leap of faith
twentyninefreefalling
February poems
by Stephen Hancock
February poems
by Stephen Hancock
On 1st February I posted a poem on Facebook, promising to write and post a new poem a day for the whole of the month. I don’t think I knew what a creative task that would be. But I’m so glad I did it. The following twenty-nine poems are the fruit of my promise.
Some nights I’d go to bed with a poem almost ready. Some mornings I’d wake up, stare at a blank page, fill my pen and write. As a couple of the poems mention, I burned my porridge on several occasions.
I realised about a week into the project that, in many ways, I was giving the longest poetry performance of my life – sort of slow motion freestyling each and every day. Most of the poems are pretty rough and ready, but it was a rough and ready show, and I really gave it my all. I’m proper chuffed with what I achieved, and will always remember this experience. I hope you find at least one or two that really touch (or perhaps even tickle) you.
In the middle of the month my lovely friend Nicky died, so this collection is dedicated to her. Nicky’s daughter got to read “For Nicky” to Nicky on the morning of her death. Both Nicky’s presence and absence will be strongly felt by many.
Here’s to the precious jewel of loving friendship,
One Love
Stephen
Beer
March 1st 2024
Some nights I’d go to bed with a poem almost ready. Some mornings I’d wake up, stare at a blank page, fill my pen and write. As a couple of the poems mention, I burned my porridge on several occasions.
I realised about a week into the project that, in many ways, I was giving the longest poetry performance of my life – sort of slow motion freestyling each and every day. Most of the poems are pretty rough and ready, but it was a rough and ready show, and I really gave it my all. I’m proper chuffed with what I achieved, and will always remember this experience. I hope you find at least one or two that really touch (or perhaps even tickle) you.
In the middle of the month my lovely friend Nicky died, so this collection is dedicated to her. Nicky’s daughter got to read “For Nicky” to Nicky on the morning of her death. Both Nicky’s presence and absence will be strongly felt by many.
Here’s to the precious jewel of loving friendship,
One Love
Stephen
Beer
March 1st 2024
If you'd rather download the poems as a pdf...
| leap_of_faith_30_may.pdf |
February
perhaps
a poem a day
will keep the doctor away
with the faeries
and pixies
and elves
and the spider librarians
and assorted contrarians
who faithfully guard
our dusty bookshelves?
Brighid’s Mantle
Draped my old blue kikoi
upon a hedge last night
to be blessed by the dew
and the return of your light
this morning it smelled as sweet and earthy
as clothes gathered fresh from the first washing line of spring
draped it over my shoulders
and wore it all day long
like a lingering smile
like a pilgrim’s song
Oh fertile Brighid, Oh faithful Bride
you wash away the flotsam
and the jetsam
of winter’s high tide
Here Be Dragons
On the whole
the larger the dragon
the slower its sense of time
there are hillside dragons who
take a whole year just to
blink
a sleepy eye
there are mountain dragons who
take a century to yawn and stretch their wintered wings
some can slumber for millennia
some – so it is told – for aeons
Greenwich Mean Time means nothing to them
but they always know
when we humans are sick
for they can smell our sickness permeating the land
the rivers
the air
their dreams
oh little human being
strip off your civilised shoes and socks
and take a blacksmith’s hammer to that
buzzing phone and that ticking clock
and let the soles of your feet stand naked
and silent
upon this sacred, timeless ground
can you feel that sound?
can you feel that sound?
That’s the sound of myriad dragons waking
Sea-worn brick
There used to be a brick factory
in nearby Seaton town
and every now and then
upon the ever-shifting, billion-pebbled shore
I’ll chance upon a piece of sea-worn brick
as bright and thrilling as treasure to my well-tuned eyes
most pieces have been weathered into
brick-orange pebbles or red-brick stones
smooth to touch, light to hold
but twice I’ve found an old, intact engineering brick
washed up on the beach
each a heavy and rounded oblong
sea-shorn of its once sharp corners and edges
sea pebbles jammed tight into its strengthening holes
but whether pebble or whole brick
or half-brick or stone
I always pick them up
and bring them back home
not only are they to me
objects of simple and elemental beauty
but, over the years
they have also become reminders
of my own elemental journeying with grief
how the unbearably sharp corners and edges of loss
somehow get ground down
by the faithful storms and tides of time
how absence slowly
makes room for presence as well
how each broken piece
of any broken heart
harbours the colour and the clay
and the love and the beauty of the whole
Whatever the weather
Sometimes I love the sea for its vast
and magnificent indifference
to my very existence
as if I were merely
a mere speck of sand
me and my hard-won problems and dramas
so sublimely insignificant as to
vanish into an amused and gentle smile
And sometimes I love the sea for its utter
and exquisite intimacy
playing and flirting and dancing with me
as if I were
its only lover
its waves enfolding me so thoroughly
its salty tongue probing simultaneous pleasures and places
no human lover ever could
oh my
But always
always
I love the sea’s company
whatever the weather
and whatever our respective moods
Holy ground
if ever you’re feeling lonely
and no one is around
you can always lie down supine
upon the holy ground
mother, father, sister, brother
son, daughter, friend, lover
the earth will catch you
if you’re falling
will protect you if under attack
will cherish and replenish you
and will always have your back
the earth will always have your back
Morning Prayer
May we all be full of loving kindness
May we all be well in body, mind, heart and soul
May we all know the deep peace that dwells at the heart of all beings
And may Life move through us all with beauty and grace and joy
Beyond words
Sometimes all I can do
is go down to the sea
to some rocks out of view
raise my face to the sky
fill the bellows of my lungs
open my throat and my gob
and howl
[insert howl of your choice here]
I fucking love howling
There’s a whole hairy barbarian symphony of howls inside me
longing to batter down the clean-shaven gates of civilisation
and set me free, oh unkempt and faithful comrades, set me free!
You can’t argue with a howl
You can’t go “You said this” – “But you said that” to a howl
It’s my howl – it says nothing about you, dude
But your howl is welcome too
Howls are honest
like animals
and babies
and trees
and rocks
Howls obviously lend themselves well to grief and yearning
and frustration and heart-break
and excitement too
but, with practice and attention, you might also come to notice
confusion and rage and kindness and hatred and loneliness and self-pity and amusement and regret and exhaustion and lust and despair and madness and joy and power and even
worldless desires that you never knew existed
all howling from and through your being
Howling is a form of prayer
Howling is far cheaper than therapy
Howling is very good for getting rid of shit which ain’t your shit
Sometimes, a howl is the sound your soul makes when you’re spending too much time in your mind
Oh, to stand under a full moon bursting and beaming with fertile light
and to open your body wide to this elemental moment
and from the depths of your lungs and your heart
and your belly and your soul to...
[insert howl of your choice here]
A good howl is its own reward
[insert howl of your choice here]
whispers of spring
of all the early flowers of spring
it’s the blackthorn that really tickles my thing
seeing your first blossoms this morning
made my heart gasp
with such tender delight
this
whispered each delicate, sturdy flower
only this
Lazy Saturday
ah
me and my muse
freefalling and freestyling
right now
to hustle a poem a day
she’s in her element
I’m remembering mine
it’s been a long time
since we had so much fun
or spent so much time
together
feels like she’s waking me up
from a long and heavy spell
that sometimes felt like a curse
breakfast mug of coffee steaming in the hazy
low and lazy Saturday morning sunshine
shadowing the nib
of my faithful pen
always at her service
freestyling and freefalling
through this moment
as vast as any coastal fuck!
I can smell the porridge burning
P.S. it actually tastes really good
Sunday morning communion
this pregnant time
half way between
winter’s true depth
and the establishment of spring
snowdrops and primroses
a family of early daisies
the rose’s vibrant, promising, exquisite new leaves
the sleeping belly of this hill
upon which I live
warming and stirring and waking beneath me
the deliciously slow but sure lengthening and brightening
of these cross-quarter days
Four kettles and a woodburner
four kettles and a woodburner
have seen me through the winter
kept me alive and snug and warm
fire metal water wood
wood seasoned and wood gathered
from hedge and copse and shore
fire metal water wood
the faithful embers of every night
inspiring the flames of every dawn
fire metal water wood
the generous belly of the stove
radiating an elemental form of love
fire metal water wood
The holy land
(i)
I once went on a walk for peace and justice
through the fractured, holy land
in the company of a motley
international pacifist band
we all hoped
that we could really make a difference
we met with Christians and with atheists
and with Muslims and with Jews
but our conversations and arguments and laughter
never made the daily news
who truly knows what difference
any of our actions ever make?
but precious little
is always more precious than nothing done
(ii)
some wounded people become healers
some wounded people become killers
some wounded people decide to break the chain
some pass the wounding on
some wounded people don’t even get to see
tomorrow’s break of dawn
yet still the sun rises
as the sun always must
and still the rain falls
on both the unjust and the just
(iii)
Oh Sarah, Oh Abraham
mother and father of all
may the salt at the heart of your tears
help heal the wounds at the heart of this war
Love is in the air
love is in the air
in the breath
and in the breeze
in the centre of the raging storm
that brings us to our knees
love is in the water
in the rivers
and the rain
in the sea and sweat and tears
that wash away our pain
love is in the fire
in the hearth
and in the sun
in the flames of strong desire
in the embers of songs unsung
love is in the earth
in the cliffs
and in the dales
at the tip of every mountain peak
in the depth of every vale
as above
then so below
as below
then so above
fundamental, non-judgmental
elemental love
Oi!
Most mornings
lost in my poetic musings
I forget my basic duty
to the vocal, local birds
It’s usually the robin or the blackbird
that grabs my attention
Oi! Breakfast Man! Less Poetry! More Prose!
It’s such a simple task
to scatter a handful of sunflower seeds
upon the slate of the bird table
but oh the almost instant rewards
My avian crew
more entertaining than Facebook ever could be
Back in January
there were three robins scrapping for domination
but I knew the plump one would win through
– it’s not called a pecking order for nothing
Robin, blackbirds, great tits, blue tits, chaffinches, tree sparrows,
the occasional mighty rook or resplendent magpie
(who will scarper if I even think about blinking)
For a couple of weeks a charm of seven goldfinches
utterly charmed me
And once a raven. A raven! They’re effin’ huge
There are even a couple of blue tits from the bottom of the paddock
who, with fluttering and pulsing swoops, make the long journey
across the open field of my view
to return home with just a solitary seed within their beaks
Fancy that!
A hundred yards powered by a single sunflower seed
with fuel to spare
Sunflowers transmuted into flight before my very eyes
If I could fly for a hundred yards on a single sunflower seed
I’d be the happiest man alive
As it is, vicarious flight
is its own delight
and – lucky me – my daily, morning joy
Thank God
for my feathered neighbours
and especially for the ones that go
Oi!
ink
a bottle of
pure poetry
suspended
in liquid form
I dip my
nib
and a poem
is born
the first housefly of spring
some say it’s the first snowdrops
some wait for the daffs
before they celebrate spring’s arrival
and consign winter to the past
but I say it’s the housefly
currently scuttling about my desk
coz
if you’re gonna celebrate them pretty flowers
you’ve also got
to give at least a nod
to all them pesky little pests
[half way through the month I put out a shout out for suggested themes and phrases – the following poem is a cut-up poem made up from the cacophony of responses]
The distracting view in the rear mirror
Sitting in the GP’s waiting room
I've really liked your poems when they get a little bit sexy
Mists above the river sucked out to sea
Beautiful human
lush and relatable
the scented molecules of a cup of tea
Body movement
You’ve still got it
dancing hedgehogs
Cider please
mud and oceans
Jungle fever
sitting in the Saturnian field of in-
between
rose porn and blackthorn
Mushrooms and mycelia
the heart emoji
gasping tenderly
Change could be a good theme
One about bookshops please
the taste of wild garlic
Theophany
Pixies in purple shirts
snowdrops and bluebells
All things nature
delightedly
Celebrating friendship
A bionic spring in the step
The curtain rises
Neti Neti
Cydershire
Some say the finest apples
are to be found in the heart of Kent
Some say the hills of Herefordshire
Some say Somerset
but I’ve tasted every apple
of every orchard of these isles
and the ones from fair Cydershire win
by miles and miles and miles
So, ferry me across to Cydershire
when the tide is calm and low
to where the lasses are ripe and rosy
and the lads are in the know
Where every cider apple is squeezed
between strong and generous thighs
and every cider barrel is full
of groans and moans and sighs
Yes, ferry me across to Cydershire
upon a gentle summer breeze
and I’ll while away my remaining days
in semi-drunken ease
Yes, I’ll while away my remaining daze
in semi-drunken ease
Message in a bottle
(i)
Every time I open a new bottle of whisky
whatever the weather
I go outside and
holding the bottle aloft
pour out the first dram
into the welcoming earth below
“For the ancestors!”
Dad used to scoff at this alcoholic ceremony of mine
“That’s a waste of good whisky, Stevie boy,” he’d say
Nowadays I sometimes pour him an extra, gratuitous glug
just to make a point
“Bet you appreciate it now, dad!”
But I was never convinced the dead can hear us
let alone answer back
(ii)
On the tenth anniversary of mum’s death
I went down to the sea for
a memorial ponder
and found myself saying out loud
“Mum, if you can hear me, then send me a sign”
I wasn’t sure if you’re allowed to ask such things
and I sure wasn’t expecting anything fancy
A few minutes later I spied a bottle washed up on the shore
half full of liquid amber
I just shook my head
and smiled out loud
at how funny and mysterious Life can sometimes be
and
having held the bottle aloft to the evening sky
and having poured a generous and grateful dram
into the pebbled beach below
I plonked myself upon the ground
and watched both the sun
and the seabourn bottle
sink down and
down and down
Quite how she coordinated that one, I couldn’t even guess
but I meandered home
in sea-whisky-fuelled wonder
feeling well and truly blessed
Gordon’s Way
Several hundred times I’ve made my way down
the steep coastal path to Seaton Hole
and often have I wondered about the sweet sign
at the top of the final flight of steps
which proudly announces GORDON’S WAY
Was Gordon someone who particularly loved this place?
Must have been
Was Gordon loved and respected by others?
Must have been, too
But the other day
I got chatting to a local artist
who turned out to be Gordon’s son
and he proudly told me the full story
See, once upon a coastal time, a chunk of the land above Seaton Hole
decided to crumble and tumble down to the sea
destroying the original path
and requiring walkers
to re-route inland
but Gordon
being Gordon
decided to build a new way down
and so set to work
carefully building a solid flight of steps
step by step
by step
Of course, the fine ladies and gentlemen of East Devon District Council weren’t particularly impressed by this bypassing of the usual, established
democratic procedures
It’s anarchy in action!
Think of the example he might be setting!
But not for Gordon letters humbly requesting that ye do generously and honourably apportion some of your precious budget to the rebuilding of the path down to Seaton Hole thus restoring the pedestrian enjoyment of your grateful forelock tugging humble servants...
No pleading, no requesting, no waiting, no wrangling
No “Yours et cetera”
et cetera
No No!, even
Just an obvious Yes!
step by step
by step
Ignoring the Council’s letters of desistance
was his chosen form of resistance
in fact
Gordon wasn’t resisting anything at all
- he was just being
and creating
the change he wanted to see
vision and strategy and tactics woven seamlessly
step by step
by step
Not the co-dependent whining tones of protest
for Gordon
just the confident, governmental hum
of leadership and willing labour and healthy sweat
step by step by step
News travelled, his son explained, and a local nature trust gave him a special reward
and when the steps were finished there was quite a celebratory launch
what with family and aforementioned nature trust and local press and
oh guess!
district councillors in attendance too
who all trooped down to Seaton Hole
step by step
by step
So, if ever you’re feeling powerless in this world
and protest ain’t providing any satisfaction
Just remember
Gordon’s Way
and take some direct action
Never a dull day
It’s a proper, stormy February day today
and through my window speckled and streaming with rain
and through the low coastal cloud of sea-mist grey
I can make out a vast army of white horses
attacking and churning the defenceless bay
or
perhaps
this is how the sea’s wild white horses
love to dance and play?
For Nicky
when the river meets the sea
she surrenders so lovingly
and all the love
she’s ever known
fills her heart
and fills her home
RSVP
The older I become
the more I begin to empathise with older people’s
nostalgia for
those golden days
when
beatniks forged dusty, haiku-strewn trails
and hippies followed their Eastern dreams
funneling through the Kyber Pass
for the revolutionary optimism
of the squats and peace camps and tunnels and trees
Greenham Common, Molesworth, Upper Heyford, Faslane,
Twyford Down, Newbury, Wanstonia
for the star-schmangled free parties
the early raves
where wide-eyed strangers were your instant friends
and sometimes we even glimpsed God in everyone
including ourselves
those times before the arrests or
the laws or the conflicts or the
betrayals or
the depression or
the rents or the mortgages or
the children or
the jobs or the bills
or the booze
or the drugs
really kicked in
those shimmering times before the leaden Machine
stole our sheen
and ground us down
with its relentless march towards already-crumbling cliffs
But it wasn’t just that youthful sense of
ever-expanding horizons
or the sheer freedom of being in a foreign land
thumb outstretched
not worrying where you’ll sleep tonight
It was when hope was in our bones
and revolution was in the air
when giving your all was its own reward
and Life seemed to rise up and meet you
A time when we felt
we really could
turn this shit show around
and build something better
more true, more just, more beautiful
in its place
those fires
in our bodies and hearts and minds
now reduced to
uncomfortably
comforting
nostalgic
embers?
But that invitation to give our all to Life
and to contribute the best we can
to the health of the whole?
It never went away
It’s an open invitation
ever-present
including right now
but not once has it ever
lived in
or dwelt upon
the past
Old School
Fuck A.I.
I've got the sky
Befriending loneliness
It’s a rain-drenched Sunday afternoon
the sea and sky visually indivisible
the earth soaked through to its bones
and although it’s snug and warm
inside my seaside-hillside-fireside cabin
when I finally allow myself to
sit still
at this desk
I can feel a familiar and quiet loneliness
stretched across my chest
it’s bearable but
uncomfortable too
this loneliness that often
(for me, at least)
accompanies solitude
it’s one of those awkward feelings you could probably chase away
with some chocolate or a couple of slices of toast
or a ciggie or a one-skinner or some
predictably-unsatisfying-internet-guzzling
or perhaps even a comfortably numbing glass
of Sunday afternoon wine
instead
I place a palm over the middle of my chest
and allow both hand and chest
to rise and fall as one
the rain keeps lashing the window like an argument it just can’t put down
and I realise it’s coming from the east for a change
head on
breathing in, my chest rises
breathing out, my chest falls
the challenge as always not to approach
visitors such as these as challenges
breathing in, my chest rises
breathing out, my chest falls
but as I would an honoured guest
or, perhaps
a soggy stray dog?
the thought of welcoming loneliness
as I would a soggy stray dog sitting outside my door
makes me smile
breathing in, my chest rises
breathing out, my chest falls
Ah, welcome, my sweet and lonely and beautiful and bedgraggled and rather soggy friend
pray, come inside
and rest those muddy paws of yours
warm and dry yourself by the Sunday fire
and curl and snooze a while
and if need be
stay with me
for my heart and hearth and home are yours
it’s way too wet and bleak out there
to be wandering around on your own
come share your loneliness with me
and we’ll both feel less alone
Moonlight dancing
the sunlight enters the moon
the moonlight enters the sea
the sealight dances across the water
and thereby enters me
the sunlight touches my heart
the moonlight warms my soul
the sealight dances within my veins
like liquid jazz
and blues
and rock and roll
for light is a form of music
and music a form of light
and the stars they keep on spinning them tunes
deep, deep into
the vinyl
night
The ink’s faithful flow
“The soul does nothing if you do nothing,
but if you light a fire, it chops wood;
if you make a boat, it becomes the ocean.”
Robert Bly
I used to think my muse was fickle
but this month it’s become clear to me
that it’s me who’s been the fickle one
demanding her presence
before I dare to fill my pen
for she loves to meet me
in the ink’s faithful flow
long before the type is set
my middle finger
stained with ink
is pure poetry to her
the porridge burning
(yet again)
makes her smile
and love me all the more
bottle, pen, ink
in service
of the human heart
and of my craft
is all that she requires
desires
requests
and all the rest
(she whispers)
and all the rest
will surely
follow
Leap Day
“Leap, and the net shall appear”
they said
so I went ahead and leapt
but through my tearful, fearful, windswept eyes
I ain’t seen
no net
yet
even the
seagulls are looking at me
strangely
“Always read the small print”
my dad advised
so I’m reading as I fall
“There are no guarantees in Life”
it says
“No guarantees at all”
So here I am
in mid-air
free-falling like a fool
praying desperately
there’s no ground below
now, wouldn’t that be cool?
perhaps
a poem a day
will keep the doctor away
with the faeries
and pixies
and elves
and the spider librarians
and assorted contrarians
who faithfully guard
our dusty bookshelves?
Brighid’s Mantle
Draped my old blue kikoi
upon a hedge last night
to be blessed by the dew
and the return of your light
this morning it smelled as sweet and earthy
as clothes gathered fresh from the first washing line of spring
draped it over my shoulders
and wore it all day long
like a lingering smile
like a pilgrim’s song
Oh fertile Brighid, Oh faithful Bride
you wash away the flotsam
and the jetsam
of winter’s high tide
Here Be Dragons
On the whole
the larger the dragon
the slower its sense of time
there are hillside dragons who
take a whole year just to
blink
a sleepy eye
there are mountain dragons who
take a century to yawn and stretch their wintered wings
some can slumber for millennia
some – so it is told – for aeons
Greenwich Mean Time means nothing to them
but they always know
when we humans are sick
for they can smell our sickness permeating the land
the rivers
the air
their dreams
oh little human being
strip off your civilised shoes and socks
and take a blacksmith’s hammer to that
buzzing phone and that ticking clock
and let the soles of your feet stand naked
and silent
upon this sacred, timeless ground
can you feel that sound?
can you feel that sound?
That’s the sound of myriad dragons waking
Sea-worn brick
There used to be a brick factory
in nearby Seaton town
and every now and then
upon the ever-shifting, billion-pebbled shore
I’ll chance upon a piece of sea-worn brick
as bright and thrilling as treasure to my well-tuned eyes
most pieces have been weathered into
brick-orange pebbles or red-brick stones
smooth to touch, light to hold
but twice I’ve found an old, intact engineering brick
washed up on the beach
each a heavy and rounded oblong
sea-shorn of its once sharp corners and edges
sea pebbles jammed tight into its strengthening holes
but whether pebble or whole brick
or half-brick or stone
I always pick them up
and bring them back home
not only are they to me
objects of simple and elemental beauty
but, over the years
they have also become reminders
of my own elemental journeying with grief
how the unbearably sharp corners and edges of loss
somehow get ground down
by the faithful storms and tides of time
how absence slowly
makes room for presence as well
how each broken piece
of any broken heart
harbours the colour and the clay
and the love and the beauty of the whole
Whatever the weather
Sometimes I love the sea for its vast
and magnificent indifference
to my very existence
as if I were merely
a mere speck of sand
me and my hard-won problems and dramas
so sublimely insignificant as to
vanish into an amused and gentle smile
And sometimes I love the sea for its utter
and exquisite intimacy
playing and flirting and dancing with me
as if I were
its only lover
its waves enfolding me so thoroughly
its salty tongue probing simultaneous pleasures and places
no human lover ever could
oh my
But always
always
I love the sea’s company
whatever the weather
and whatever our respective moods
Holy ground
if ever you’re feeling lonely
and no one is around
you can always lie down supine
upon the holy ground
mother, father, sister, brother
son, daughter, friend, lover
the earth will catch you
if you’re falling
will protect you if under attack
will cherish and replenish you
and will always have your back
the earth will always have your back
Morning Prayer
May we all be full of loving kindness
May we all be well in body, mind, heart and soul
May we all know the deep peace that dwells at the heart of all beings
And may Life move through us all with beauty and grace and joy
Beyond words
Sometimes all I can do
is go down to the sea
to some rocks out of view
raise my face to the sky
fill the bellows of my lungs
open my throat and my gob
and howl
[insert howl of your choice here]
I fucking love howling
There’s a whole hairy barbarian symphony of howls inside me
longing to batter down the clean-shaven gates of civilisation
and set me free, oh unkempt and faithful comrades, set me free!
You can’t argue with a howl
You can’t go “You said this” – “But you said that” to a howl
It’s my howl – it says nothing about you, dude
But your howl is welcome too
Howls are honest
like animals
and babies
and trees
and rocks
Howls obviously lend themselves well to grief and yearning
and frustration and heart-break
and excitement too
but, with practice and attention, you might also come to notice
confusion and rage and kindness and hatred and loneliness and self-pity and amusement and regret and exhaustion and lust and despair and madness and joy and power and even
worldless desires that you never knew existed
all howling from and through your being
Howling is a form of prayer
Howling is far cheaper than therapy
Howling is very good for getting rid of shit which ain’t your shit
Sometimes, a howl is the sound your soul makes when you’re spending too much time in your mind
Oh, to stand under a full moon bursting and beaming with fertile light
and to open your body wide to this elemental moment
and from the depths of your lungs and your heart
and your belly and your soul to...
[insert howl of your choice here]
A good howl is its own reward
[insert howl of your choice here]
whispers of spring
of all the early flowers of spring
it’s the blackthorn that really tickles my thing
seeing your first blossoms this morning
made my heart gasp
with such tender delight
this
whispered each delicate, sturdy flower
only this
Lazy Saturday
ah
me and my muse
freefalling and freestyling
right now
to hustle a poem a day
she’s in her element
I’m remembering mine
it’s been a long time
since we had so much fun
or spent so much time
together
feels like she’s waking me up
from a long and heavy spell
that sometimes felt like a curse
breakfast mug of coffee steaming in the hazy
low and lazy Saturday morning sunshine
shadowing the nib
of my faithful pen
always at her service
freestyling and freefalling
through this moment
as vast as any coastal fuck!
I can smell the porridge burning
P.S. it actually tastes really good
Sunday morning communion
this pregnant time
half way between
winter’s true depth
and the establishment of spring
snowdrops and primroses
a family of early daisies
the rose’s vibrant, promising, exquisite new leaves
the sleeping belly of this hill
upon which I live
warming and stirring and waking beneath me
the deliciously slow but sure lengthening and brightening
of these cross-quarter days
Four kettles and a woodburner
four kettles and a woodburner
have seen me through the winter
kept me alive and snug and warm
fire metal water wood
wood seasoned and wood gathered
from hedge and copse and shore
fire metal water wood
the faithful embers of every night
inspiring the flames of every dawn
fire metal water wood
the generous belly of the stove
radiating an elemental form of love
fire metal water wood
The holy land
(i)
I once went on a walk for peace and justice
through the fractured, holy land
in the company of a motley
international pacifist band
we all hoped
that we could really make a difference
we met with Christians and with atheists
and with Muslims and with Jews
but our conversations and arguments and laughter
never made the daily news
who truly knows what difference
any of our actions ever make?
but precious little
is always more precious than nothing done
(ii)
some wounded people become healers
some wounded people become killers
some wounded people decide to break the chain
some pass the wounding on
some wounded people don’t even get to see
tomorrow’s break of dawn
yet still the sun rises
as the sun always must
and still the rain falls
on both the unjust and the just
(iii)
Oh Sarah, Oh Abraham
mother and father of all
may the salt at the heart of your tears
help heal the wounds at the heart of this war
Love is in the air
love is in the air
in the breath
and in the breeze
in the centre of the raging storm
that brings us to our knees
love is in the water
in the rivers
and the rain
in the sea and sweat and tears
that wash away our pain
love is in the fire
in the hearth
and in the sun
in the flames of strong desire
in the embers of songs unsung
love is in the earth
in the cliffs
and in the dales
at the tip of every mountain peak
in the depth of every vale
as above
then so below
as below
then so above
fundamental, non-judgmental
elemental love
Oi!
Most mornings
lost in my poetic musings
I forget my basic duty
to the vocal, local birds
It’s usually the robin or the blackbird
that grabs my attention
Oi! Breakfast Man! Less Poetry! More Prose!
It’s such a simple task
to scatter a handful of sunflower seeds
upon the slate of the bird table
but oh the almost instant rewards
My avian crew
more entertaining than Facebook ever could be
Back in January
there were three robins scrapping for domination
but I knew the plump one would win through
– it’s not called a pecking order for nothing
Robin, blackbirds, great tits, blue tits, chaffinches, tree sparrows,
the occasional mighty rook or resplendent magpie
(who will scarper if I even think about blinking)
For a couple of weeks a charm of seven goldfinches
utterly charmed me
And once a raven. A raven! They’re effin’ huge
There are even a couple of blue tits from the bottom of the paddock
who, with fluttering and pulsing swoops, make the long journey
across the open field of my view
to return home with just a solitary seed within their beaks
Fancy that!
A hundred yards powered by a single sunflower seed
with fuel to spare
Sunflowers transmuted into flight before my very eyes
If I could fly for a hundred yards on a single sunflower seed
I’d be the happiest man alive
As it is, vicarious flight
is its own delight
and – lucky me – my daily, morning joy
Thank God
for my feathered neighbours
and especially for the ones that go
Oi!
ink
a bottle of
pure poetry
suspended
in liquid form
I dip my
nib
and a poem
is born
the first housefly of spring
some say it’s the first snowdrops
some wait for the daffs
before they celebrate spring’s arrival
and consign winter to the past
but I say it’s the housefly
currently scuttling about my desk
coz
if you’re gonna celebrate them pretty flowers
you’ve also got
to give at least a nod
to all them pesky little pests
[half way through the month I put out a shout out for suggested themes and phrases – the following poem is a cut-up poem made up from the cacophony of responses]
The distracting view in the rear mirror
Sitting in the GP’s waiting room
I've really liked your poems when they get a little bit sexy
Mists above the river sucked out to sea
Beautiful human
lush and relatable
the scented molecules of a cup of tea
Body movement
You’ve still got it
dancing hedgehogs
Cider please
mud and oceans
Jungle fever
sitting in the Saturnian field of in-
between
rose porn and blackthorn
Mushrooms and mycelia
the heart emoji
gasping tenderly
Change could be a good theme
One about bookshops please
the taste of wild garlic
Theophany
Pixies in purple shirts
snowdrops and bluebells
All things nature
delightedly
Celebrating friendship
A bionic spring in the step
The curtain rises
Neti Neti
Cydershire
Some say the finest apples
are to be found in the heart of Kent
Some say the hills of Herefordshire
Some say Somerset
but I’ve tasted every apple
of every orchard of these isles
and the ones from fair Cydershire win
by miles and miles and miles
So, ferry me across to Cydershire
when the tide is calm and low
to where the lasses are ripe and rosy
and the lads are in the know
Where every cider apple is squeezed
between strong and generous thighs
and every cider barrel is full
of groans and moans and sighs
Yes, ferry me across to Cydershire
upon a gentle summer breeze
and I’ll while away my remaining days
in semi-drunken ease
Yes, I’ll while away my remaining daze
in semi-drunken ease
Message in a bottle
(i)
Every time I open a new bottle of whisky
whatever the weather
I go outside and
holding the bottle aloft
pour out the first dram
into the welcoming earth below
“For the ancestors!”
Dad used to scoff at this alcoholic ceremony of mine
“That’s a waste of good whisky, Stevie boy,” he’d say
Nowadays I sometimes pour him an extra, gratuitous glug
just to make a point
“Bet you appreciate it now, dad!”
But I was never convinced the dead can hear us
let alone answer back
(ii)
On the tenth anniversary of mum’s death
I went down to the sea for
a memorial ponder
and found myself saying out loud
“Mum, if you can hear me, then send me a sign”
I wasn’t sure if you’re allowed to ask such things
and I sure wasn’t expecting anything fancy
A few minutes later I spied a bottle washed up on the shore
half full of liquid amber
I just shook my head
and smiled out loud
at how funny and mysterious Life can sometimes be
and
having held the bottle aloft to the evening sky
and having poured a generous and grateful dram
into the pebbled beach below
I plonked myself upon the ground
and watched both the sun
and the seabourn bottle
sink down and
down and down
Quite how she coordinated that one, I couldn’t even guess
but I meandered home
in sea-whisky-fuelled wonder
feeling well and truly blessed
Gordon’s Way
Several hundred times I’ve made my way down
the steep coastal path to Seaton Hole
and often have I wondered about the sweet sign
at the top of the final flight of steps
which proudly announces GORDON’S WAY
Was Gordon someone who particularly loved this place?
Must have been
Was Gordon loved and respected by others?
Must have been, too
But the other day
I got chatting to a local artist
who turned out to be Gordon’s son
and he proudly told me the full story
See, once upon a coastal time, a chunk of the land above Seaton Hole
decided to crumble and tumble down to the sea
destroying the original path
and requiring walkers
to re-route inland
but Gordon
being Gordon
decided to build a new way down
and so set to work
carefully building a solid flight of steps
step by step
by step
Of course, the fine ladies and gentlemen of East Devon District Council weren’t particularly impressed by this bypassing of the usual, established
democratic procedures
It’s anarchy in action!
Think of the example he might be setting!
But not for Gordon letters humbly requesting that ye do generously and honourably apportion some of your precious budget to the rebuilding of the path down to Seaton Hole thus restoring the pedestrian enjoyment of your grateful forelock tugging humble servants...
No pleading, no requesting, no waiting, no wrangling
No “Yours et cetera”
et cetera
No No!, even
Just an obvious Yes!
step by step
by step
Ignoring the Council’s letters of desistance
was his chosen form of resistance
in fact
Gordon wasn’t resisting anything at all
- he was just being
and creating
the change he wanted to see
vision and strategy and tactics woven seamlessly
step by step
by step
Not the co-dependent whining tones of protest
for Gordon
just the confident, governmental hum
of leadership and willing labour and healthy sweat
step by step by step
News travelled, his son explained, and a local nature trust gave him a special reward
and when the steps were finished there was quite a celebratory launch
what with family and aforementioned nature trust and local press and
oh guess!
district councillors in attendance too
who all trooped down to Seaton Hole
step by step
by step
So, if ever you’re feeling powerless in this world
and protest ain’t providing any satisfaction
Just remember
Gordon’s Way
and take some direct action
Never a dull day
It’s a proper, stormy February day today
and through my window speckled and streaming with rain
and through the low coastal cloud of sea-mist grey
I can make out a vast army of white horses
attacking and churning the defenceless bay
or
perhaps
this is how the sea’s wild white horses
love to dance and play?
For Nicky
when the river meets the sea
she surrenders so lovingly
and all the love
she’s ever known
fills her heart
and fills her home
RSVP
The older I become
the more I begin to empathise with older people’s
nostalgia for
those golden days
when
beatniks forged dusty, haiku-strewn trails
and hippies followed their Eastern dreams
funneling through the Kyber Pass
for the revolutionary optimism
of the squats and peace camps and tunnels and trees
Greenham Common, Molesworth, Upper Heyford, Faslane,
Twyford Down, Newbury, Wanstonia
for the star-schmangled free parties
the early raves
where wide-eyed strangers were your instant friends
and sometimes we even glimpsed God in everyone
including ourselves
those times before the arrests or
the laws or the conflicts or the
betrayals or
the depression or
the rents or the mortgages or
the children or
the jobs or the bills
or the booze
or the drugs
really kicked in
those shimmering times before the leaden Machine
stole our sheen
and ground us down
with its relentless march towards already-crumbling cliffs
But it wasn’t just that youthful sense of
ever-expanding horizons
or the sheer freedom of being in a foreign land
thumb outstretched
not worrying where you’ll sleep tonight
It was when hope was in our bones
and revolution was in the air
when giving your all was its own reward
and Life seemed to rise up and meet you
A time when we felt
we really could
turn this shit show around
and build something better
more true, more just, more beautiful
in its place
those fires
in our bodies and hearts and minds
now reduced to
uncomfortably
comforting
nostalgic
embers?
But that invitation to give our all to Life
and to contribute the best we can
to the health of the whole?
It never went away
It’s an open invitation
ever-present
including right now
but not once has it ever
lived in
or dwelt upon
the past
Old School
Fuck A.I.
I've got the sky
Befriending loneliness
It’s a rain-drenched Sunday afternoon
the sea and sky visually indivisible
the earth soaked through to its bones
and although it’s snug and warm
inside my seaside-hillside-fireside cabin
when I finally allow myself to
sit still
at this desk
I can feel a familiar and quiet loneliness
stretched across my chest
it’s bearable but
uncomfortable too
this loneliness that often
(for me, at least)
accompanies solitude
it’s one of those awkward feelings you could probably chase away
with some chocolate or a couple of slices of toast
or a ciggie or a one-skinner or some
predictably-unsatisfying-internet-guzzling
or perhaps even a comfortably numbing glass
of Sunday afternoon wine
instead
I place a palm over the middle of my chest
and allow both hand and chest
to rise and fall as one
the rain keeps lashing the window like an argument it just can’t put down
and I realise it’s coming from the east for a change
head on
breathing in, my chest rises
breathing out, my chest falls
the challenge as always not to approach
visitors such as these as challenges
breathing in, my chest rises
breathing out, my chest falls
but as I would an honoured guest
or, perhaps
a soggy stray dog?
the thought of welcoming loneliness
as I would a soggy stray dog sitting outside my door
makes me smile
breathing in, my chest rises
breathing out, my chest falls
Ah, welcome, my sweet and lonely and beautiful and bedgraggled and rather soggy friend
pray, come inside
and rest those muddy paws of yours
warm and dry yourself by the Sunday fire
and curl and snooze a while
and if need be
stay with me
for my heart and hearth and home are yours
it’s way too wet and bleak out there
to be wandering around on your own
come share your loneliness with me
and we’ll both feel less alone
Moonlight dancing
the sunlight enters the moon
the moonlight enters the sea
the sealight dances across the water
and thereby enters me
the sunlight touches my heart
the moonlight warms my soul
the sealight dances within my veins
like liquid jazz
and blues
and rock and roll
for light is a form of music
and music a form of light
and the stars they keep on spinning them tunes
deep, deep into
the vinyl
night
The ink’s faithful flow
“The soul does nothing if you do nothing,
but if you light a fire, it chops wood;
if you make a boat, it becomes the ocean.”
Robert Bly
I used to think my muse was fickle
but this month it’s become clear to me
that it’s me who’s been the fickle one
demanding her presence
before I dare to fill my pen
for she loves to meet me
in the ink’s faithful flow
long before the type is set
my middle finger
stained with ink
is pure poetry to her
the porridge burning
(yet again)
makes her smile
and love me all the more
bottle, pen, ink
in service
of the human heart
and of my craft
is all that she requires
desires
requests
and all the rest
(she whispers)
and all the rest
will surely
follow
Leap Day
“Leap, and the net shall appear”
they said
so I went ahead and leapt
but through my tearful, fearful, windswept eyes
I ain’t seen
no net
yet
even the
seagulls are looking at me
strangely
“Always read the small print”
my dad advised
so I’m reading as I fall
“There are no guarantees in Life”
it says
“No guarantees at all”
So here I am
in mid-air
free-falling like a fool
praying desperately
there’s no ground below
now, wouldn’t that be cool?
| leap_of_faith_30_may.pdf |
