey afternoon.
Relaxed by early evening’s charm
on a bench above the marina -- the day’s
last sailors were making fast their boats --
I was listening to naked rigging playing
jazz-rattle to the breeze. Fisherman’s Wharf
gradually became a darkened patch -- earlier
I had been there sussing-out souvenirs.
Then little lights bloomed inside, created
a honey-glow -- their reflections rippled
on the water.
After battening-down their hatches
the sailors were heading ashore --
with one hand they held the rope-rails
strung the length of the rolling duck-boards,
bobbing lantern lights they held in the other.
Absorbed to the point of being lost in their world
I was taking no notice of others passing by
until she came from Fisherman’s Wharf
and sat down by my side. Disturbed
from my reverie, I nodded and said ‘Hi’ --
she smiled an elfin smile -- ‘Hi’ she replied.
She was wearing blue denim -- a red headband
and long black hair framed her peaceful face --
the perfume she wore was flower-power. She
was a beautiful person -- she had honeyed skin
and deep in her eyes was friendship’s light --
a light that would travel on with me.
Geoffrey Winch
MEETING OF MINDS
My soul lives in the city - uptown fancies,
downtown follies collaborate to stimulate
my desires. Portents seething beneath
shady complexions evolve as knowledge,
bright perceptions that feed my fire while
your heart is rooted in the wilderness. You
never blow hot like the potent sun but
understand its risings, settings, primal reasons.
Moon and stardust flow in your blood,
sunlight and wisdom from your eye.
I applaud neon, laser-jazz, vital flashing signs -
for me they are a city’s sweat even on a cold,
cold night, upping my pulse-rate - their oxygen
of passion runs through my veins sustaining
my rationale, the crucible of life in my brain.
In wildlife voices, rhythms, vibrations you feel
the heartbeats of earth, sea and air - they speak
to you their secret tongues as night chills,
stillness, silence, invincible distance descend
to test the faith you never forgo - but then
you meet me on the urban edge where, eagle-high
we soar together and, with serpents’ eyes, we realise
just how the wider vistas of our world converge.
Geoffrey Winch
NOTES FOR THE FUTURE
The throng of the afternoon park
converses with the sun -
standing, squatting, sitting -
grass patches all messed-up
with bedrolls, meths stoves,
ice cream, smoke
then comes the human silence hum.
Josephine with her red headband
and Trish (a white rose in her hair)
kiss Daniel on the mouth
to the guitarist’s edgy opening riff
and the Hammond’s rotating bliss.
Drums and bass lay down the beat,
Nigel sings through a feedback shriek
and West Abutment are underway -
and they play, and play, and play.
Trish rests her head on Josephine’s breast -
Daniel - eyes closed - strokes her back
until the guitar comes to a stop. Drums
and organ then fade away
while Nigel with a sigh
kisses the sky goodbye
and leaves the stage
for the bassist to maintain
the throb of the afternoon’s refrain
playing paper notes - holding each one
then setting it free
to carry Trish, Daniel and Josephine
into a higher ecstasy - a heavenly dome
of light and shade
where red, blue and yellow boxes
stand empty on a mirrored floor
waiting to be filled
with their tomorrows’ crystal balls.
Geoffrey Winch
TRAGEDY : ACT VI
It’s not about the breathless silence that falls
upon your audience’s ears still ringing
with your last soliloquy -
or the first impatient hand-clap quickly
swallowed by swelling applause,
the curtain calls, standing ovation
or wallowing in mutual admiration.
It’s not about leaving the stage with a wave,
a flourish, blowing a kiss - not about
a tragedian going out in style.
Nor about your affair in the dressing-room
with your mirror, changing faces, disguising
yourself in everyday clothes,
shutting the stage door as you go.
It’s not about talent - the only prop
you’ve ever needed, always adlibbing
graffiti scripts, still safe in your pocket .
It’s something to do with returning
to where you reside, the ghost
of act five beginning to haunt you
in the tube train window, the lines
of communication and power surging
only into darkness, the clatter
of every sudden change in direction,
the harsh reality of those skirmishes
at every brashly lit station.
Also to do with stars being clouded over, rain
starting to fall before you open the front door.
Mostly though it’s about resting in silence when
your heroes are still unspent.
Geoffrey Winch
The following four pieces are extracts taken from Geoffrey's latest poetry collection: Encounters With Oscar & Other Sequences
From Face to Face
New York: photographs of Oscar Wilde
by Napoleon Sarony, 1882
The spirit of the devoted aesthete
he flamboyantly displayed
with those long loose locks,
while his wit – intent on comedy –
is marginally quelled by misgivings
about humanity: truisms apparent
only when seen in black and white –
see them there deep in his soul,
see them revealed by his eyes.
Paris: Roman Busts
at the Louvre, 1883
With his hairdresser in tow –
the one who claimed to be
a physiognomist too – he devoted
a whole afternoon to the study of Roman heads,
persuading him he ought to cut off his long loose locks.
His coiffeur, of course, ought to have
informed him he’d look fuller in the face
before crowning him with
Neronian curls instead.
London: portrait of Oscar Wilde
by R. G. Harper Pennington, 1884
He did not sit
for Harper Pennington
but stood tall before him for hour
on hour – so tall, he appears to be
aesthetically aloof: his relish and wit
replaced by some mysterious intent.
No sparkling eyes; no allusion to tragedy;
no worries about the human race –
these the artist chose to conceal.
Sentences
“Would you like
to read a book as well?” –
the first kind words Oscar heard
since he had been in gaol,
thus ensuring his intellect
would endure.
Unlike the one with a soul-of-a-rat
who’d gone before, James Nelson
proved, instead, to be
a Governor extraordinaire –
book-reader, bender-of-rules
who instinctively knew the way
to save a beautiful brain from
sinking beyond despair
permitting Oscar gingernuts
when the Palmers prevailed;
pen and paper that he might write once more,
but now from the depths
of his tortured soul,
then permitting him to take
De Profundis with him when
he was finally freed
and free to write The Ballad,
to tell
how Trooper Wooldridge looked
“With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky”
when he was about to die,
and free to write
in the Governor’s copy
“In recognition of many acts
of gentleness and kindness.”
signed Oscar Wilde.
NEW YORK : FINAL CANVAS
“For our New York summer I thank you. For showing me around; sharing with me the sights, the sounds; prolonging our season; paying the rent; your love of living with me way-up here in the clouds, I thank you.” You ask me “Why?” and turn your gaze from our high-rise window.
fog
filling the streets the squares
our park
I let the drape covering my canvas slide to the floor till it rests on the city’s colours spattered across the boards. “The last picture I’ll paint in New York – my parting gift for you.” You scratch your head, your eyes don’t smile: “It’s you and you’re walking away!” you say. “An English road taking me back, the one Mister Shakespeare would have used when, from London, he was travelling home.” “Then why the snow and cloudy sky?” “Because” I reply “I am alone,” to which you command: “Take your palette knife and scrape those clouds away!” I scrape the sky, re-paint it blue, allowing warmth and sunshine to begin breaking through. “And the snow: that too can go!” I apply shades of green to the roadside grass: somehow it starts to grow.
snowflakes –
I’ll say, instead, they are
petals of cherry blossom
Now the weather’s turned out fine I patch the road with drying puddles. “And paint me walking home with you: I’ll follow in Mister Shakespeare’s footsteps too.” So I paint us looking at a little sign on which I start to scribe our destination. You mark my hesitation, so I paint-in a very minor junction. “At this point he would have been nearing home, two days after leaving his friends in London,” I explain, “but we must turn off this pilgrim way: my home is not far from Stratford-upon-Avon.” You nod: “Just as long as we stay together now we’ve left New York behind.” We turn down the narrow lane, pause upon the old stone bridge, glance down into the swirling River Stour.
waters
swift beneath our bridge
captivate the sun
“Come, we must leave this river, leave it to flow on to join the Avon.” Arm-in-arm we carry on listening as the afternoon’s hedgerows’ song – we’ve resisted the urge to join the pilgrims and now we’re heading into the Red Horse Vale: all Shakespeare-land as the poet himself would have known when into the countryside he’d roam. It’s late in the day, and when the inner heat of our city shoes becomes too much, you say, “I don’t think I can walk that much further,” and this is the point at which a terra-cotta chimney-pot comes at last into view –
lowering sun
gilds rural domestic stone:
I lay my brushes down
OSCAR & ANDRÉ (Coda)
That Oscar was free to influence André
and André was free to create Ménalque
the Immoralist whose soul was akin to Oscar’s;
that Ménalque then appeared in Fruits of the Earth
to freely tutor Nathaniel in the ways
of seeing the sacred as secular
and the secular as sacred;
that Oscar stepping ashore at Dieppe
when at last he was free of prison
was able to experience for a few days at least
nature and life as if for the first time
with all his senses rejoicing:
as if Nathaniel was there with him.
***
Coffee at Cockburn's is a collaboration with Worthing poet Cherrie Taylor ( https://cherrie84.wixsite.com/website ) and contains both individual and collaborative poems. Two examples are presented below.
AS THE SUN GOES DOWN
[ inspired by, and partly found in
Walt Whitman’s ‘Crossing Brooklyn Ferry’ ]
in gatherings
we play
our own roles
some voices loud
some voices small
on the street
we walk
apart from others –
sight hearing life love
are ties between us
many cross
from shore to shore
on the ferry boat
together we witness
the lowering of the sun
before clouds gather
to close the day
we’re all dazzled
by the river’s
blood-red spirit
approaching home
alone in twilight
I think of others
and strange questions
stir within me
BEACHCOMBING
[ Cherrie & Geoffrey ]
at the seas edge I find
a mermaid’s purse
no powder or lipstick
just a wisp of hair coiled
around a cowrie shell
finding mysteries
along the littoral
as the tide turns
I sense my understanding
is less sound than the sea’s
holding the shell
to my ear I listen
for her cries
the sound breaks
my heart
for a moment
between breaking waves
foaming sea
makes lace on the sand
then is gone
she weaves
a net of lace
for her lover
he casts
it wide
on a far-off shore
he finds a sand dollar, bleached
a sign of luck
but not enough to pay
for his journey home
MINCING LANE
[ Cherrie Taylor ]
I cross the river and walk to the Town Square
crossing the cobbles I reach Cockburn's
the cakes and smiles welcome me
I sit at my favourite table
upstairs by the window
what shall I order – a coffee of course
with a warm Craggy Rooster and butter
then a light lunch – a Sussex Rarebit
I sip my coffee and spread butter
on the Craggy Rooster
my friend is late but I’m happy here
I think about writing a poem…
the light dims
voices from past times echo
I look out of the window – it’s Market Day
the Town Square is bustling with people
stalls line the High Street
vendors are crying their wares
pigs and cattle held in pens are noisy too
soon to be sold to those bidding
children race along with hoops and sing rhymes
dogs chase after them barking – cats scatter
horse and cart wheels clatter
‘Move along don't block the lane.’
Mincing Lane is busy today
the slaughter house has fresh mince
traders are impatient...
the sounds fade…
I’m brought back to today...
the voices from past times – gone
I open my eyes
a waitress appears at my table
‘What would you like?’
‘Oh!’ My voice echoes...
‘A Sussex Rarebit – of course.’
[ Note: Mincing Lane originally ran from Tarrant Street to High Street in Arundel, but was blocked by a building constructed in about 1750, which is now occupied by Cockburn’s Tea Rooms, A commemorative plaque is displayed inside. ]
VENUS IN KENSINGTON GARDENS
Leon Underwood: oil on canvas, 1921
they’re perfectly aware
that she’s sitting among them
and she’s wearing no clothes
they look away or pretend
to smoke their cigarettes –
it’s only polite to do so
but the one feigning to read
his newspaper, the one with smoke
in his eyes is taking a sneaky look:
they’ll not talk about this episode
until later when they’ll relish
discussing it in depth –
and we don’t look away since
we realise it’s only Kitty Malone
who’d had too much to drink again
and, though she made an okay Venus,
pictures are, after all, painted to be
discussed, so let’s discuss it now –
shall we consider whether or not
the brown dog is fast asleep? shall we
ponder over who scattered the crumbs
under her chair for the birds to eat?
since it’s unlikely we’ll ever get
to consider whether or not
there’s a message in it
about love
SENSE AGILITY
Landscape in a gallery:
picture-light reflecting
off its painted lake –
I put on my shades
and the lake reflects the sun.
No persons depicted
beside the lake, though I feel
another’s hand in mine –
the one on which I rely
whenever we go visiting.
Swans come gliding towards us
so we hurry to consume our BLTs
convinced our tastes are more refined
than theirs – though we share with them
our crusts.
The cafeteria’s coffee aroma comes
spilling into the room: we seal it in
our flask – then as I unscrew the cap
it mingles with the incense of the trees
and now I’m drifting intoxicated through
those landscapes where we’ve made love.
Sometimes the loudest voice one hears
is one’s own; sometimes it is another’s –
other times it is that of a familiar god,
but often it’s that of an unknown spirit.
RESURRECTION
once consigned to history
but resurrected now though,
as we slip from stanza into
stanza, every emphatic action
or rhythmic shift could be
an evocation of a treasured
fragment from our roller-
coaster pasts –
interim lovers will remain
tantalizing mysteries never
to be named – but now it’s
our sighs that really matter
as they exorcise futile games
which all-too-often played
upon our minds – so, as we
reach this envoi, it embraces
all those exotic adventures and
the pleasure in giving way now
sets free those lovely butterfly-
wings of carnal histories
FLESH
its vitality first realised
with finger-tips touching
though the awkwardness of
finger-joint angularity may
have left a cool space
needing to be filled
so in the pressing-together of
palms the moistness of desire
was discovered:
the softness of its femininity,
shyness of masculinity despite
dirt still caught under the nails
thereafter the ache of separation
could never be denied:
the country-air taste of it,
the saltiness of everyday toils,
the fragrant water-warmth of it
always re-pleasuring hands
tongues eyes
now, to forbid its rites, to refuse
one flesh to the other would be
to deny the ecstasies it generates –
the essentials of its being
THE SUN REMINDS ME
time exists
permits history to exist
enables the future
and so the present arrives
but only at its predetermined time
hi-fi digits
light-up my mobile and microwave
seemingly with static time –
they move without emotion
they are not real time –
they merely measure
with precision
the length of every second,
every minute –
they are counters-of-time
they are not really a clock
with its hands on time –
hands able to choose any time
they think they’d like to tell;
that can manipulate time by
stretching my minutes to hours,
compressing my days into
fleeting recollections
a real clock will stop my time
at random – on a whim;
a real clock is comfortable
about gauging life – tells me
at a glance how long I have,
how long I’ve had – but
every day the sun reminds me
it is in command of time:
clocks may do as they please
STANDING LION
‘Maiwand Lion’: George Blackall Simonds, cast iron sculpture,
Forbury Gardens, Reading, 1886
There was a time a Royalists’ gun
stood close to the Abbey’s walls:
now there’s silence — the gun long-gone,
the walls’ cold flints fallen.
In the bandstand out muted voices;
in the lily-pond the fountain’s plash
and the silence of the fish —
close to the heart of town
only a murmur of traffic-throb —
peaceful gardens even for a child.
Here our black lion stands on his plinth:
we believe he actually turns his head,
his mane is quite majestic.
He bares his fangs
but never roars,
his eyes proclaim our peace.
Some have pronounced he’s out of step —
he doesn’t argue, simply declares
he stands there for silent men,
fallen.
*
(The Maiwand Lion commemorates 329 men lost from the 66th Berkshire
Regiment during the Afghanistan campaign between 1878 and 1880.
There has been much debate as to whether or not the lion’s stance is anatomically correct.)
NEGATIVELY CHARGED
‘Electric Ladyland’, The Jimi Hendrix Experience: U.K. album cover photograph: art director, Dave King, 1968
Not even one of the photographs Jimi chose,
courtesy of Linda, with young friends
and dedicated music-makers — pictures
he’d mapped out on an hotel’s writing paper
(any change from these directions would
not be appropriate, he wrote, according to
the music and our group’s present stage ...)
but, instead, a photo of nineteen ladies
who, although unclothed, failed to turn
him on. Too much flesh appearing all too
tainted, too demeaning to femininity —
not electric ladies who could connect
with the music in his head.
No with-it chicks with winning smiles;
no pounding hearts grooving to his vibe;
no rousing looks for the camera’s eye —
no gypsy eyes — only shallow black:
eyes that could never hypnotize.
And no ring of truth from the narrow band
around the pale finger pushed to the fore —
gold not from Jupiter’s sulphur mines
or sourced from a Venus-witch’s forge.
Ladies not positively charged;
not one angel spreading her musical wings —
not one amazed to see a voodoo child;
not one, fumbling with his photograph, spell-
bound by the sounds he conjured
from a Stratocaster’s strings.
*
(Photographs by Linda Eastman selected by Jimi Hendrix
for the original UK album cover were eventually used when
the CD version was released in 1997)
HOME-HUNTER
Photo used with kind permission.
[ Link: Nic Fiddian-Green: Artemis, horse’s head,
monumental bronze at Goodwood, 2010 ]
Through alchemy of vision you came
with your borrowed name, and breath
drawn from Selene’s horse
to stand on our downs’ ancient fort –
no sweat from chariot-hauling:
any latent heat that of the forge.
Radiant with moonlight you charmed
the nights when spiteful weather
failed to blow up from the English sea;
gloried next in a grand-standing season
reigning over highborn racers –
their flesh mapped by coursing veins.
Then, resting on the lower lawns,
you welcomed guests
to your transient home where
within your eyes they saw
not empty holes but hollows
filled by rapid learning;
in your ears heard the toiling
of countless horses’ hooves, felt
the unease of horses’ histories,
and from your gently-flaring nostrils
your heady breath
they breathed.
(In November 2011 Artemis was purchased by a private buyer and transported to Australia.)
JAZZ STRIPES BY A WATER’S EDGE
white and brown-black bars – a medley
graded paralleled manifold-angled
arrayed and rippling along a water’s edge –
the herding instinct defies decoding
dazzles an eye if it tries to count
so it begins to count bright eyes instead –
long and lush their slow-blinking lashes –
or striated manes softly-bristled; mule-
muzzled heads as they dip to drink;
then twitching ears suddenly prick
intent on listening for one alien sound
that will instantly turn the peaceful medley
into a zigzagging jazz-stripe frenzy,
into dust drumming with hooves
OLD SALT
Roaming the shore
in search of a poem
first I watched dark vapours shift
to give shine to the dawning sky
where gulls on ultra-static wings
swerving, lifting, dipping
screeched keynotes of their speech
with the sound of shattered reeds –
I listened
but failed to hear a poem.
Foaming fairies
riding little white ponies
contentedly cantered ashore
but not one could I catch
as each was sacrificed
on the fine sand’s thirsty floor.
At noon a shimmering hull I saw
wavering on the glittering rim,
yet not a single word reached my ear
from lost souls who were sinking.
Encountered then the old Aranjuez –
unmanned, de-sailed and laying at ease
in freshening tones of a blissful breeze
that strummed her B minor strings
and turned her tattered pennant shreds
towards a quixotic garden park
where stood a palace with grand façades –
but they could only dazzle.
Then as the sun’s last lowlights jazzed
the dim and dusted horizon
so cool-night mists conjoined their blues
to deprive me of that line, leaving
bewitching and long-tentacled weeds
to watch and wait for me,
weaving and waving shadowy limbs
to a slow-beat shanty rhythm
that couldn’t conjure-up my poem – so
towards the greensward I strained my eyes
to search for the spot where an old salt sat,
and there I saw him sleeping,
dreaming in the gloaming.
TIME AS A LION
The moon was a captured lantern
when aging was only imagination
at the margins of a child’s blue-sky day,
though sometimes night’s shadows
had eyes that could see far-away places.
And that was when time was just a cub
hugging a child at play – paper boats
and teddy bears, wooden ducks
and dinky toys – until tired clock faces
declared time for bed.
Time later turned hunter hungering
after days, but now is the lion we hoped
would bring flowers, tamed to prevent
life slipping away – roaring ever-louder,
devouring every blue-sky day.
3 SHORT POEMS
Nightdress
imagination --
such a wonderful thing --
sometimes content
to leave things as they are --
your pink nightdress for instance
Time and Space
time and space --
one and the same thing
when they are barriers
between
us
Walking Shoes
when your arms are free
to reach out for me
write or give me a call
(text or e-mail if you must) --
my long distance walking shoes
wait by my door
*
NO EASY LIFE
On a sunny day it may be okay
for an upholstered chair to take the air
and go for an amble across the green.
And if the upholstered chair
should happen to meet a wooden seat
it may wish to stop for a little chat
about the weather, of course, --
and the bums they have to bear.
They will probably like to compare
the amply-cheeked with neat backsides,
and large posteriors with elegant derrières
but, being polite, they’ll not wish to discuss
those musical notes and tasteless odours
that cause them real despair.
Then, when they’ve said all there is to say,
they may be content just to sit and stare --
the wooden seat and the upholstered chair --
while keeping an eye on the weather.
CHAMPAGNE IN MOSCOW
With only personal secrets to divulge
to ears buried deep inside silent walls
we, even so, assumed prudence to be
our watchword, kept our voices low so
only we could understand.
But where would our journey now begin
since the Intourist has been razed?
Plunging out into snow-heavy streets,
our destination Gorky Street to browse
the evening through the city’s book stores,
to connect with those foreign words --
language the only irksome barrier
until Yuri, reading our visitors’ minds,
beckoned. We followed round blind corners
of a back street maze in deeper snow where,
in a dimly-lit alleyway, he opened an unseen door
from which light poured out with the warmth
of convivial chatter, and we went inside.
He took our coats, hung them with the cloaks
and furs, and invited us to join the crowd --
young people in free discussion, about what
we never learned. He served us tea from
the steaming samovar, chocolate bars broken
and shared. Moscow’s youth filled our glasses
then filled them again -- champagne flowed,
balalaikas played and unrestrained we sung
together freely celebrating communication.
Geoffrey Winch
OVER THE GATE
No sign that said trespassers
would be prosecuted -- if there had been
we probably wouldn’t have understood.
So we followed that overgrown path,
found angels playing tennis, serving
each other with compliments, volleying
friendship and laughter.
On the bowling green saints glided
over the neatly-shorn carpet, studied
the jack head, discussed how to refine
the fine line of their next wood --
concluded restraint was preferable to a smash.
On the archery field
real-life Maids and Robin Hoods
with bowstrings true and taut, honed
their arrows’ trajectories towards
their target’s golden centre --
a bull’s eye earned a kiss,
a rich reward.
A match in progress
on the cricket square was being played
at a leisurely pace, interrupted only
by an emphatic owzat to which
a minor god calmly raised a finger
and a batsman walked acknowledging
polite applause for another useful innings.
Needless to say the sun shone that day
and spectators cat-napped in safety
but, as we climbed back over the gate,
we kept ourselves small knowing
we’d have to grow-up
in an altogether different world.
Geoffrey Winch
LIGHT RELIEF
Like you’ve been driving hundreds of miles alone,
blind, through a seamless dark desert at night.
Time is suspended on the unwinding black ribbon,
not changing in texture, unrelenting monochrome.
No moonlight, no starlight, and not one car’s passed by --
it’s as if you're not moving in your main-beam light.
The radio’s music is the sound of space --
the distant DJ may not even exist. Your lungs
squeeze your breathing like negative assurance --
next time this journey will be under the sun
(to hell with the raging heat!)
Then an uncertain light – just a pin-prick, not a star –
elusive at first, finds somewhere to rest
upon your imagined horizon.
You don’t let it drift -- its steadiness is comfort --
you are, after all, not the sole inhabitant of earth.
Your foot, heavy as rock, eases back on the gas
when a second dim light twins with the first.
Now you purposely rest your head on the headrest,
take a hand from the wheel not owning relief.
You laugh at the DJ -- his silliest joke --
tap your fingers to his music, watch the clustering lights.
Deep-breathing becomes easy -- you cruise your way home.
Geoffrey Winch
LIGHTS OF MONTEREY
Remnant shadows cast by
a decaying sun were closing-down
my final Monterey afternoon.
Relaxed by early evening’s charm
on a bench above the marina -- the day’s
last sailors were making fast their boats --
I was listening to naked rigging playing
jazz-rattle to the breeze. Fisherman’s Wharf
gradually became a darkened patch -- earlier
I had been there sussing-out souvenirs.
Then little lights bloomed inside, created
a honey-glow -- their reflections rippled
on the water.
After battening-down their hatches
the sailors were heading ashore --
with one hand they held the rope-rails
strung the length of the rolling duck-boards,
bobbing lantern lights they held in the other.
Absorbed to the point of being lost in their world
I was taking no notice of others passing by
until she came from Fisherman’s Wharf
and sat down by my side. Disturbed
from my reverie, I nodded and said ‘Hi’ --
she smiled an elfin smile -- ‘Hi’ she replied.
She was wearing blue denim -- a red headband
and long black hair framed her peaceful face --
the perfume she wore was flower-power. She
was a beautiful person -- she had honeyed skin
and deep in her eyes was friendship’s light --
a light that would travel on with me.
Geoffrey Winch
MEETING OF MINDS
My soul lives in the city - uptown fancies,
downtown follies collaborate to stimulate
my desires. Portents seething beneath
shady complexions evolve as knowledge,
bright perceptions that feed my fire while
your heart is rooted in the wilderness. You
never blow hot like the potent sun but
understand its risings, settings, primal reasons.
Moon and stardust flow in your blood,
sunlight and wisdom from your eye.
I applaud neon, laser-jazz, vital flashing signs -
for me they are a city’s sweat even on a cold,
cold night, upping my pulse-rate - their oxygen
of passion runs through my veins sustaining
my rationale, the crucible of life in my brain.
In wildlife voices, rhythms, vibrations you feel
the heartbeats of earth, sea and air - they speak
to you their secret tongues as night chills,
stillness, silence, invincible distance descend
to test the faith you never forgo - but then
you meet me on the urban edge where, eagle-high
we soar together and, with serpents’ eyes, we realise
just how the wider vistas of our world converge.
Geoffrey Winch
NOTES FOR THE FUTURE
The throng of the afternoon park
converses with the sun -
standing, squatting, sitting -
grass patches all messed-up
with bedrolls, meths stoves,
ice cream, smoke
then comes the human silence hum.
Josephine with her red headband
and Trish (a white rose in her hair)
kiss Daniel on the mouth
to the guitarist’s edgy opening riff
and the Hammond’s rotating bliss.
Drums and bass lay down the beat,
Nigel sings through a feedback shriek
and West Abutment are underway -
and they play, and play, and play.
Trish rests her head on Josephine’s breast -
Daniel - eyes closed - strokes her back
until the guitar comes to a stop. Drums
and organ then fade away
while Nigel with a sigh
kisses the sky goodbye
and leaves the stage
for the bassist to maintain
the throb of the afternoon’s refrain
playing paper notes - holding each one
then setting it free
to carry Trish, Daniel and Josephine
into a higher ecstasy - a heavenly dome
of light and shade
where red, blue and yellow boxes
stand empty on a mirrored floor
waiting to be filled
with their tomorrows’ crystal balls.
Geoffrey Winch
TRAGEDY : ACT VI
It’s not about the breathless silence that falls
upon your audience’s ears still ringing
with your last soliloquy -
or the first impatient hand-clap quickly
swallowed by swelling applause,
the curtain calls, standing ovation
or wallowing in mutual admiration.
It’s not about leaving the stage with a wave,
a flourish, blowing a kiss - not about
a tragedian going out in style.
Nor about your affair in the dressing-room
with your mirror, changing faces, disguising
yourself in everyday clothes,
shutting the stage door as you go.
It’s not about talent - the only prop
you’ve ever needed, always adlibbing
graffiti scripts, still safe in your pocket .
It’s something to do with returning
to where you reside, the ghost
of act five beginning to haunt you
in the tube train window, the lines
of communication and power surging
only into darkness, the clatter
of every sudden change in direction,
the harsh reality of those skirmishes
at every brashly lit station.
Also to do with stars being clouded over, rain
starting to fall before you open the front door.
Mostly though it’s about resting in silence when
your heroes are still unspent.
Geoffrey Winch