As a stranger

In this still dark morning hour
before the day has yet begun
by water still and icy cold
with absence of a warming sun
All is quiet so with tippy toe
by the canal I slowly tread
as signs of life on longboats close
dimly light the path I’ve led

Of pizzas and pubs

And so it is to Bradford
on another winter night
I find myself at Noble Comb
with time to sit and write
It’s fairly packed this evening
with families eating out
and workers sharing pints of beer
their voices raised to shout

Fleeting glimpses of wonder

There’s something to be said
when travelling to Southend
of the sunset on the water
on the estuary of the Thames

Catching glimpses like this
of the things around I’ve seen
reminds me of the beauty
in the places I have been

Grief Journey

 

Loss and pains.
though just part of living…
set us apart,
others didn’t understand.
But we knew. We just knew. 

We wrapped ourselves 
in each other’s griefs,
grateful to need no explanations,, 
understanding without words;
afraid of more losses
(can I go through that again?) 
resisting pain, 
change and the unknown.

Yesterdays

I gathered all my memories
lest they faded to the past
No melancholy there
but I wanted them to last
For collectively they’ve shaped me
into what I am today
Precious to hold onto
as my tomorrow’s seize the day

As a seagull again

7 of 7 in the Jemverse series ‘Shoreham again’

As a seagull I flew inland from the sea
Up in a yellow-tinged sky
Looking down with the freedom I commanded in flight
as I swooped and I soared up on high

I watched as the river meandered below
Through the town I am proud to call home
with its cluster of houses gathered close to the sea
over routes I have so often flown

This river again

6 of 7 in the Jemverse series ‘Shoreham again’

In this river’s silted tributaries
Navigation now
Reserved for smallish river craft
Low of beam and bow
And yet, two hundred years ago
Galleons here were made
Crafted beams at Bramber
Where many keels were laid
Such changing times of commerce
The Adur’s here provided
For this fishing port of Shoreham
Which by the sea has long resided

Shoreham Airport again

5 of 7 in the Jemverse series ‘Shoreham again’

Shoreham Airport’s terminal building
The oldest in the land
Is getting a new makeover
To make it fresh and grand

It’s 1930’s facade fell into
a terrible state
With peeling paint and cracks in walls
But soon it will look great

Walking contented again

4 of 7 in the Jemverse series ‘Shoreham again’

These cobbled lanes, a thousand years
Where countless souls have trod
This hallowed ground where now I walk
On sparkling dew-clad sod

This sleepy town, its flinted walls
Where fisherfolk resided
And the comfort that the parish church
Reliably provided

St Mary de Haura again

3 of 7 in the Jemverse series ‘Shoreham again’

The river Adur’s changing course
To its tidal estuary
Bereft now of its shipping past
As it meets the changing sea

The oyster beds lie barren now
Their commerce lost to time
But St Mary’s bells in beacon tower
Still regularly chime

Glowing again

2 of 7 in the Jemverse series ‘Shoreham again’

Ethereal glow hangs over Shoreham
Through the mist, ‘neath yellow skies
With the promise of September warmth
The sleeping town in silence lies

‘Neath the bridge the river water
Meanders slowly to the sea
Boats lopsided in the shallows
Oyster Catchers in their lee

Shoreham by the sea again

1 of 7 in the Jemverse series ‘Shoreham again’

I have a beach of shingle mixed
With golden sea-washed sand
Its grandeur and its mystery
Forged by God’s own hand
I have a river winding through
The valley from the sea
Its tidal water carrying
Swans and seabirds oft to me

The sunshine promise

I lived a little broken
like an old grey bag of bones
and despite the life around me
felt a long, long way from home
Abandoned to no purpose
each day was like the rest
and although the sun gave promise
it felt like second best

Lost to time passing

In a small corner I curl
turning pages, I am lost to imagination
oblivious to time passing
minutes meld to hours
And this time is mine
Absorbing words from far away minds
Caught in that beautiful moment
when words caress my soul
with a comfort wholly realised

The voice of the sea

Calling out to me, the voice of the sea
my friend through all of these years
A solace and comfort, understanding and wise
conquering all of my fears

Dalit IV (reverence)

Yes, this eloquence is precious
not for squandering or for waste
Revered as a diamond
with immeasurable value

Dalit III (precious)

Though fleeting with some beauty
precious is this captured moment
My soliloquy for the day
to seize and hold onto and keep

Dalit II (eloquence)

Though dawn has yet to break a thought
surfaces and must be spoken
Repeated here lest I forget
and squander this moment again

Dalit I (introducing)

From the Philippines I derive
Dalit is my name; short my form
Four lines in typicality
Each comprising eight syllables

Tri-sedoka IV (poetry in motion)

For inspiration
Eyes to see and pen to write
But mind to see suffices
For here are pictures
to capture with words now seen
for poetry in motion

My window to the world

Sitting here in quiet
by my window to the world
I’m high enough too watch
things down below unfurled

It’s peaceful here, cathartic
so with pen my words they flow
and occasionally I’ll take a look
outside my world window

Cobweb III

Whilst the year was still an infant
I looked up to the blue
when morning broke with sunshine
upon a year brand new
And the crystal strands of cobweb
caught right there in morning light
clarified that moment
for a truly lovely sight
Spoke to me of truth and hope
and of many joys to come
in this first year of the decade
which has only just begun

Cobweb II

Whilst the year was still an infant
at the beginning of the year
a latticework of cobweb
I cam across out here
It was clearly now abandoned
yet retained a beauty there
so striking and so poignant
that I knew I had to share
For this is quite symbolic
the new from old begun
changing like the spider
and the many webs now spun

Primitive

 

By Sharon Olds

Sharon Olds

 

I have heard about the civilized,
the marriages run on talk, elegant and
honest, rational. But you and I are
savages. You come in with a bag,
hold it out to me in silence.
I know Moo Shu Pork when I smell it
and understand the message: I have
pleased you greatly last night. We sit
quietly, side by side, to eat
the long pancakes dangling and spilling,
fragrant sauce dripping out,
and glance at each other askance, wordless,
the corners of our eyes clear as spear points
laid along the sill to show
a friend sits with a friend here.

Cobweb I

Whilst the year was still an infant
I spied a cobweb freshly spun
Reminded me of what was past
and what had just begun
Spoke to me of promise
and something fresh and new
The ‘gone before’ forgotten
with a dose of morning dew

In times such as these

A long shaft of sunlight
peirced the gloom
and lit up an otherwise
darkly clad room
It spoke of a promise
born on a smile
with a voice full of hope
I’d not heard in a while

How To Write Poetry

Advice for blocked writers and aspiring poets from a Nobel Prize winner’s newspaper column. 

BY WISŁAWA SZYMBORSKA

INTRODUCTION

From: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/features/articles/detail/68657

In the Polish newspaper Literary Life, Nobel Prize winning poet Wislawa Szymborska answered letters from ordinary people who wanted to write poetry. Clare Cavanagh, translates these selections.

The following are selections from columns originally published in the Polish newspaper Literary Life. In these columns, famed poet Wislawa Szymborska answered letters from ordinary people who wanted to write poetry. Translated by Clare Cavanagh.

To Heliodor from Przemysl: “You write, ‘I know my poems have many faults, but so what, I’m not going to stop and fix them.’ And why is that, oh Heliodor? Perhaps because you hold poetry so sacred? Or maybe you consider it insignificant? Both ways of treating poetry are mistaken, and what’s worse, they free the novice poet from the necessity of working on his verses. It’s pleasant and rewarding to tell our acquaintances that the bardic spirit seized us on Friday at 2:45 p.m. and began whispering mysterious secrets in our ear with such ardor that we scarcely had time to take them down. But at home, behind closed doors, they assiduously corrected, crossed out, and revised those otherworldly utterances. Spirits are fine and dandy, but even poetry has its prosaic side.”

To H.O. from Poznan, a would-be translator: “The translator is obliged to be faithful not only to the text. He must also reveal the full beauty of the poetry while retaining its form and preserving as completely as possible the epoch’s spirit and style.”

To Grazyna from Starachowice: “Let’s take the wings off and try writing on foot, shall we?”

To Mr. G. Kr. of Warsaw: “You need a new pen. The one you’re using makes a lot of mistakes. It must be foreign.”

Tri-sedoka III (hope and promise)

n these early days
with hope and promise still fresh
from new year resolution
The light is still bright
as we raise an arm to shield
Squinting up into brightness