ANOTHER DAY

As we edge into November, the month of my birth, it seems a suitable moment to feature this free-verse poem, written several years ago, but equally topical today. 

BIRTHDAY POEM

A bad-news day, so typical

of what we, daily, learn to call

normality. 

Another war, a bomb outrage,

an earthquake,

a hurricane,

a virus rampant, uncontrolled,

another routine genocide,

the usual starving dispossessed

with hands outstretched

in supplication. 

Another day. So swiftly now

discarded hours, like autumn leaves,

accumulate. So we grow old.

Another birthday. 

Earnestly, I tell myself, 

be unafraid;

believe that, daily, hope sustains, 

that, by some grace, tranquility

will fill the earth like sudden flowers;

that, somehow, love will be enough.

 

ROOTED IN THE PAST

Old superstitions die hard. Rationalist that I am, I prefer to encounter two magpies rather than one, avoid black cats and tend not to walk under ladders. Ancient tree-worship is surely the basis of the modern superstition of touching wood to ward off bad luck. Amazingly, these old rituals continue survive in the modern age.

 

TOUCH WOOD

Who knows the age of this gnarled tree

that stands behind the old church wall?

They say, at least a century,

and now its sturdy branches sprawl

like outspread hands to left and right

and, on the graves, cast dappled light.

The congregation of this place

regard their church with piety: 

here they achieve a state of grace,

cast off doubts and anxiety,

but others, and there are a few,

in passing, touch the old tree too.

For a very different kind of verse visit my Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564/

GETTING THE POINT

The Battle of Hastings was fought in mid-October 1066 between the Norman-French army of William, the Duke of Normandy, and an English army under the Anglo-Saxon King Harold.

It took place approximately 7 miles north-west of Hastings, close to the present-day town of Battle, East Sussex.

Harold's death, caused by an arrow towards the end of the battle, brought about the defeat of his army and led to the Norman Conquest of England.

OCTOBER RAIN

An aspen in a Norman wood

supplied the shaft.

A craftsman’s patience

straightened, seasoned, 

then perfected

something far removed from nature,

shaped the taper, sealed it, 

gently carved the narrow nock.

Fingers, that might pluck a lute

on fair-days, set to fletching: 

grey-goose feathers,  

resin gum, 

fine thread of linen.

These would aid trajectory,

ensure trueness of flight.

Lastly, a hand affixed with care

an arrowhead, the killing-piece,

fierce-furnace-forged 

into a kind of bird-wing-shape

with pointed beak, as lethal as a battle-sword.

It would be one of many

that French archers took to English soil

to fly in flocks like starlings

over Hastings fields

and fall to earth like iron rain,

out of a grey October sky,

to pierce the fearful blue of Harold’s eye. 

 

EMPTY ROOMS

Growing old, I find myself preoccupied with life’s endings: a balancing of accounts, so to speak, and the inevitable feelings of regret and remorse for things done badly or left undone. 

Deliberations of that sort inspired this piece of verse, as did the lonely, final years of renowned Guernsey-born novelist, G B Edwards, the demise of an old friend in similar straitened circumstances and, of course, Larkin’s famous poem, Mr Bleaney.

I find Philip Larkin's poem a haunting one, particularly as I grow older and become increasingly aware of the isolation and consequent loneliness that so many fall prey to.

My own poem, The Landlady's Tale, taps into the anxiety that many elderly people feel as time leaks steadily away.  

THE LANDLADY’S TALE

These were the only things he had.

I put them in a cardboard box.

Just what he wore. I thought it sad.

Apart from extra pants and socks.

A good innings at eighty-one.

We never knew he had a son.

He always was a quiet chap:

no trouble, liked his mugs of tea.

He’d come down to my door and tap,

Fancy a cuppa, Mrs P?

Before you go, forgive my cheek,

he didn’t pay his rent last week.

LOST MARBLES

A pub bore: we've all met one at some stage. He's the elderly, red-faced guy in tweed jacket and cavalry twills, propping up the bar with a leather-padded elbow. He always manages to latch on to a newcomer, perhaps because he's long ago exhausted the patience of the locals, and then he just talks and talks and talks.

PUB BORE                             

Do kids play marbles anymore?

Who’d ask but some old out-of-touch

moist-eyed, drip-nosed, threadbare pub bore

who doesn’t get out very much.

Of course they don’t: not in the West.

Marbles would leave them unimpressed.

When I was young, the pub bore drones,

we made our own fun: what a lark!

Before laptops and mobile phones,

kids played outdoors, marbles, till dark.

He says he still has his, though chipped,

goes to the gents, comes back unzipped.

Now why not visit my Facebook page:- 

https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564/

RISE AND FALL

This rhyming poem is, in part, a homage to the men whose vision and labour built great cathedrals throughout Europe, and, in addition, an attempt to chart the growth of a religion, its abuse by a corrupt priesthood and its eventual decline. 

CATHEDRAL

Centuries it took them. Young men

grew old. Their sons, the skills passed down,

with treasured ageless tools, resumed

the sacred task. Great columns loomed

above the human ants, nut-brown

and shaped by labour. Four in ten,

perhaps, lived to grow old and sere.

The rest, their lungs and backs destroyed

by endless toil, bequeathed their tools

to others: sturdy men, young bulls,

upright and proud to be employed

in God’s good work that final year.

Sunlight, through stained glass windows, fell

on crowded pews. A city grew

around the great cathedral’s walls.

Priests crouched in dark confessionals

while prayers and supplications flew

upwards like doves. The solemn knell

of  bells, as loud as God’s own voice,

tolled births and deaths, called men to prayer

while generations slipped away.

In latter days, in disarray,

God’s spokesmen found their greed laid bare, 

their declarations merely noise.

Now tourists come, their visits brief,

in groups with cell-phones or alone,

to photograph and contemplate

this monumentally ornate,

historic testament in stone

to Man’s unreasoning belief.

NEXT, PLEASE

I stumbled on this image whilst in search of something else but it reminded me of Philip Larkin's great poem, Next, Please, which you can read below.

NEXT, PLEASE

Always too eager for the future, we

Pick up bad habits of expectancy.

Something is always approaching; every day

Till then we say,

 

Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear

Sparkling armada of promises draw near.

How slow they are! And how much time they waste,

Refusing to make haste!

 

Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks

Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks

Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked,

Each rope distinct,

 

Flagged, and the figurehead wit golden tits

Arching our way, it never anchors; it’s

No sooner present than it turns to past.

Right to the last

 

We think each one will heave to and unload

All good into our lives, all we are owed

For waiting so devoutly and so long.

But we are wrong:

 

Only one ship is seeking us, a black—

Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back

A huge and birdless silence. In her wake

No waters breed or break.