Guest Poets
Allan Smith
Allan Smith is a West Sussex poet whose work often reflects his love of the countryside where he lives.
HAND-BELL STILL RINGS
When I first heard the school bell ring
I was an apprehensive infant
on a misty, damp September morning
squeezing uncomfortably
through a scuffed-blue iron gate
to a little building set apart
bounded by green lawns
and concrete bunkers filled with coal.
That hand-rung bell
soon became more friendly
as I grew and learned, explored, investigated,
discovered answers to someone else’s questions
convincing myself
that I somehow must be the same.
Adolescent peals gave way to wedding bells
forging my connection to a similar soul
then duties arrived, worries and imagined ills,
cold scales of grief
weighing out my share.
Electric tills, buzzers and beepers
cruel night time telephones
rasping their tragic news.
Quaint, calming town hall clocks
reverentially confirming each hour
to secure, settled families and friends
industrious in their glad achievements.
Now there is just the hollow sound
of a hand-bell shaken by some weary wrist
beneath the din of interactive traffic
and the all-consuming silent spread
of people bound by collective unconscious.
The hand-bell hits those two familiar notes
not strident, nor musical
forever restricted by a short knot of rope.
I hear it in the distance
from a tree-covered hill
or rising out of a valley bottom
desperately calling me back.
In those tiny years it rang for a purpose
ends and beginnings
giving structure to those precious times.
Today’s bell is muffled,
continuing unbidden,
fading to an even lesser chime
though carrying on
to some unknown mornings, behind the fog
of disillusion and doubt.
The above poem was Highly Commended in the Decanto
Poetry Competition 2009
ATLANTIC SUMMER
A rippling blue reflection of Heaven
wending ever-westwards
widening
as it it reaches more nearly
the wind-warmed expanse
of turning ocean
seal-basked along its beaches.
Multitudinous fragments of sand,
miniature shining crystals
jelled into dry honey dust
lodged between toes
and rinsed twice a day
at the golden moon's volition.
Drifting down stream,
souls and bodies at rest
waving to adventurers
who clip the waters
in pulsating speedboats
surging against the waves direction.
Camel river's channel glides through the county
weaving between tors, rocky outcrops
and blonded cornfields
ripened,
ready soon for the harvester.
Red-bellied salmon
bearing spots of adulthood
lay spawn,
this progeny stuck precariously
to eel-grass tendrils
bending beneath the watery force.
Peace and perfection
sun- bronzed holidays
west country folk
whose future lies as open
as the estuary itself.
Part of the flow
without obligation
delighting in the company of cormorants,
sparkle-blue flashes of kingfisher
and scavenging gulls,
cunning and weary opportunists
feeding upon that which others leave behind.
Each section of river
distinct in its own character
though never self-contained
eternal, joyous heat of summer
tempered by calming
forehead-balming Atlantic breezes
pastoral symphonies within
evoked and uplifted
held aloft
half between sky and water
accompany merry travellers
whose voyage of discovery
streams calmly
towards fulfilment.
Allan Smith
THE ISLAND WITHIN
When Autumn descends upon the country
tired oak leaves from your guardian ring
will fall upon the hallowed isle
and lie upon fragrant humus
formed from a thousand bouquets.
Hopeful acorns then taken root
will shelter from adversity
awaiting their chance to begin a journey
towards the infinite sky.
When sharp winter winds
cut in from the north like angry jibes,
you shall lie peacefully in eternal slumber
safe from the pounding
of vengeful storms
watching lake waters rise
up to the oval
gently lapping at its verdant banks
like lover's tongues
in long sought after sublimation.
Springtime will come
with its sherbet - dusted hazel rods
and delicately scented primroses
their blooms made bigger
by the rotted remnants
of so many admirer's grief.
New life in the hawthorns
tadpoles wiggling in nature's revived miracle
joy of the lemon- yellow season shall abound.
Then Summer once more,
those oaks dense with foliage
shading you kindly
from fierce angry sun.
never again will your spirit be damaged
betrayed or neglected
harried or mocked
gentle Diana
at peace from all cruelty
on your childhood haven,
island within.
Allan Smith
TEAL ON THE WATER
My first glimpse of teal
Was as a young boy
It was on a tea-scented picture card
Carefully extracted
From its Brooke Bond packet for me.
I saw a little duck
Bronze-headed, panelled
In lime and emerald green
Rufous-cheeked, blue circled eyes
Silver feathers
Speckled in the sunlight.
These shades made
The baby-faced duck
Blend into a wintry landscape
I fell in love
With this most amiable of waterfowl
And longed to see
Some living teal one day.
Two thwarted generations later
I peer through the hinged window
Of a wooden bird sanctuary hide
Probing with binoculars for winter ducks
When a group of burnished faces
Bobbing on choppy freshwater waves
Rose like rockets above the lake
Swerved and veered above their reflection
Before alighting on reedy shallows —
This spring of teal
Newly arrived from Norway
Brought to life
That Bird Portrait illustration
From nineteen-fifty-seven.
I wrote down names
Of other ducks I saw
Pochard, gadwall, shelduck, wigeon
Remembering these also
From childhood photos
An unbelievable age ago.
It was my own failing
In not seeing them sooner
Allowing adolescence
And early adulthood
To slip by in a bird-less void
Of pop music, pleasure-seeking
And half-hearted courtship displays.
I had always believed
That early picture to be embellished
Like photographs of pot plants
In commercial catalogues
Colours seen intense in other people’s eyes
Faded greys and dowdy browns for me.
Those teal I saw
On a Saturday November morning
At last looked the same to me
As to other weekend bird lovers
Proud to have their progeny
Tenderly held above their knees
Themselves gazing through miniature goggles
Seeing the real birds straight away
Not needing to rely
On the words and illustrations of others
As they grow and develop
Full of wonder, free of fear.
Allan Smith
BLUE PRIMROSES
They arrived after coffee in a bottle-green, Commer van
and are carried across to wooden benches
to sit in state, awaiting worthy owners
like aristocratic cats abandoned in a refuge.
Blue primroses,
chest-close in Grimsby herring boxes,
loose-slatted but holding together
Victoria-blue flowers within
striking and sombre on a February day,
its damp chill filling the windless air,
sun obscured by a thousand layers of high grey cloud,
each plant set in its own clod of Sussex mud
cold and clammy, stuck beneath fingernails,
making them ache.
Soiling the coat-cuffs as plants are lifted out
to be re-spaced for improved presentation.
Their roots are thin, wiry but opportunistic
they delved deeply into former topsoil
to dredge up any goodness from below
leaves now firm and crinkly-green
snowy days behind us, springtime still to come.
Flower centres are off-yellow
dusky crowns contained within their dark-blue framework.
Such regularity can not be found in the wild,
just spring-sweet yellows as yet a spell away,
though buff-coloured hazel-rods hang in clusters
leaving damp sherbet-smears upon our coats
when we brush against them.
Blue primroses leave no trace,
deep and stark against bare boards.
Motorists see them as miniaturized sea-specks,
their season is short, their numbers are few
and when the sun triumphs over perpetual mists,
they will be done
planted into borders
gradually losing dominance
as reds and pinks come into flower
and those haunting colours are gone
which so epitomised the cupid month.
Blue, honest, true and consistent
tenacious enough to survive alone
though needing tender hands to make them flourish
keep their colour and grow new shoots.
Allan Smith
THE FOUNTAIN
Summertime had flooded in
to that sacred Roman square.
Babbling springs arose
from the gladdened earth
and foam cascaded,
bouncing off stone saucers
dispersing among the fluted flagstones.
Two tender people
stopped to make a wish
eyes wrinkled, hands clasped,
lips smiling in expectation.
Their silver coin slipped to the bottom
with a soft thud, almost inaudible
their mutual dream had registered
in the infinite pool of collective thought.
Water splashes caressed her ankles
comforting heavenly balm.
Eyelids opened
and they lost themselves
in the glow of unfettered passion.
That first Friday in the month of May
before the stream of tourists came
seeds were sown endeavours cast,
two hearts invisibly bound for a lifetime
a centesimo eroded into unseen mineral
widening ripples stroked the surface
as their dearest desire came true.
Allan Smith
BY A THREAD
A yellow striped caterpillar rotating in its silken strand
Which dangles from an oak branch
In a summer forest come of age.
Dappled sunlight stretches down from a June sky
Brimming with the brightness
Of May time promise fulfilled.
A tiny creature wriggling,
Its body contracting and expanding
In accordion segments a black dot denoting its head.
Its life line had been woven from within
And now suspends this vulnerable creature
At risk from predators on the wing as it bravely holds position.
Thirty years have turned away
Endlessly into inner space
As I stand inside that wood again
And watch the same insect writhe.
Trees above me seemed much higher then
And life has continually contorted
Towards some perfect, unknown conclusion,
All existence hanging by a thread.
Allan Smith
BIRDS ARE BUSY
Birds are busy in hedge and tree
How I envy their industry
Gathering up any grub they see
So to gladly feed their progeny.
Nests are woven with skill and love
Wren uses feather down
Swallow moulds mud.
Timeless avian antics above
Chick-rearing instinct in their blood.
Six frantic weeks till the end of May
Sweet songs delivered
And eggs being laid.
Leaf cover growing denser day by day,
Let winds be gentle and owls stay away.
Mothers stuff food into babies’ beaks
Non-stop action through springtime weeks
Flying through farmstead forest and creeks,
In lowest marshland and highest peaks.
Blue tits hanging upside down
Starlings squawking in the heart of town.
Jay bird bold with a pink, raised crown
Humble dunnock spotted brown.
By midsummer’s night some fledglings fly
With hope and courage
Through a wide open sky.
While the wingless watch their lives flit by
And the heavy-feathered wonder and cry.
Birds are busy I long to be too
In a worthwhile cause that would carry me through
These barren skies and promises due
To that free-flowing skyway
I am sure I once knew.
Allan Smith
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Toby Wren
WHERE SECRETS HIDE
Beyond the barricaded door
locked and abandoned long ago
where none have come for many years.
Left and forgotten…none to know,
where all remains as was before
the frail and former owner died -
and every dim-lit room appears
a silent place, where secrets hide.
Where paper peeling from the walls
has let the damp of years show through,
and fading paintwork everywhere
tells of neglect, and much to do.
This place where no-one ever calls,
and dust has settled, soft and deep
upon the floors and winding stair,
where only creeping ghosts now sleep.
Where boarded windows now allow
thin shafts of soft and filtered light
in through the grimy window panes
on faded furniture once bright.
And locked away from time, somehow,
the hours pass unheeded by
a silent clock, and all remains
lost in a place where old dreams die.
Yet outside, in the busy street,
a noisy world goes past each day –
the house un-noticed, having been
allowed to crumble and decay.
Beyond the sound of passing feet,
where rooms are hushed and lost to fate
with settled dust, and none are seen
except the ghosts that quietly wait.
Toby Wren
FARMYARD CORNER
Beneath the tall and gently swaying nettles,
where terra cotta pots lie lost and broken
and tangled brambles run and root and shoot and ramble on.
Where musty dampness creeps and slowly settles
on fading sacking, mouldering and soaken –
and left to rot, forgotten…of some purpose lost and gone.
In hidden mottled shadows slowly drifting
with hazy sunlight filtered soft and mellow,
where caterpillars curl beneath soft leaves that disappear.
And long, entwining weeds, their thick stems lifting
to flowers, small and bright in shades of yellow –
or thin and jagged petals turned to puffs of seeded spheres.
A realm of secret, long-abandoned hiding –
a wooden cartwheel blanched by sun and showers
with splintered spokes held fixed within a rusted iron ring.
And snails in slow procession gently gliding
on gleaming trails of slime, whilst passing hours
drift undisturbed, but for a breeze with gentle whispering.
This farmyard corner left for things not needed
and of no value, though they still survive,
and gathered as a history of labour from the past.
A chronicle of yesterdays unheeded,
with worthless relics telling of the lives
of those who come and go…remembered by such things that last.
Toby Wren
ABROAD AT NIGHT
It came and went and was not seen.
Between the twilight shades of dusk
and pallid light of early dawn,
when creatures stir as may have been
asleep by day, roused by the musk
of evening and by shadows drawn.
And softly then abroad at night,
with hidden movement but a stir
of leafy undergrowth, or sway
of tall grass whitened in the light
of moon through hazy gossamer
of passing cloud in ghostly grey.
Beyond the farmhouse, hushed and still,
and sleeping guard-dog unaware:
beyond the hedge along the lane
hung with the dew of winter’s chill:
beyond the field and tractor there,
unseen it went and back again.
And long before the dawning day –
before the stir of birds was heard,
it sought once more a cleft between
deep roots and rock…to hide away
in silence, as the morning stirred.
To come and go and be not seen.
Toby Wren
HALF-DONE DAY
The day begins quite well and there is plenty to be done –
the flower tubs need water from a tangled hose…such fun!
But then I see my dusty car in need of a shampoo –
so best I go to find the keys and get the car washed too.
Beneath the hook where keys are hung there’s mail from yesterday
which needs to be examined –
I should do it right away.
So with car keys on the table I start sorting through the bills,
and throw away the junk mail in a bin, which quickly fills.
Before the bin gets emptied I put bills safe in a rack –
to pay them later when I go out with the rubbish sack.
But first I need to find my cheques – just one left in the book.
There should be more in my desk drawer,
so go to take a look.
It’s there I find a can of drink I left, but not too old,
and so decide to put it in the fridge to keep it cold.
A vase of flowers in the kitchen have begun to wilt –
to water them, I put the can down where it won’t get spilt.
I then discover there my reading glasses I mislaid,
which should be put back on my desk for when the bills get paid.
But first the need to water flowers seems to fill my mind,
so I put my glasses on the fridge –
where then I chance to find
the pen I had been looking for – I wondered where it went.
I put it on the kitchen table, being still intent
on watering the flowers, although as I start to pour
some water seems to suddenly spill out across the floor.
So I go to fetch a cloth, which isn’t where it ought to be –
and pausing for a moment look around at what I see…
The flower tubs aren’t watered – next to them a tangled hose.
The dusty car still waiting to be washed, I must suppose.
The bills aren’t paid and now they’re lost…
the cheque-book’s missing too.
There’s now a bag of rubbish on my desk –
quite strange, but true.
A warming can of drink sits on the kitchen window-sill,
next to a vase of dropping blooms in need of water still.
I cannot find my glasses or my pen…
I could go on
and talk about the car keys, which mysteriously have gone!
But worst of all…and this is sad and never meant in fun,
I’ve been so busy,
though it seems there’s not a darn thing done!
Toby Wren
I REMEMBER YOU WELL
I remember your smile…
I remember it well
from a photograph found in a drawer.
And I pause for a while
where such memories dwell
of a time that I knew once before.
I remember your hair –
how it shone in the sun,
but the memory that I like best
is of being aware
of your white blouse undone,
and the soft, gentle curve of your breast.
I remember your eyes
and your delicate chin –
I recall very clearly your face.
I remember your thighs
and the touch of your skin,
from the warmth of a tender embrace.
I remember you well –
though not often, it’s true,
for the days bring new thoughts as they will.
Yet I cannot dispel
these few thoughts now of you,
and so I remember you still.
I remember the days…
I remember the nights.
I remember how love was a game
that we played, and the ways
of a thousand delights –
but I cannot remember your name.
Toby Wren
NIGHT SEARCH
He sensed a movement… turned to look
where shifting shadows dimly lay
beyond the flickering lantern light.
Then carefully he made his way
out to the barn, so grey and dark
despite the pale, reflected glow
of drifting, opalescent clouds
and pallid moon that shone as bright.
And stood there, with the creaking shift
of wooden rafters overhead,
he knew then of some hidden thing
that brought a faint, uncertain dread.
He paused and felt a chill of air
that softly came and went once more –
a passing errant draft, he thought,
though he remained not wholly sure.
And so he listened, though there came
no other sound upon the air –
from far and wide, a stillness found
where all lay hushed around him there.
He paused and nothing saw or heard
as might have watched him come and go,
yet sensed it there… some hidden thing
of which he would not ever know.
Toby Wren
INK UPON PAPER
Mostly, it seems, we leave little behind us
for others to find, or at times to remind us
of where we have been, or of what we have done –
the sum of achievements from what we have won.
Many the things to which others lay claim
as purchased and owned…or the family name,
but little of artistic merit or skill
to become something special, that speaks of us still.
Mostly, it seems, it is given to few
to fabricate something unique…something new
of canvas and paint, or of metal, or wood –
or ink upon paper, such thoughts understood.
Yet the greatest of gifts left for others to find,
is of shared love and memories we leave behind.
Toby Wren
FINDING WORDS
I will write about the seasons and the coming of the rain:
the uniqueness of each day
that we will seek to find again.
I will write of frosty mornings and a time of pure delight,
when we may wander out to view the stars
so clear and bright…
and a changing in the weather
when the north wind starts to blow,
and brings a sudden stillness lost beneath a shroud of snow.
I will write about the coming of the early morning light,
and snowdrops by the sheltered hedge
so delicate and white…
and the thrust of green blades showing
with their promise soon of gold,
and a slow deliberation as the days of spring unfold.
I will write of summer sunshine and the singing of the birds –
and of a thousand new delights
that I will put in words…
and the russet charm of autumn
with the harvest this will yield,
from days we spend together and the happiness we build.
I will write of all these things that simple words may yet explain,
with the changing of the seasons
and the coming of the rain.
Toby Wren
NASTURTIUMS
noun (botanical) : kinds of pungent-tasting cruciferous plants:
(improp) trailing garden plant with bright yellow or red flowers (L)
A sunny week has barely passed since scattered seeds were sown
along the garden wall – there, in the dark-brown, fertile ground.
And yet, already risen, small amoeba leaves have grown,
with promise soon of coloured trumpet flowers all around.
And comes a thought of childhood and nasturtiums I once grew -
and schooldays then recalled with many tutors, long ago.
And Mr Beckensale – he, one of many, who I knew
that taught us English grammar… which he said we ought to know.
And of his love of poetry…though alien then to me:
his dreary lessons passing with each long, slow, weary hour.
The scattered seeds on stony ground, that he might never see
some small, green leaf or, given time, that first bright, fragile flower.
And might have read this poem, quite amazed…and softly smiled
to find himself remembered by so difficult a child.
Toby Wren
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Geoffrey Winch
Geoffrey Winch is a Slipstream poet who lives in West Sussex. His poem, MEETING OF MINDS, first appeared in Littoral magazine in 2006. NOTES FOR THE FUTURE was a winning poem in the Quantum Leap 5x5 competition 2008. It will appear in the booklet about to be published by Quantum Leap magazine. TRAGEDY: ACT VI was published by Iota in 2005. CHAMPAGNE IN MOSCOW, OVER THE GATE, LIGHT RELIEF and LIGHTS OF MONTEREY all appear in his latest collection entitled 'Letting the Road-Dust Settle'.
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
-----------------------------------------------------------
John Smith
John Smith is a long-time friend and poet who lives in Bristol.
DEATH AND CHOCOLATE BISCUITS
There’s death . . . and there’s accidental death.
The second, one of Fate’s cruel jokes.
Peter and I were eight when first we met with death,
and now, recalling this, I’m seventy-seven,
and Peter may be seventy-seven, too.
I hope so — I really do.
Donald — an evacuee from London
with foreign ways — was nearly seven,
will always be nearly seven. Yes, we thought
him alien, with proud, embarrassed differences;
his looks, his words, his clothes, his peculiar
methods of doing simple things.
That morning, running to school, Donald
— a hundred yards behind and trying hard to follow us —
became different in another, final, way: he became
a statistic. Alerted by the squeal of brakes we stopped,
ran quickly back to gawp at the bloodied bundle
and were soon surrounded by a small and silent crowd.
Too shocked to speak, we caught each other’s eye
and turned, pushed out without a word, and carried
on to school. Hours later, silent still, we walked back
— by a different route — to Peter’s house;
to the sagging figure of Peter’s mother, standing
on the pavement flanked by two Policemen.
She was softly sobbing and, to my surprise, included
me in her hot and tight embrace, then she asked
us all inside and we sat around the kitchen table.
Guilt and relief soon led to cups of tea and chocolate
biscuits. Catching a nod from Peter, I reached
for the plate — and began . . .
John Smith
FOIBLE
Throughout my life, each day,
each hour, each minute, I am concerned
with the economy of movement.
Passing through from place to place,
from room to room, my restless eye
notes every foreign object unhappy
in a strange and unaccustomed place
and longing to be taken ‘home’ whenever
I am going next.
The empty glass enjoyed on the veranda
begs to be rescued and restored
to the kitchen, but I know that if I choose
to go by way of my darkened study,
I can partner both the paring knife used
two days ago to quarter a fine Cox’s Pippin,
together with the bouncing spring of skilled,
unbroken peeling that lies forlorn in transient
abode inside the cut-glass ash-tray.
John Smith
IN THE BEGINNING...
When — slick canalled — my soft-suppled bones
responded to a rhythmic, ‘push; push; push’
what chance of my replying, ‘no; no; no’
in terror at an exit to a place so unlike
from that so rudely torn?
Here, fierce light burned and blinded me, while
sounds I had but faintly heard assailed unfolding
ears; and, with a gulping rush of foreign breath
delivering loud dissent, revealed my new world’s
cruelty – as everybody watching clapped and smiled.
John Smith
EARLY TRAINING
I would never have been allowed into the gang,
had not ‘Nige’, my brother, been the boss.
But, even then, I still had to endure the walk
through the patch of stinging-nettles; but dock
leaves were plentiful and tears were quickly
extinguished by pride and smacks on the back.
I soon learnt, anyway, it was just a nominal
position: running errands, carrying things,
keeping watch — for what, I was never told —
but it was enough to be trusted with the ‘greeting’,
the secret handshake, the passwords and a new name,
which no one ever used — except me — signed
on trivial messages to be left in a hole in a tree, too high
for me to reach, until ‘Bunty’, the second-in-command,
hid an orange box nearby. The years passed,
and my most enduring memory is ‘Nige’, at twelve
years old, some thirty-or-forty feet in the air —
walking with slow and careful steps along a narrow
plank set across the space between two blocks
of half-built flats. Were such risky feats
the precursors of dropping into Normandy
and leading his platoon to liberate
Honfleur, with the loss of two men? There
are times when I think it highly likely.
John Smith
THE FIRST DAY AT THE GUARDS DEPOT, CATERHAM
After the train, the truck;
after the suitcase and carrier bag;
after the shouting and organised chaos,
I thought of the scarlet
After the suiting and fitting,
which made us anonymous;
after the marching and stamping in rhythm,
I thought of the scarlet.
After the bedding and eating utensils;
after the boots and khaki uniform;
after the shower and shouted instructions,
I thought of the scarlet.
And after the bugle
had sent us to bed,
I lay in the darkness,
and dreamt of the scarlet.
Of Inkerman, Blenheim, Cambrai
and Ramillies, rhythms of drumming
and always the horses,
the pitiful horses.
Of the thousands and thousands
of dying and wounded —
the blood of the English soaking
their scarlet.
And I thought of the choice that was
given my brother — Borstal or Army —
and wondered just why he had
chosen the scarlet, ‘till I finally slept
through the tossings and turnings
of nightmared strangers,
with thoughts of tomorrow
and visions of scarlet.
John Smith
WHEN I SIT DOWN AND CONSIDER.
It is hard to be a reluctant agnostic,
to talk of your god with a lower-case g;
for I haven’t travelled my path in anger
or pride in my own unpopular stance.
I became this way because my brain,
(that your god is alleged to have
given me), won’t allow my belief, though
I’ve tried . . . god yes, how I’ve tried!
And in what way does failure to believe
make me different from you,
or others? I do my best to follow
the finer precepts of my fellow man.
It is hard to be a reluctant agnostic;
to be scorned and vilified, but at least
it is only until my tenure on life
has come, without fear, to an end.
John Smith
-----------------------------------------------------------
Dorothy Carmadella
Dorothy is a long-term friend, now retired and living in Christchurch. Her concerns for the environment, and her love of animals, are the subjects of her poems.
NATURE’S LAMENT
Forgive, O Lord, the men below
Who chopped the trees that birds no more
Could perch, and chirp, and fly around
In space that now is void of sound.
It was our Father’s will to make
This earth upon for us to live
He filled it with creative Grace
So all may have their proper place.
The trees, of course, will weep from pain
Their beauty dead, their structure torn
To shreds, to waste, to burn and toss
Whilst men on earth care not the loss!
The birds, another home they search
Perhaps — upon a kinder shore?
So they can build their lives and nests
No doubt their hope in God still rests.
Dorothy Carmadella
-----------------------------------------------------------
Simon John Harvey
My husband is better known as a photographer (aka Xanda) but he is also a writer. Mostly he writes fiction but occasionally he turns his hand to poetry and has been published in a number of magazines including Literary Review and Poetry Now.
MELANIE MISSES HER CUE
Melanie existed on the threshold of exception,
always the muse, always amusing,
not one but two who repositories of joy.
She was a parade of charm and wit,
a paradigm of skimpy vestments,
a positive crescendo of delight.
Her quest for ease was hushed
in an authentic maze of colour.
With her aspirations spent she gazed
and coolly apprehended her success.
Perhaps it was the subtle application of narcotics,
or the compound distillation of her pride
that accelerated, downward, her progression
to the floor where she remained, unmoving
and docile until some consideration could be shown.
In effect, she passed out and the myth
of her delirium, on waking, was to excuse
all and sundry for the failure inside.
Hers was a foolish complaint
embittered by the coffee that
filtered through her, enervating,
sparking as it went,
making her twitch just a little
and blink more often than she should
and vow to never do the same again.
HUSH
Hush, and if you breathe,
breathe softly on the face of death.
The pathway you have chosen
is strewn with vagrant analogies.
Each step is a prescient blunder,
each pause a reminiscence,
a vacant scatological absurdity.
Each voice is a waste of sound,
each name a waste of sense,
each sense attuned to just one memory.
Thus it is that silence offers
the most profound reflection of our selves.
Hush, the terrified linguists
revoke all licence to speak.
Each letter is removed from the air
until none remain in suspense.
Bound words hide their sacred meanings
in dark and featureless walls,
but the plaster cracks,
and the plasterer hears their lament.
ABANDONED
There is still something abandoned
in your tightly folded arms,
in your cast off aspect,
and I find myself
addicted to your darkness.
When it rains,
your separating hands
reach out to apprehend...something,
anything at all.
And yet they come back empty.
Your interminable suffrage is taxing;
you are vexed, that much is for sure.
Despondency cuts well above your heart
and leaves you tentative.
You hoard unconsummated sighs.
Nothing is as curative as distance,
so you thought,
but inside you keep schedules of frustration,
and shun the bitter truth
that you were wrong.
THE NATURE OF ART
It isn't the soft focussing,
or atmospheric side-lighting
or the fact that it's in monochrome.
It isn't even the composition, the pose,
the facial expression,
or the shallow depth of field
but something more profound
that makes this picture art.
It is something that eludes
all but the artist
who recognises, early on,
that art is so much more
than the ingredients;
who achives it
but is never sure
how it came to be;
who sometimes looks,
in puzzlement,
at pictures he took years ago
that move him now
more than they ever did.
FIGMENTS
[On being influenced by David Hamilton]
If only there was some way to explain,
in words, just what it is I need to say.
But words fail me,
and I'm left with an amalgam of ideas
that take some understanding;
that could be misinterpreted so easily:
these mental rushes,
these sequences of linked, still frames.
I know the way that other voyeurs work;
I've heard the words they use
so inappropriately.
Only rarely do they hint at something deeper;
something more profound;
some artistic or aesthetic edge
as they get near, but never to, the point.
I am not afraid to say
that these figments of imagination
are not objects or abstracted bodies.
They are living, breathing women
who exist beyond the page;
beyond the picture.
When you look at what he's done,
then look with better eyes
than you've been using until now.
You'll be surprised, perhaps.
that there's a striking
lack of exploitation.
What there is:
fragile, transient perfection
and there is no other way to capture this,
because all too soon you'll blink
...and then it's gone.
A LASTING IMPRESSION
If by chance you died today,
I would still photograph you.
Corruption would not steal
your beauty from my lens.
Carefully I would focus
on your very last expression;
candidly I would digitise you
bit by lucid bit.
Over time I would explore you;
the subtle and the more extreme
changes in your skin-tone,
deathly palour blossoming in spectra.
Your gentle curves would bloat,
then cave in as time passed
and the heartless laws of nature
had their wicked way with you.
Your flesh would rot,
exposing sallow bones
surrounded by a stain
so like your living shadow.
Then I would put away my camera
and settle a plain shroud over you.
Respectful, I would thereby leave
a last and lasting impression.
Allan Smith is a West Sussex poet whose work often reflects his love of the countryside where he lives.
HAND-BELL STILL RINGS
When I first heard the school bell ring
I was an apprehensive infant
on a misty, damp September morning
squeezing uncomfortably
through a scuffed-blue iron gate
to a little building set apart
bounded by green lawns
and concrete bunkers filled with coal.
That hand-rung bell
soon became more friendly
as I grew and learned, explored, investigated,
discovered answers to someone else’s questions
convincing myself
that I somehow must be the same.
Adolescent peals gave way to wedding bells
forging my connection to a similar soul
then duties arrived, worries and imagined ills,
cold scales of grief
weighing out my share.
Electric tills, buzzers and beepers
cruel night time telephones
rasping their tragic news.
Quaint, calming town hall clocks
reverentially confirming each hour
to secure, settled families and friends
industrious in their glad achievements.
Now there is just the hollow sound
of a hand-bell shaken by some weary wrist
beneath the din of interactive traffic
and the all-consuming silent spread
of people bound by collective unconscious.
The hand-bell hits those two familiar notes
not strident, nor musical
forever restricted by a short knot of rope.
I hear it in the distance
from a tree-covered hill
or rising out of a valley bottom
desperately calling me back.
In those tiny years it rang for a purpose
ends and beginnings
giving structure to those precious times.
Today’s bell is muffled,
continuing unbidden,
fading to an even lesser chime
though carrying on
to some unknown mornings, behind the fog
of disillusion and doubt.
The above poem was Highly Commended in the Decanto
Poetry Competition 2009
ATLANTIC SUMMER
A rippling blue reflection of Heaven
wending ever-westwards
widening
as it it reaches more nearly
the wind-warmed expanse
of turning ocean
seal-basked along its beaches.
Multitudinous fragments of sand,
miniature shining crystals
jelled into dry honey dust
lodged between toes
and rinsed twice a day
at the golden moon's volition.
Drifting down stream,
souls and bodies at rest
waving to adventurers
who clip the waters
in pulsating speedboats
surging against the waves direction.
Camel river's channel glides through the county
weaving between tors, rocky outcrops
and blonded cornfields
ripened,
ready soon for the harvester.
Red-bellied salmon
bearing spots of adulthood
lay spawn,
this progeny stuck precariously
to eel-grass tendrils
bending beneath the watery force.
Peace and perfection
sun- bronzed holidays
west country folk
whose future lies as open
as the estuary itself.
Part of the flow
without obligation
delighting in the company of cormorants,
sparkle-blue flashes of kingfisher
and scavenging gulls,
cunning and weary opportunists
feeding upon that which others leave behind.
Each section of river
distinct in its own character
though never self-contained
eternal, joyous heat of summer
tempered by calming
forehead-balming Atlantic breezes
pastoral symphonies within
evoked and uplifted
held aloft
half between sky and water
accompany merry travellers
whose voyage of discovery
streams calmly
towards fulfilment.
Allan Smith
THE ISLAND WITHIN
When Autumn descends upon the country
tired oak leaves from your guardian ring
will fall upon the hallowed isle
and lie upon fragrant humus
formed from a thousand bouquets.
Hopeful acorns then taken root
will shelter from adversity
awaiting their chance to begin a journey
towards the infinite sky.
When sharp winter winds
cut in from the north like angry jibes,
you shall lie peacefully in eternal slumber
safe from the pounding
of vengeful storms
watching lake waters rise
up to the oval
gently lapping at its verdant banks
like lover's tongues
in long sought after sublimation.
Springtime will come
with its sherbet - dusted hazel rods
and delicately scented primroses
their blooms made bigger
by the rotted remnants
of so many admirer's grief.
New life in the hawthorns
tadpoles wiggling in nature's revived miracle
joy of the lemon- yellow season shall abound.
Then Summer once more,
those oaks dense with foliage
shading you kindly
from fierce angry sun.
never again will your spirit be damaged
betrayed or neglected
harried or mocked
gentle Diana
at peace from all cruelty
on your childhood haven,
island within.
Allan Smith
TEAL ON THE WATER
My first glimpse of teal
Was as a young boy
It was on a tea-scented picture card
Carefully extracted
From its Brooke Bond packet for me.
I saw a little duck
Bronze-headed, panelled
In lime and emerald green
Rufous-cheeked, blue circled eyes
Silver feathers
Speckled in the sunlight.
These shades made
The baby-faced duck
Blend into a wintry landscape
I fell in love
With this most amiable of waterfowl
And longed to see
Some living teal one day.
Two thwarted generations later
I peer through the hinged window
Of a wooden bird sanctuary hide
Probing with binoculars for winter ducks
When a group of burnished faces
Bobbing on choppy freshwater waves
Rose like rockets above the lake
Swerved and veered above their reflection
Before alighting on reedy shallows —
This spring of teal
Newly arrived from Norway
Brought to life
That Bird Portrait illustration
From nineteen-fifty-seven.
I wrote down names
Of other ducks I saw
Pochard, gadwall, shelduck, wigeon
Remembering these also
From childhood photos
An unbelievable age ago.
It was my own failing
In not seeing them sooner
Allowing adolescence
And early adulthood
To slip by in a bird-less void
Of pop music, pleasure-seeking
And half-hearted courtship displays.
I had always believed
That early picture to be embellished
Like photographs of pot plants
In commercial catalogues
Colours seen intense in other people’s eyes
Faded greys and dowdy browns for me.
Those teal I saw
On a Saturday November morning
At last looked the same to me
As to other weekend bird lovers
Proud to have their progeny
Tenderly held above their knees
Themselves gazing through miniature goggles
Seeing the real birds straight away
Not needing to rely
On the words and illustrations of others
As they grow and develop
Full of wonder, free of fear.
Allan Smith
BLUE PRIMROSES
They arrived after coffee in a bottle-green, Commer van
and are carried across to wooden benches
to sit in state, awaiting worthy owners
like aristocratic cats abandoned in a refuge.
Blue primroses,
chest-close in Grimsby herring boxes,
loose-slatted but holding together
Victoria-blue flowers within
striking and sombre on a February day,
its damp chill filling the windless air,
sun obscured by a thousand layers of high grey cloud,
each plant set in its own clod of Sussex mud
cold and clammy, stuck beneath fingernails,
making them ache.
Soiling the coat-cuffs as plants are lifted out
to be re-spaced for improved presentation.
Their roots are thin, wiry but opportunistic
they delved deeply into former topsoil
to dredge up any goodness from below
leaves now firm and crinkly-green
snowy days behind us, springtime still to come.
Flower centres are off-yellow
dusky crowns contained within their dark-blue framework.
Such regularity can not be found in the wild,
just spring-sweet yellows as yet a spell away,
though buff-coloured hazel-rods hang in clusters
leaving damp sherbet-smears upon our coats
when we brush against them.
Blue primroses leave no trace,
deep and stark against bare boards.
Motorists see them as miniaturized sea-specks,
their season is short, their numbers are few
and when the sun triumphs over perpetual mists,
they will be done
planted into borders
gradually losing dominance
as reds and pinks come into flower
and those haunting colours are gone
which so epitomised the cupid month.
Blue, honest, true and consistent
tenacious enough to survive alone
though needing tender hands to make them flourish
keep their colour and grow new shoots.
Allan Smith
THE FOUNTAIN
Summertime had flooded in
to that sacred Roman square.
Babbling springs arose
from the gladdened earth
and foam cascaded,
bouncing off stone saucers
dispersing among the fluted flagstones.
Two tender people
stopped to make a wish
eyes wrinkled, hands clasped,
lips smiling in expectation.
Their silver coin slipped to the bottom
with a soft thud, almost inaudible
their mutual dream had registered
in the infinite pool of collective thought.
Water splashes caressed her ankles
comforting heavenly balm.
Eyelids opened
and they lost themselves
in the glow of unfettered passion.
That first Friday in the month of May
before the stream of tourists came
seeds were sown endeavours cast,
two hearts invisibly bound for a lifetime
a centesimo eroded into unseen mineral
widening ripples stroked the surface
as their dearest desire came true.
Allan Smith
BY A THREAD
A yellow striped caterpillar rotating in its silken strand
Which dangles from an oak branch
In a summer forest come of age.
Dappled sunlight stretches down from a June sky
Brimming with the brightness
Of May time promise fulfilled.
A tiny creature wriggling,
Its body contracting and expanding
In accordion segments a black dot denoting its head.
Its life line had been woven from within
And now suspends this vulnerable creature
At risk from predators on the wing as it bravely holds position.
Thirty years have turned away
Endlessly into inner space
As I stand inside that wood again
And watch the same insect writhe.
Trees above me seemed much higher then
And life has continually contorted
Towards some perfect, unknown conclusion,
All existence hanging by a thread.
Allan Smith
BIRDS ARE BUSY
Birds are busy in hedge and tree
How I envy their industry
Gathering up any grub they see
So to gladly feed their progeny.
Nests are woven with skill and love
Wren uses feather down
Swallow moulds mud.
Timeless avian antics above
Chick-rearing instinct in their blood.
Six frantic weeks till the end of May
Sweet songs delivered
And eggs being laid.
Leaf cover growing denser day by day,
Let winds be gentle and owls stay away.
Mothers stuff food into babies’ beaks
Non-stop action through springtime weeks
Flying through farmstead forest and creeks,
In lowest marshland and highest peaks.
Blue tits hanging upside down
Starlings squawking in the heart of town.
Jay bird bold with a pink, raised crown
Humble dunnock spotted brown.
By midsummer’s night some fledglings fly
With hope and courage
Through a wide open sky.
While the wingless watch their lives flit by
And the heavy-feathered wonder and cry.
Birds are busy I long to be too
In a worthwhile cause that would carry me through
These barren skies and promises due
To that free-flowing skyway
I am sure I once knew.
Allan Smith
-----------------------------------------------------------
Toby Wren
WHERE SECRETS HIDE
Beyond the barricaded door
locked and abandoned long ago
where none have come for many years.
Left and forgotten…none to know,
where all remains as was before
the frail and former owner died -
and every dim-lit room appears
a silent place, where secrets hide.
Where paper peeling from the walls
has let the damp of years show through,
and fading paintwork everywhere
tells of neglect, and much to do.
This place where no-one ever calls,
and dust has settled, soft and deep
upon the floors and winding stair,
where only creeping ghosts now sleep.
Where boarded windows now allow
thin shafts of soft and filtered light
in through the grimy window panes
on faded furniture once bright.
And locked away from time, somehow,
the hours pass unheeded by
a silent clock, and all remains
lost in a place where old dreams die.
Yet outside, in the busy street,
a noisy world goes past each day –
the house un-noticed, having been
allowed to crumble and decay.
Beyond the sound of passing feet,
where rooms are hushed and lost to fate
with settled dust, and none are seen
except the ghosts that quietly wait.
Toby Wren
FARMYARD CORNER
Beneath the tall and gently swaying nettles,
where terra cotta pots lie lost and broken
and tangled brambles run and root and shoot and ramble on.
Where musty dampness creeps and slowly settles
on fading sacking, mouldering and soaken –
and left to rot, forgotten…of some purpose lost and gone.
In hidden mottled shadows slowly drifting
with hazy sunlight filtered soft and mellow,
where caterpillars curl beneath soft leaves that disappear.
And long, entwining weeds, their thick stems lifting
to flowers, small and bright in shades of yellow –
or thin and jagged petals turned to puffs of seeded spheres.
A realm of secret, long-abandoned hiding –
a wooden cartwheel blanched by sun and showers
with splintered spokes held fixed within a rusted iron ring.
And snails in slow procession gently gliding
on gleaming trails of slime, whilst passing hours
drift undisturbed, but for a breeze with gentle whispering.
This farmyard corner left for things not needed
and of no value, though they still survive,
and gathered as a history of labour from the past.
A chronicle of yesterdays unheeded,
with worthless relics telling of the lives
of those who come and go…remembered by such things that last.
Toby Wren
ABROAD AT NIGHT
It came and went and was not seen.
Between the twilight shades of dusk
and pallid light of early dawn,
when creatures stir as may have been
asleep by day, roused by the musk
of evening and by shadows drawn.
And softly then abroad at night,
with hidden movement but a stir
of leafy undergrowth, or sway
of tall grass whitened in the light
of moon through hazy gossamer
of passing cloud in ghostly grey.
Beyond the farmhouse, hushed and still,
and sleeping guard-dog unaware:
beyond the hedge along the lane
hung with the dew of winter’s chill:
beyond the field and tractor there,
unseen it went and back again.
And long before the dawning day –
before the stir of birds was heard,
it sought once more a cleft between
deep roots and rock…to hide away
in silence, as the morning stirred.
To come and go and be not seen.
Toby Wren
HALF-DONE DAY
The day begins quite well and there is plenty to be done –
the flower tubs need water from a tangled hose…such fun!
But then I see my dusty car in need of a shampoo –
so best I go to find the keys and get the car washed too.
Beneath the hook where keys are hung there’s mail from yesterday
which needs to be examined –
I should do it right away.
So with car keys on the table I start sorting through the bills,
and throw away the junk mail in a bin, which quickly fills.
Before the bin gets emptied I put bills safe in a rack –
to pay them later when I go out with the rubbish sack.
But first I need to find my cheques – just one left in the book.
There should be more in my desk drawer,
so go to take a look.
It’s there I find a can of drink I left, but not too old,
and so decide to put it in the fridge to keep it cold.
A vase of flowers in the kitchen have begun to wilt –
to water them, I put the can down where it won’t get spilt.
I then discover there my reading glasses I mislaid,
which should be put back on my desk for when the bills get paid.
But first the need to water flowers seems to fill my mind,
so I put my glasses on the fridge –
where then I chance to find
the pen I had been looking for – I wondered where it went.
I put it on the kitchen table, being still intent
on watering the flowers, although as I start to pour
some water seems to suddenly spill out across the floor.
So I go to fetch a cloth, which isn’t where it ought to be –
and pausing for a moment look around at what I see…
The flower tubs aren’t watered – next to them a tangled hose.
The dusty car still waiting to be washed, I must suppose.
The bills aren’t paid and now they’re lost…
the cheque-book’s missing too.
There’s now a bag of rubbish on my desk –
quite strange, but true.
A warming can of drink sits on the kitchen window-sill,
next to a vase of dropping blooms in need of water still.
I cannot find my glasses or my pen…
I could go on
and talk about the car keys, which mysteriously have gone!
But worst of all…and this is sad and never meant in fun,
I’ve been so busy,
though it seems there’s not a darn thing done!
Toby Wren
I REMEMBER YOU WELL
I remember your smile…
I remember it well
from a photograph found in a drawer.
And I pause for a while
where such memories dwell
of a time that I knew once before.
I remember your hair –
how it shone in the sun,
but the memory that I like best
is of being aware
of your white blouse undone,
and the soft, gentle curve of your breast.
I remember your eyes
and your delicate chin –
I recall very clearly your face.
I remember your thighs
and the touch of your skin,
from the warmth of a tender embrace.
I remember you well –
though not often, it’s true,
for the days bring new thoughts as they will.
Yet I cannot dispel
these few thoughts now of you,
and so I remember you still.
I remember the days…
I remember the nights.
I remember how love was a game
that we played, and the ways
of a thousand delights –
but I cannot remember your name.
Toby Wren
NIGHT SEARCH
He sensed a movement… turned to look
where shifting shadows dimly lay
beyond the flickering lantern light.
Then carefully he made his way
out to the barn, so grey and dark
despite the pale, reflected glow
of drifting, opalescent clouds
and pallid moon that shone as bright.
And stood there, with the creaking shift
of wooden rafters overhead,
he knew then of some hidden thing
that brought a faint, uncertain dread.
He paused and felt a chill of air
that softly came and went once more –
a passing errant draft, he thought,
though he remained not wholly sure.
And so he listened, though there came
no other sound upon the air –
from far and wide, a stillness found
where all lay hushed around him there.
He paused and nothing saw or heard
as might have watched him come and go,
yet sensed it there… some hidden thing
of which he would not ever know.
Toby Wren
INK UPON PAPER
Mostly, it seems, we leave little behind us
for others to find, or at times to remind us
of where we have been, or of what we have done –
the sum of achievements from what we have won.
Many the things to which others lay claim
as purchased and owned…or the family name,
but little of artistic merit or skill
to become something special, that speaks of us still.
Mostly, it seems, it is given to few
to fabricate something unique…something new
of canvas and paint, or of metal, or wood –
or ink upon paper, such thoughts understood.
Yet the greatest of gifts left for others to find,
is of shared love and memories we leave behind.
Toby Wren
FINDING WORDS
I will write about the seasons and the coming of the rain:
the uniqueness of each day
that we will seek to find again.
I will write of frosty mornings and a time of pure delight,
when we may wander out to view the stars
so clear and bright…
and a changing in the weather
when the north wind starts to blow,
and brings a sudden stillness lost beneath a shroud of snow.
I will write about the coming of the early morning light,
and snowdrops by the sheltered hedge
so delicate and white…
and the thrust of green blades showing
with their promise soon of gold,
and a slow deliberation as the days of spring unfold.
I will write of summer sunshine and the singing of the birds –
and of a thousand new delights
that I will put in words…
and the russet charm of autumn
with the harvest this will yield,
from days we spend together and the happiness we build.
I will write of all these things that simple words may yet explain,
with the changing of the seasons
and the coming of the rain.
Toby Wren
NASTURTIUMS
noun (botanical) : kinds of pungent-tasting cruciferous plants:
(improp) trailing garden plant with bright yellow or red flowers (L)
A sunny week has barely passed since scattered seeds were sown
along the garden wall – there, in the dark-brown, fertile ground.
And yet, already risen, small amoeba leaves have grown,
with promise soon of coloured trumpet flowers all around.
And comes a thought of childhood and nasturtiums I once grew -
and schooldays then recalled with many tutors, long ago.
And Mr Beckensale – he, one of many, who I knew
that taught us English grammar… which he said we ought to know.
And of his love of poetry…though alien then to me:
his dreary lessons passing with each long, slow, weary hour.
The scattered seeds on stony ground, that he might never see
some small, green leaf or, given time, that first bright, fragile flower.
And might have read this poem, quite amazed…and softly smiled
to find himself remembered by so difficult a child.
Toby Wren
-----------------------------------------------------------
Geoffrey Winch
Geoffrey Winch is a Slipstream poet who lives in West Sussex. His poem, MEETING OF MINDS, first appeared in Littoral magazine in 2006. NOTES FOR THE FUTURE was a winning poem in the Quantum Leap 5x5 competition 2008. It will appear in the booklet about to be published by Quantum Leap magazine. TRAGEDY: ACT VI was published by Iota in 2005. CHAMPAGNE IN MOSCOW, OVER THE GATE, LIGHT RELIEF and LIGHTS OF MONTEREY all appear in his latest collection entitled 'Letting the Road-Dust Settle'.
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
-----------------------------------------------------------
John Smith
John Smith is a long-time friend and poet who lives in Bristol.
DEATH AND CHOCOLATE BISCUITS
There’s death . . . and there’s accidental death.
The second, one of Fate’s cruel jokes.
Peter and I were eight when first we met with death,
and now, recalling this, I’m seventy-seven,
and Peter may be seventy-seven, too.
I hope so — I really do.
Donald — an evacuee from London
with foreign ways — was nearly seven,
will always be nearly seven. Yes, we thought
him alien, with proud, embarrassed differences;
his looks, his words, his clothes, his peculiar
methods of doing simple things.
That morning, running to school, Donald
— a hundred yards behind and trying hard to follow us —
became different in another, final, way: he became
a statistic. Alerted by the squeal of brakes we stopped,
ran quickly back to gawp at the bloodied bundle
and were soon surrounded by a small and silent crowd.
Too shocked to speak, we caught each other’s eye
and turned, pushed out without a word, and carried
on to school. Hours later, silent still, we walked back
— by a different route — to Peter’s house;
to the sagging figure of Peter’s mother, standing
on the pavement flanked by two Policemen.
She was softly sobbing and, to my surprise, included
me in her hot and tight embrace, then she asked
us all inside and we sat around the kitchen table.
Guilt and relief soon led to cups of tea and chocolate
biscuits. Catching a nod from Peter, I reached
for the plate — and began . . .
John Smith
FOIBLE
Throughout my life, each day,
each hour, each minute, I am concerned
with the economy of movement.
Passing through from place to place,
from room to room, my restless eye
notes every foreign object unhappy
in a strange and unaccustomed place
and longing to be taken ‘home’ whenever
I am going next.
The empty glass enjoyed on the veranda
begs to be rescued and restored
to the kitchen, but I know that if I choose
to go by way of my darkened study,
I can partner both the paring knife used
two days ago to quarter a fine Cox’s Pippin,
together with the bouncing spring of skilled,
unbroken peeling that lies forlorn in transient
abode inside the cut-glass ash-tray.
John Smith
IN THE BEGINNING...
When — slick canalled — my soft-suppled bones
responded to a rhythmic, ‘push; push; push’
what chance of my replying, ‘no; no; no’
in terror at an exit to a place so unlike
from that so rudely torn?
Here, fierce light burned and blinded me, while
sounds I had but faintly heard assailed unfolding
ears; and, with a gulping rush of foreign breath
delivering loud dissent, revealed my new world’s
cruelty – as everybody watching clapped and smiled.
John Smith
EARLY TRAINING
I would never have been allowed into the gang,
had not ‘Nige’, my brother, been the boss.
But, even then, I still had to endure the walk
through the patch of stinging-nettles; but dock
leaves were plentiful and tears were quickly
extinguished by pride and smacks on the back.
I soon learnt, anyway, it was just a nominal
position: running errands, carrying things,
keeping watch — for what, I was never told —
but it was enough to be trusted with the ‘greeting’,
the secret handshake, the passwords and a new name,
which no one ever used — except me — signed
on trivial messages to be left in a hole in a tree, too high
for me to reach, until ‘Bunty’, the second-in-command,
hid an orange box nearby. The years passed,
and my most enduring memory is ‘Nige’, at twelve
years old, some thirty-or-forty feet in the air —
walking with slow and careful steps along a narrow
plank set across the space between two blocks
of half-built flats. Were such risky feats
the precursors of dropping into Normandy
and leading his platoon to liberate
Honfleur, with the loss of two men? There
are times when I think it highly likely.
John Smith
THE FIRST DAY AT THE GUARDS DEPOT, CATERHAM
After the train, the truck;
after the suitcase and carrier bag;
after the shouting and organised chaos,
I thought of the scarlet
After the suiting and fitting,
which made us anonymous;
after the marching and stamping in rhythm,
I thought of the scarlet.
After the bedding and eating utensils;
after the boots and khaki uniform;
after the shower and shouted instructions,
I thought of the scarlet.
And after the bugle
had sent us to bed,
I lay in the darkness,
and dreamt of the scarlet.
Of Inkerman, Blenheim, Cambrai
and Ramillies, rhythms of drumming
and always the horses,
the pitiful horses.
Of the thousands and thousands
of dying and wounded —
the blood of the English soaking
their scarlet.
And I thought of the choice that was
given my brother — Borstal or Army —
and wondered just why he had
chosen the scarlet, ‘till I finally slept
through the tossings and turnings
of nightmared strangers,
with thoughts of tomorrow
and visions of scarlet.
John Smith
WHEN I SIT DOWN AND CONSIDER.
It is hard to be a reluctant agnostic,
to talk of your god with a lower-case g;
for I haven’t travelled my path in anger
or pride in my own unpopular stance.
I became this way because my brain,
(that your god is alleged to have
given me), won’t allow my belief, though
I’ve tried . . . god yes, how I’ve tried!
And in what way does failure to believe
make me different from you,
or others? I do my best to follow
the finer precepts of my fellow man.
It is hard to be a reluctant agnostic;
to be scorned and vilified, but at least
it is only until my tenure on life
has come, without fear, to an end.
John Smith
-----------------------------------------------------------
Dorothy Carmadella
Dorothy is a long-term friend, now retired and living in Christchurch. Her concerns for the environment, and her love of animals, are the subjects of her poems.
NATURE’S LAMENT
Forgive, O Lord, the men below
Who chopped the trees that birds no more
Could perch, and chirp, and fly around
In space that now is void of sound.
It was our Father’s will to make
This earth upon for us to live
He filled it with creative Grace
So all may have their proper place.
The trees, of course, will weep from pain
Their beauty dead, their structure torn
To shreds, to waste, to burn and toss
Whilst men on earth care not the loss!
The birds, another home they search
Perhaps — upon a kinder shore?
So they can build their lives and nests
No doubt their hope in God still rests.
Dorothy Carmadella
-----------------------------------------------------------
Simon John Harvey
My husband is better known as a photographer (aka Xanda) but he is also a writer. Mostly he writes fiction but occasionally he turns his hand to poetry and has been published in a number of magazines including Literary Review and Poetry Now.
MELANIE MISSES HER CUE
Melanie existed on the threshold of exception,
always the muse, always amusing,
not one but two who repositories of joy.
She was a parade of charm and wit,
a paradigm of skimpy vestments,
a positive crescendo of delight.
Her quest for ease was hushed
in an authentic maze of colour.
With her aspirations spent she gazed
and coolly apprehended her success.
Perhaps it was the subtle application of narcotics,
or the compound distillation of her pride
that accelerated, downward, her progression
to the floor where she remained, unmoving
and docile until some consideration could be shown.
In effect, she passed out and the myth
of her delirium, on waking, was to excuse
all and sundry for the failure inside.
Hers was a foolish complaint
embittered by the coffee that
filtered through her, enervating,
sparking as it went,
making her twitch just a little
and blink more often than she should
and vow to never do the same again.
HUSH
Hush, and if you breathe,
breathe softly on the face of death.
The pathway you have chosen
is strewn with vagrant analogies.
Each step is a prescient blunder,
each pause a reminiscence,
a vacant scatological absurdity.
Each voice is a waste of sound,
each name a waste of sense,
each sense attuned to just one memory.
Thus it is that silence offers
the most profound reflection of our selves.
Hush, the terrified linguists
revoke all licence to speak.
Each letter is removed from the air
until none remain in suspense.
Bound words hide their sacred meanings
in dark and featureless walls,
but the plaster cracks,
and the plasterer hears their lament.
ABANDONED
There is still something abandoned
in your tightly folded arms,
in your cast off aspect,
and I find myself
addicted to your darkness.
When it rains,
your separating hands
reach out to apprehend...something,
anything at all.
And yet they come back empty.
Your interminable suffrage is taxing;
you are vexed, that much is for sure.
Despondency cuts well above your heart
and leaves you tentative.
You hoard unconsummated sighs.
Nothing is as curative as distance,
so you thought,
but inside you keep schedules of frustration,
and shun the bitter truth
that you were wrong.
THE NATURE OF ART
It isn't the soft focussing,
or atmospheric side-lighting
or the fact that it's in monochrome.
It isn't even the composition, the pose,
the facial expression,
or the shallow depth of field
but something more profound
that makes this picture art.
It is something that eludes
all but the artist
who recognises, early on,
that art is so much more
than the ingredients;
who achives it
but is never sure
how it came to be;
who sometimes looks,
in puzzlement,
at pictures he took years ago
that move him now
more than they ever did.
FIGMENTS
[On being influenced by David Hamilton]
If only there was some way to explain,
in words, just what it is I need to say.
But words fail me,
and I'm left with an amalgam of ideas
that take some understanding;
that could be misinterpreted so easily:
these mental rushes,
these sequences of linked, still frames.
I know the way that other voyeurs work;
I've heard the words they use
so inappropriately.
Only rarely do they hint at something deeper;
something more profound;
some artistic or aesthetic edge
as they get near, but never to, the point.
I am not afraid to say
that these figments of imagination
are not objects or abstracted bodies.
They are living, breathing women
who exist beyond the page;
beyond the picture.
When you look at what he's done,
then look with better eyes
than you've been using until now.
You'll be surprised, perhaps.
that there's a striking
lack of exploitation.
What there is:
fragile, transient perfection
and there is no other way to capture this,
because all too soon you'll blink
...and then it's gone.
A LASTING IMPRESSION
If by chance you died today,
I would still photograph you.
Corruption would not steal
your beauty from my lens.
Carefully I would focus
on your very last expression;
candidly I would digitise you
bit by lucid bit.
Over time I would explore you;
the subtle and the more extreme
changes in your skin-tone,
deathly palour blossoming in spectra.
Your gentle curves would bloat,
then cave in as time passed
and the heartless laws of nature
had their wicked way with you.
Your flesh would rot,
exposing sallow bones
surrounded by a stain
so like your living shadow.
Then I would put away my camera
and settle a plain shroud over you.
Respectful, I would thereby leave
a last and lasting impression.
