28 Sunday Apr 2019
Tags
1964, charles aznavour, Georges Garvarentz, NaPoWriMo, poem, rip
the perfect marriage
of the singer to the song
is charles aznavour
with ‘yesterday when I was young’.
Charles Aznavour wrote “Yesterday, When I Was Young” with Georges Garvarentz back in 1964. RIP Monsieur.
26 Friday Apr 2019
Posted in children's novel, NaPoWriMo, poetry, writing
Tags
alice in wonderland, children, fairytale, NaPoWriMo, peter pan, poem, poem in a white ribbed vest, somewhere over the rainbow, storybook, writing
freshly bathed
sleepy eyelidded
bedtime children
navigate their coracles
through choppy seas
of azure, pearl
and storybook
towards the edge
of the fairytale world.
we only wish
we could follow them
into the wonderlands,
down the rabbit holes
beyond the rainbows.
oh to fly straight on
till morning.
24 Wednesday Apr 2019
Tags
age, anaglypta, depression, NaPoWriMo, old teddy, poem, poem in a white ribbed vest, sorority, wallpaper, yellow paint
I touch
with reverent fingertips
my sister’s bedroom walls.
once a brilliant crocus yellow,
vibrant and aflame,
a fresh coat of paint
testament to a new home,
a new freedom,
a new start.
now the sunshine emulsion
is faded to the dusty golden
of a cherished old teddy
in the airing cupboard,
held together by patches and repairs.
beneath the paint
the anaglypta is like
stalks of wheat
waving in the breeze.
but we are a ruined crop,
ungathered, turning
to dust in the wind.
23 Tuesday Apr 2019
Posted in age, generation war, NaPoWriMo, poetry, war
old people,
propped up,
a little wonkily,
in bath chairs on hospital verandas,
remember ‘double summertime’
when the battling british sun
lingered longer in the sky,
a lovelorn boy outside
his sweetheart’s house.
it loitered till almost midnight,
shortening the darkness,
the vulnerable defenceless hours,
when incendiaries fell,
giant hailstones on
metropolis rooftops,
pursued by schoolboys
with shovels and buckets,
after tailfins as souvenirs,
a daytrip to the seaside game
played in deadly earnest
in the bright exploding night,
while time bombs plumbed
the depths of their own craters.
the extended day outlasted
the hostilities, grew into
their necessary normal,
as they toiled
to rebuild after the blitz,
their bloodstained city
in smithereens around them,
empty seats at the dining table
and vacancies in their hearts.
and now,
when twilight descends
and they shiver slightly
in threadbare cardigans,
their legs twitching under crochet,
they are wheeled silently away
from the falling dusk,
into the bland parlours of nursing homes,
all neutral shades and easy chairs,
and pacified with hot chocolate.
they reconstructed
a nation almost from scratch.
trauma, hardship,
homelessness,
bereavement and grief
shrugged from their shoulders,
young and strong then, victorious,
tensile as saplings,
recoiling to upright,
enduring as oaks.
they just got on with it –
relieved to be alive,
determined to survive.
brexit
is something that
holds no fear for them.
they recall an island tribe,
a carefully kept distance,
and want the country
that they fought for back.
Photo of folk sheltering in tube station during the Blitz from University of Sheffield project.
16 Tuesday Apr 2019
14 Sunday Apr 2019
morning,
undecided
snow do-se-do-s with sun,
weather musters for a weekend
whiteout.
Photo by Belinda Latchford
02 Tuesday Apr 2019
Posted in nature, poem in a white ribbed vest, poetry, weather
indiscriminate
the frost’s delicate
cold hand,
dusting each fence post,
bush and tree,
a fondant icing
on the land,
a picturesque frigidity.
Many thanks to Caroline Sauverin for photograph.
01 Monday Apr 2019
each and every year
the stalwart snapdragons
steadfast to the last,
push up pluckily
through the exterior walls
of the whitewashed pavilion
and out of the dull grey
blistering tarmac of the path,
old soldiers saluting each other.
bubblegum pink, salmon
and marshmallow, pillar box
red and peach and white,
like a variety of bonbons
from the pic’n’mix of the past.
Photo of Rocket Mix Snapdragon from Veseys.
15 Sunday Apr 2018
Posted in NaPoWriMo, poem in a white ribbed vest, poetry, travel, youth
once upon a time
my happy ever afters
hitched their wagons
to someone else’s star.
my possibilities shrank,
dreams gathered dust
on the cluttered sideboard.
my future narrowed,
narrowed, to the sights
of a gun, a circle of light
and colour in the far distance.
and I still have such a long way to go,
but on a rope bridge of uncertain strength
and to a destination less distinct.
11 Wednesday Apr 2018
hearing a certain song now
resonates inside your heart
as if it really held strings;
and your eyes begin to leak the grief
that is drowning you by degrees.
your record collection
a roll call of the dead.
it carries the same unexpected pathos
as the accidental discovery
of something banal or mundane
– a note to the milkman,
for ‘one extra pint, please’,
a recipe or an address –
in the handwriting of
a deceased parent, so
familiar and now so seldom seen.
they will never put pen to paper again.
