In the early morning
Few birds I heard.
In the distance
Vehicles passed by.
On such autumn mornings
I have no resistance
To thoughts of mortality.
But half dark
Turns to light
And I must
Shake off dust.
But autumn
Must come
And leaves fall.
When a young lady who is divine
Came round to mine with some wine,
It ended in the lake
With a large cream cake,
And the vicar at just gone 9 …!
A small island in a great sea.
Once, half the world was painted red
And we engaged in slavery.
It is so often said
That the British Empire did no good.
Yet, (having abolished slavery), we patrolled seas
Stopping those who still engaged
In the cruel slave trade.
As I stood
In this remnant
Of the Great
North Wood
I thought on those who hate
This country.
Now our former colonies are free
To have their own mess
(Or progress.
And we
Have the cold sea
And what we
Call progress.
I see sunlight
On my bed.
Perchance we dance
In fleeting light
Then vanish
Into night.
I wonder, when I die,
If it be in dream,
Will it seem
That I lie
Abed,
In perpetual dream?
I
Must take care
That my head
Is empty of all nightmare,
Lest, when I am dead
I, forever, dream.
Soon the autumn moon
Will come
And autumn’s milder face
Will replace
The boiling summer sun.
Yet the poet sees
Autumn’s Fallen leaves
Broiled by summer’s sun
Long ‘Ere autumn
Is due to come.
When I found naughty Miss Mabel
Making love on my dining table,
I said to Ted,
“What about my bed?”,
He said, “I prefer Miss Mabel …!”
I heard Autumn birds
And did think
Of strong drink.
And felt the fire
Of Autumn lust.
Man sates his desire
For sweet forget
In a girl’s arms.
For in dust
All charms
We forget.
How should poets explain their poetry?
The above question came into sharp focus for me yesterday evening. I was out in a pub with my friend Brian when we fell into conversation with a couple. During our chat, the subject of poetry came up and I passed a copy of my book “Leaving and Other Poems” to the gentleman and his girlfriend.
Having leafed through Leaving, the gentleman asked me the meaning of my poem “Circular”:
“A circular seat
Encompassing a tree.
Age will defeat
Thee and me”.
In retrospect, I ought to have asked the gentleman for his interpretation of the poem prior to giving my own take on it. However, I did not. Rather, I admitted to not having a complete answer to his question. I went on to say that poems sometimes pop into a poet’s head and are written down without the author being fully aware of the meaning of his own work.
The above brief poem came to me whilst sitting with family on a circular bench in the environs of Woolton Wood (woodland in the village of Woolton in Liverpool). The circular seat reminded me of life, death and rebirth, and it’s circularity also brought to mind eternity.
I explained (somewhat haltingly) my interpretation to my companions, and the gentleman commented that his interpretation accorded with mine.
Despite my explanation of my own poem, I remain of the view that others may interpret it differently. What the poet writes is not (as I say above) always cut and dried in his own mind. The words are there in black and white. He may, at the time of composition, be sure that he knows exactly what he means. But, even after polishing and final publication, his poem remains a living force, open to various interpretations. The poet has lost control over his offspring (if indeed he ever had control in the first place).
As always, I would be interested in the views of you my readers.
(You can find “circular” in “Leaving and Other Poems”, which is available in Kindle and paperback here https://www.amazon.com/Leaving-other-poems-Kevin-Morris/dp/B09R3HR9KG/).
