As a lover of clocks I enjoyed this poem.
The Clock
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Monthly Archives: June 2018
Writing Blind
Earlier today, (Tuesday 26th June), I came across a fascinating podcast in which blind poets Giles L Turnbull and Dave Steele discuss sight loss, their lives and their work.
I found Turnbull’s vivid evocation of colours in the poem he read both moving and beautiful, while Steele’s composition on the subject of his hereditary eye condition, RP also touched me deeply. In the latter poem Steele hopes that his young children will avoid inheriting his RP, however, if they do so he makes it crystal clear that they will still enjoy fulfilling lives.
I lost the majority of my own vision at approximately 18-months-old as the result of a blood clot on the brain. While I can see outlines of objects, I am unable to read print nor can I recognise either family or friends (other than by the sound of their voice). Given my own visual impairment the podcast was of particular interest to me. However it will also be of interest to lovers of poetry more generally.
To listen to the podcast please visit, https://www.rnib.org.uk/community/1689/topic/47582.
The Hair Of The Dog
We do what we shouldn’t.
I wouldn’t
Enquire
Into another’s desire
For when the wine flows
The staid
Maid
Shows …
When the day is warm
Bees to flowers swarm,
Birds sing
And the sting
Seems far away.
They say
That the hangover cure
Is the hair of the dog.
Good god
Are they sure!?
In The Churchyard Today
In the churchyard today
Through the play
Of light and shade
I my shadow made.
When I go away
Will my shadow stay
Behind for people to see
And say
“That was he
And now midst light and shade
His shadow is forever made”.
A Short Analysis of Emily Dickinson’s ‘Safe in their alabaster chambers’
‘Safe in their Alabaster Chambers’ is about one of Emily Dickinson’s favourite themes: death. But, as so often with an Emily Dickinson poem, her treatment of this perennial theme is far from straightforward.
Safe in their Alabaster Chambers –
Untouched by Morning –
And untouched by noon –
Sleep the meek members of the Resurrection –
Rafter of Satin – and Roof of Stone!
Grand go the Years – in the Crescent – above them –
Worlds scoop their Arcs –
And Firmaments – row –
Diadems – drop – and Doges – surrender –
Soundless as dots – on a Disk of Snow –
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There Was A Young Lady Of Maynooth
There was a young lady of Maynooth
Who went by the name of Ruth.
My good friend Lin
Made a terrible din
When she danced up on the roof.
Bust
Bust
Rhymes
With lust
And dust.
As times
Change
We exchange
One lover
For another.
But tis the same dust
Into which we thrust
For we are all bust
In the end
My friend
There Is A Middle-Aged Lady Called Ruth
There is a middle-aged lady called Ruth
Who lived a misspent youth.
She claims to know me
But, you see
She rarely tells the truth …
Why When?
Why when
Middle-aged men
See young women
Are they drawn to them?
Tis the fear
Of the Reaper, who draweth slowly near.
Tis a dread
Of being dead,
Of dust
That causes them
To satiate their lust
In thought and sometimes deed
For the seed
Lives on
After we are gone.
Desire
“Alergic to something?” I enquire.
“Yes”. Desire.
Thoughts whirl.
Not the same girl
But her voice
And the same half-inocent laughter.
And after
Comes the choice.
Is,
Ought.
I can not
Help my thought
On this hot
Day.
And she sniffs in that self-same way.
K Morris - Poet 