"Once every word was a poem." - Ralph Waldo Emerson Sometimes I write stuff . . .
"Pigs do fly, but usually only when it's raining. Not many people look up when it's raining."
'All Right Now' Earlier this evening I had an Incredible upsurge of an Overwhelmingly powerful sensation of What it actually means to be a poet, But I'm all right now.
'Winter Solstice' The voice of the owl intoning footnotes to the year here at Solstice and embers bright at my feet I open my coat to the fire in the wood at midnight Ash trees charcoaled against the sepia sky slight moonlight seeping through thin cloud no stars tonight but sparks ascending starward crisp quick footfall of fox in dry leaves softly beyond sight amongst the Hollies and Ivy twigs pop and sizzle the song of sap in timeless Yule-time logs so close at the chiming of the year. Once more I witness this World's moment with a seasoned smile and thanks as Oaks conspire in the timely dark.
'Rev. Spooner' Dr Spooner was seldom flustered But his words couldn't always be trusted And, though his demeanour Was that of a dreamer, They say he was meener than kustard. 'Skin' I like my skin it keeps me in It fits me fat it fits me thin Without it I would need a tin Or box or bag or empty bin To keep the rest of Alan in And when I think it underpins So much my ears (those flaps of skin Around the holes the sound goes in) Oppress my brain and I begin To think I'll need another skin -full Mine's a pint, Thanks. (written before I eschewed alcohol)
'Moth and Flame' The moth Fans the flame. 'Son' His tiny hand holds my finger No thought of who or why Talks in scribble to his plasticine His giggle running round the room Barefoot through my heart.
'Headlands' Exploring the landscape of your face Traversing ridges near the bluff blush Over the brow, shouldering the eye sky And handsome foothills smiling Skirting the lip of the gorge And only a mile away An arm of the river where tears still Sometimes flow around the headlands.
'Chance'd Be A Fine Thing' Chancing on your hair in sunbeams On my pillow and a smile with Love in its wake, Whisking your risky curves Into a snug where dreams Are always a good thing, Sharing a stroll through green And moonbeams and dew between toes Letting all the world slide by our gaze, Dancing a step only we know And drinking each other's dreams Between stars and stones And willow leaves, Picking fortune's pocket For the small change of ecstasy As the world forgets and we discover What matters beyond if and why And even yes, Chance'd be a fine thing.
'Summer Dawntreading' 4.30am. Light enough already to walk through the woods and out onto the top field. Insects buzzing past my ears and butterflies, as well as moths, flitting. So warm I'm in a shirt not even tucked in at the waist. Just the suggestion of a breeze and equally slight dew between sandalled toes. Mystical, majical dawn. Pink in the north east with delicate etched patterns of soft grey. A large stand of wild angelica lends pungent scent to the brightening air. A pheasant panics, crests the hedge behind me and descends heavily into the ripening barley, yards from where I stand awaiting the returning sun. An inch above the horizon an airliner slices a tiny angry cut like a livid wound through the hanging haze. 5am and a cherry-coloured sun heaves itself over the horizon through ragged, damp shreds of limp clouds losing the battle with the light. A heron wings languidly over my head, crying like a buzzard with a sore throat and a hangover. A crow sits on the telegraph wire - swinging his legs, as my mother would say - turning his head to watch me pass by dawntreading. I am reminded powerfully of a similar dawn I once trod, during my student days in Bristol, nearly thirty years ago. Then there were seagulls too, with pink drenched mist, and uncrafted youth. 'Antidote'  They tuck you up, your mum and dad, They're meant to and they do, Forgiving all your faults so bad, In cozy beds made just for you. For they were tucked up in their turn In old-style beds with brass rails By full-time parents who had learned To tell magical fairy-tales. Man hands on love to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Join in fairly if you can And pass some on yourself.
'Bargain Hunting' Priceless morning sun shooting through the leaves. November leftover bargains in the Autumn Sale Pinned on velvet shafts of sun lightly climbing the still pinioned air Delicate frosted precious sun. Dawdle while stocks last. The small bird on the reduced branch Shivers.
'Hands' Look at a person's hands Not the love-line, lifeline, instead Look at the head of the arm Of the body that understands Hands have no tears to flow. See the sun hanging over my life See my life lying beneath the sun See my truth told truer than before In smiles and frowns that cannot lie Though hands have no tears to flow. Look at my hands, though not old in years, They show a life no other feature told Of love to heartbreak, joy to tears And fears that still refuse to go Though hands have no tears to flow. (written at the age of sixteen.)
'A Death in Orkney' Magnificent Brodgar stones striding round their circle astonishingly luminous in bright indigo night. I climb one gaunt cracked slab better to view the surrounding mounds of ancient tombs still sinking slow with their aching cargo in a cold sea of dark rolling heather - last year's dead grasses still foaming frozen in the breathless dark - spindrift fixed on pale faded waves beneath this startled sky, Sagittarius slinking home in the west. So still under starlight the stones standing floodlit by moonbeams a chorus of clamouring curlews eerily gregarious in the dark with geese and gulls by the immobile mirroring lochs. Stiller now my mother than I have ever known her. Happier now in memory than she would ever guess. 'Trees' I never did see An ugly tree.
'CROOKED AND SACRED' the flames rise hot air rises sap rises spirit rises we are in the cycle of the year rising with the Spring of the year flashes to ashes flames to purify they divide and they unite crooked and sacred they destroy and they create crooked and sacred we are in the cycle of the year rising with the Spring of the year each of us has given a ribbon each of us has taken a ribbon and we have woven them together crooked and sacred interweaving and uniting our energies and identities crooked and sacred the interweaving ribbons have joined their energies honour their union and individuality crooked and sacred each of us has let go and has come away renewed honour our union and individuality crooked and sacred honour each other honour yourselves you are part of the cycle now you are full of the power of your potential in this moment you are potent crooked and sacred (written for May Day celebration 2003)
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