Category Archives: writing

Autumn unfolding

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Following on from my earlier post, here’s an attempt at a postmodern poem around the same theme, in response to the prompt over at d’Verse poets today.

Autumn unfolding

A walk in the morning sunshine, camera in hand. Everything seems bright and newly washed after yesterday’s rain. I feel more alive than I have for days, weeks even. I love this time of year, well when the sun shines, at least.

Where the new fern unfurls
amongst fallen leaves,
squirrel-discarded chestnuts,
moss and broken twigs,
autumn is unfolding.

I walk in search of the red oak on the island. But the gardeners catch up with me, and it’s all a myth, the tree is a sycamore…Acer rubrum..

The naming of things
wonderful in Latin
Acer rubrum,
Pteridium,
Castanea,
Macrolepiota,
et cetera

That wasn’t very poetic, I’ve run out of steam. I could go on, with my butterfly mind, leaping from one idea to the next, and writing better verse, or worse. But I think I’ll leave it at that…Tomorrow is another day.

Derelict 2

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Well, second post of the day! I have become lazy of late, so I thought it was time to respond to the challenge at d’Verse today.

Derelict

Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
are removed, destroyed, restored.
Our ruined abbeys and churches are,
as a rule, only too well
tidied up and cleared.
Losing in the process
who can say how much of mystery
and nostalgic awe.
Dust in the air suspended
Marks the place where a story ended.

To create my poem, I have used a mix of poetry and Prose. Poetry from TS Eliot with lines from East Coker and Little Gidding, and the prose is from Dame Rose Macaulay’s Pleasure of Ruins. I’m not sure how well it works, but it was an interesting exercise! And, in the process, continued my earlier theme…

Simple Pleasures

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In response to a recent prompt at a poetry class, I struggled with a Kyrielle, a form that I’ve not come across before. Here’s my attempt, in draft form. I couldn’t get any inspiration, then hit on the idea of using a few favourite things..

Simple pleasures (Kyrielle)

Summer afternoon in the sun,
having a rest, my work is done
marvel at shapes, colours, much to see
simple pleasures the best for me.

A beach in the evening quiet
no crowds, distractions to excite
just the endless rhythm of sea
simple pleasures the best for me.

The open road, an old sports car
savour the ride, however far
foot to the pedal, feeling free
simple pleasures the best for me.

I am posting this for Open Link night over at d’Verse Poets.

Fun?

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I wrote this poem in response to a prompt from dVerse Poets Pub asking for poems about fun fairs. Dredging the memories, this is what I came up with while on the train home today….

Sultry summer’s evening
over in the park -
Hot, noisy, crowded, colourful
mass of humanity
Lights flashing
metal hits rubber
children howling
mothers screaming
sparks, crackling, arcing
Thump,
someone springs on a car
Laughter, male voices shouting
metal hits rubber
Quick, through the gap,
reverse
thump,
reverse again
And the music, loud, so loud…
this is fun?

Nostalgia

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Posting this poem, just written in response to the prompt over at D’verse Poets:  Stream of Consciousness Writing

I’ll need to come back and re-jig this one, but decided to post and see what comments I get…eg it’s not sufficiently tight, or to the prompt…..

Nostalgia
Looking around the room
I find nostalgia in small objects.
A vase of mimosa
is a restaurant in Lucca
small, cosy, bustling with energy
and a great glass of red wine.
A small, intricate wood carving
sees me in Transylvania,
a small hamlet
lush green meadows,
thousands of wild flowers
nodding in the warm breeze,
and each evening
the cows returning home.
A lithograph, delicately coloured
is coffee in the artists garden,
views across a rocky valley
and halting conversation in my rusty French
Four green stemmed wine glasses -
I’m at the rock of Dabo
all twists and turns
and vertiginous glimpses
of the fields far below.
Then my eye rests on an engraved vase-
I’m hurtling along flooded roads,
windscreen wipers struggling,
tyres slithering, specs steaming.
And so the memories roll….

The Past

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Inspired by recent events, and some thoughts in the middle of the night, I wrote a very unpolished poem, put it to one side, asked friends for their thoughts, reworded and left it for a while. Then last Friday, visited a sculpture  park. There was one sculpture which, when I viewed it from one angle with another statue a distance behind, put me in mind of this poem……….

The Past 2
Let me slip through that door
quietly
(away from anguish of now)
no one will see.

In those long-demolished houses
I walk down remembered hallways,
smile at familiar faces
which turn away, unseeing

I move amongst old friends
revisit past conversations
always a mere shadow

a fleeting impression
at the very edge
of their world

The third stanza needs more work, the last line doesn’t flow……any suggestions welcome.

Posted for OpenLinkNight at dVerse Poets Pub

Musings on old age

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Following a visit to a retirement home a while ago, I came up with a haiku, almost completely formed, in the middle of the night…I needed an image to go with it, but sadly had none of my own, so a trawl through iStockphoto came up with the one below.

slumped in chairs
heat turned high; a screen flickers
as winter comes

Still needs some tuning, it’s not slick enough.  The second line was originally “a screen flickers, fire crackles” but of course, there are no open grates in an old people’s home…

I would like to point out that this haiku is not meant as a slur on retirement homes, but more to do with the loss of mental faculties and lack of free will in many of the old.

Triolet – My version or hers?

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At dVerse Poets’ Pub today, there was some great information on the triolet provided by Sam Peralta for this week’s FormForAll  at this link: http://dversepoets.com/

This is my contribution, inspired by conversations with my mother, on the occasions we seem to inhabit different universes (thankfully, not too frequently!).

Triolet: My version or hers?
Who creates the fiction?
Me not listening, or her forgetting?
We may never resolve the contradiction
of who creates the fiction….
I should try harder to listen
because I know it’s in her mind fermenting.
Who creates the fiction?
Me not listening, or her forgetting?

Altered vision

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Missed posting for a few days, due to the start of a new bout of optic neuritis (fortunately, the first in a quarter of a century)…the vision in my left eye is considerably impaired at present, and the contrast between good and bad eye makes for an interesting visual experience, to say nothing of challenge.

Anyway, today I have felt a little more lively, and as it was such a beautiful sunny morning, I decided I shouldn’t miss such good light.  The image above is a (rather clumsy) metaphor for my current lack of visual clarity (certainly not an accurate representation of what I see!)..but, hey, artistic license.