NO MONEY IN POETRY

Anyone who writes and is at all self-critical will probably be able to relate to the sentiments contained in this poem.

SMALL CHANGE      

                                                       

When words are called for, verse or poetry,

I rummage in my pocket for small change

and promptly offer up a handful: See,

here are my words, these sundry coins. 

It’s strange 

to see them there, so lacklustre and dead,

those dull ten-pees, those drab pathetic twos,

that shone so very brightly in my head.

My hard-earned verses, rhymes, opinions, views, 

have not much sterling value, so it seems,

while other, bolder people’s money screams.

LOST LOVES

I'm very proud to find myself not only sharing a booklet but also sharing a page with one of my favourite poets, Wendy Cope, in a recent Sampson Low publication, Lost Loves. 

You can purchase a copy by clicking on this link:- https://www.waterstones.com/book/lost-love/wendy-cope/david-whippman/9781912960965

 

LOVE STORY

‘Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds’ 

W. SHAKESPEARE. Sonnet 116

I thought myself in love. I lay awake  

imagining your hair spread out like gold 

and whilst asleep your hair shone as I dreamed: 

such lustrous tresses, how I loved to touch.

All changed the day you had your hair restyled ...

you came home shorn and while I wept you smiled.

I yearned for love but that was my mistake:  

I never guessed love could turn quickly cold. 

Love was a fantasy or so it seemed:

I loved you little, loved your hair too much.

I thought myself in love but I was wrong. 

I loved you only when your hair was long. 

THE JOY OF NOW

The poem, Joy, part of the Murchen Quartet which appears in my 2017 Stone Witness collection, may be read as a stand-alone piece.

 

JOY

Awakened,

past erased, future

nonexistent,

their world begins afresh.

Only the extraordinary now,

a collision of senses,

exists.

 

Music.

Blackbird’s flute, 

grasshopper’s fiddle,

drumbeat scuttle of field-mice,

accordion-wind in high meadows. 

Silence.

In crystalline pools 

trout glide like ghosts.

Owls, tombed in dead trees,

imitate death.

Dreamlike,

in the magical moment,

hares dance.

ON THE BUSES

Like the proverbial buses, poem acceptances often arrive in multiples, rather than singly. No less than five of mine appear today in the Lothlorien Poetry Journal.

You can read them here: https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/2022/07/five-poems-by-richard-fleming.html

SCREEN TIME

As we become increasingly addicted to social media, time slips by as we scroll aimlessly through newsfeeds or tweet about trivia. 

As sentient beings, we seem to have entirely surrendered themselves to the powers of social media and this poem attempts to engage with that.

 

IMAGES

This is a tree, he said and pointed to a tree.     

We have seen images, they said.   

There are many trees, he said. This tree is cedar.

We have seen images, they said.

Here is a flower, he said and pointed to a flower.

We have seen images, they said.   

There are various flowers, he said. This is a rose. 

We have seen images, they said.

This is a cat, he said. See it moves. Watch it stretch.

Just like the images, they said.

This is a dog, he said. Watch as it wags its tail.

Images are better, they said.

That is the sky. Those small birds are swallows, he said.

We have seen images, they said.

Over there are blue mountains and a lake, he said.

May we go back inside? they said.

BEFORE THE WAR

Many will be familiar with the poem, Adlestrop, by Edward Thomas, probably one of the most anthologised poems of the Twentieth Century. 

Its charm lies in its sense of peace, combined with the irony of being written just four weeks before the beginning of the First World War.

As NATO and the Western Powers blunder towards World War Three, which, some would contend, has already begun, it seems apt to revisit (or maybe not revisit) Adlestrop.

 

MAYBE NOT ADLESTROP

The train stopped, sighing, but I missed the name.

It might well have been Adlestrop, who knows.

Passengers hurried away, others came:

a few tired faces, locals I suppose,

but while we waited, I heard no birdsong,

just sombre silence till we moved along.

MEMORY LOSS

This rhyme was intended for my Facebook page where I tend to post light verse but, on reflection, I decided to post it here instead. 

The image is from the 1956 French film, Le Ballon Rouge, directed by Albert Lamorisseone.

REMEMBRANCE (OR NOT) OF THINGS PAST

At five years old, his world was new,

immediate: as though on cue,

things happened or they didn’t, he

danced through his bright days, heedlessly.

A football or a red balloon

held greater magic than the moon,

a tumble or a bloodied knee

were bothersome, but fleetingly.

When five years old, his memories

were insubstantial as a breeze:

last week, the week before, perhaps,

but, further back, there were no maps.

As to the future, what was that?

His next birthday, a cricket bat,

When I grow up, when I, when I …

His mother baking apple-pie,

the thought of schooldays drawing near,

anticipation tinged with fear.

When grown to adulthood, he’d stare

at photographs and wonder where

that child had gone, whom others said

was him, and spoke of games he’d played,

the bat, balloon, the leather ball,

that he pretended to recall

but simply couldn’t. 

Disbelief

brings a peculiar sense of grief.