Do you remember summer? It happened long ago
When Wealden hills gleamed green and pink, untainted by the snow.
The days flowed on like rivers carving a languid path
From shy blue beginnings to their golden epitaph.
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Tag: poets
Letter of complaint
Inspired by Charles Bernstein’s wonderful poem ‘Dear Mr. Fanelli’, I wrote an epistle.
Dear… should I call you
God?
You go by so many names,
it’s hard to say
which is right.
Might I call you God?
Good.
Dear God,
The luxury of silence
I long for the luxury of silence,
to hear my thoughts spoken softly to me.
Not shouted over the roar of four wheeled
monsters competing for tarmac,
against the crack of construction,
as cranes swing steel into another shining high-rise
stabbing at a sky whose weighty clouds rumble
as metallic birds fly by.
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Stardust
This is my love letter to Brian Cox, ha! No really, this is one for all the other science geeks out there who think that fact really is far more miraculous than fiction.
I don’t need a God,
I’m made of stardust,
Of lust flowing from billions of atoms
That conspired to have me sired.
I am huge, I’m a giant,
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Would you care?
This poem needs little explanation. I’m sure many people can identify with this feeling – the slow, cold realisation that you are losing someone you love:
Would you care if I left,
Would you be bereft? Would you cry?
Or would you sit dry eyed in despair?
Would you? Would you care?
Would you flood the lands with your tears
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The man in the white Stetson
Some meetings are more memorable than others. Some are even worthy of a poem:
Deep in the Welsh mountains where revellers reeled,
We met in a rowdy and colourful field,
In a white Stetson hat, beside me he kneeled,
He was hunting for treasure, I was too, it was sealed.
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The festival
Ahh festivals! Many of the happiest, funniest and craziest moments of my life have taken place in various colourful music filled fields. I will never ever tire of going to my favourite festivals. This poem seeks to capture some of their magic:
Fireworks explode with youthful passion
to soar among the stars,
beyond the bars and the beats and the shrieks
to light wide eyes and wider smiles
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Woman’s lust
There are so many poems written by men lusting after women. Traditionally, women are almost always depicted as the passive objects of desire rather than active or, god forbid, enthusiastic participants. It feels like a good time to start redressing the balance:
This is not love this is lust, she should have said.
I trust in my body far more than my head.
So, forget such tender feelings and come to bed.
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From His Coy Mistress
A riposte to Andrew Marvell.
I’ve always loved Andrew Marvell’s lusty poem ‘To His Coy Mistress’ in which he shamelessly seeks to persuade a young woman to acquiesce to his carnal desires.
But I have also always felt it deserved a response from the young woman’s perspective – especially given it was written in the 17th century long before birth control or feminism – so here goes – enjoy!
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Heartbreak
Heartbreak, well, where to begin… It is something most of us will experience at some point in our lives and indeed, unwittingly inflict upon others. But until you do experience it in its fullness, it is impossible to imagine how excruciatingly painful it can be.
Everyone has their own unique tools for dealing it. For me, writing was one of the few ways I could confront and start to make sense of the hurt and pain bound up and raging inside me.
As my younger sister observed: “Heartbreak, bad for the heart, great for poetry.” And, on that cheery note:
Life in poems 