I have always walked in the dark.
The torch’s light
Illumines the night
But can not fight
With phantoms stark.
I have always walked in the dark.
I have always walked in the dark.
A knock at night
May bring delight,
But then we part.
I have always walked in the dark.
I have always walked in the dark.
The moon disappears
And yesteryear’s fears
Emerge
And converge in my heart.
I have always walked in the dark.
The greatest poems about being alone
The poet’s life is often viewed as a lonely one – starving in garrets, pining away for lost loves, moping about the streets of the city looking for Baudelaire-style inspiration – so it should come as little surprise that there have been many classic poems written about solitude and loneliness. Here are ten of our favourite poems about isolation and being alone.
William Shakespeare, Sonnet 29. One of the most famous sonnets written by Shakespeare, this one contains the line ‘I all alone beweep my outcast state’, thus casting the poet as both solitary and shunned. But there is hope for him as he reflects on the love of the Fair Youth with whom he appears (in the sequence as it unfolds) to be in a burgeoning relationship…
Alexander Pope, ‘Ode on Solitude’. The most remarkable thing about this poem…
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I am, as those of you who follow this blog will know, interested in clocks and what they represent (I.E. Old Father Time himself, with his sickle chopping up seconds).
Yesterday I happened across Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “The Old Clock On The Stairs” (https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44643/the-old-clock-on-the-stairs). In his poem Longfellow describes a clock that ticks away in a mansion. Time passes never to return and the people observed by this timepiece are now dead or gone elsewhere leaving the clock telling time in the empty house.
My own work contains several poems which deal with the passing of time, including one simply entitled “Time” which runs thus:
“The reaper moves
In time with the pendulum.
No rush
Or fuss
He has plenty of time.
My patient friend
whose tick portends
my inevitable end.
You rest in state
on my bookcase.
Tick tock
I can not stop
time’s sithe.
None can survive
his cut.
Though in a cupboard my clock be shut
death can not be put
aside
The sickle chops
And the heart will, one day, stop”.
(“Time” can be found in “Lost in the Labyrinth Of My Mind”, which is available from Moyhill Publishing (http://moyhill.com/lost/) and Amazon (https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B01AF5EPVY).
My latest collection of poetry, “My Old Clock I Wind” is also available from Moyhill Publishing and can be found here (http://moyhill.com/clock/). “My Old Clock” can also be downloaded in the Amazon Kindle store (https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0735JBVBG).
A great description of the English weather and the wildlife in my frien John’s garden. I also have foxes as visitors in my garden in Upper Norwood, together with an owl (or owls) who visit from time to time.
I wrote the following blog back in early June just after a long spell of warm weather had ended in typical British weather style with heavy rain and I was reflecting on how changeable our weather really is. Unfortunately, I never got to publish it or indeed any subsequent articles owing to being particularly busy of late.
Having just stumbled upon the draft for the first time in a while, it strikes me whilst reading it that the title and overall theme of that draft could equally apply to now, for as we enter August, typically one of the driest and hottest of monthes there appears nothing but clouds and more rain on the horizon.
I’m therefore posting this article now (trusting to the maxim ‘better late than never’) and I hope you enjoy my musings on British weather and the wildlife in my garden…
They say that a week…
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If I told you what I dream
You would move the conversation on to the weather
Or any subject but that
Of which I dream.
But why so?
For you know
That every man has his craze,
The secret fire that does blaze within.
Some are driven mad
And are almost glad
To give in
And sin.
There was a young man named Moor
Who explained the limerick’s core.
Had I the time
I would finish this rhyme,
But alas I can write no more!
There was a young lady named Nell
Who wished her soul to sell.
It was bought by a demon named Mark,
Who dwelt in the dark,
But was really an actress called Bell!
Mr. Nazeer Ahmed, wakes up slowly. His eyes open gradually. His arms and legs stretch. From the blurry yellow light objects begin to take form. He rolls slightly to his side and is about to drop out of his bed when his body orders the eyes wide open and his hands to flail out. One leg in air the other still in bed, he catches himself on the bedpost.
What? This isn’t my bed. This isn’t my room. Where am I?
His eyes are greeted with a very bland sight of a room. The paint is chipped in places. A dirty mirror hangs on the wall in front of him. Besides the mirror a single steel hook, which appear to be the ad hoc wardrobe: shirts, pants, underpants, vests, all hang from it. On the floor, underneath this wardrobe sits a pile of socks. Some flies buzz about them…
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A beautiful butterfly
Flutters by
And a gentle breeze
Russles the leaves
Of fine old trees.
Where shadows dance
Couples may see,
By some lucky chance,
The otter wild and free
That dreams
In woodland streams.
Standing on the street
With dusty feet,
They gazed
Amazed
At the museum of yesteryear,
While far and near
Stretched the asphalt drear.
Mugabe goes to Singapore
For his medication
While the poor
Of Zimbabwe’s nation
Must seek treatment in their own country.
I ask you who can disagree
With the decision
Of the World Health Organisation
To appoint Mugabe as an ambassador? So feline
Cease your derision,
But perhaps you may be allowed one final smile
As there can be no denial
That all flesh is dust.
