Reaching for the alarm that wakes
He takes
A step into the unknown.
Breakfast will, he thinks, Be followed by leaving home
For work.
No sudden jerk
Of fear,
Just the passing thought, death is always near
And one day all will
Be still
I had intended to read at the Y-Tuesday poetry event this evening (Tuesday 7 June), however, due to the event having been cancelled, I will be reading at the Poetry Café, 22 Betterton Street, Covent Garden, London. The Poetry Unplugged event runs from 7:30 until 10:30, with poets signing up to read between 6-7 pm. If you do come along please do say hello.
Kevin
“Poetry isn’t real” you said.
I shook my head
For what the poet feels
Is real.
The words in the poet’s brain,
His whole train
Of thought
Is caught
And given life upon the page.
His poems may forever dance
And bring romance
To the paper stage.
A poem can make one laugh or cry.
So why
Can you not try
To lift your eyes from the ground,
And gaze upon something profound?
Looking back, I remember the owl did hoot.
What is the route
To a girl’s heart?
Where to start?
The park
Was dark.
You and I talked as we walked
Back to the hall.
I recall
You remarked on the romance of the owl’s cry
But try
As I might
The night
Ended in tea
And me
Alone
At home.
The puppets on a string
Swing
This way and that
In accordance with the command of the fat
Puppateer.
Far and near
They dance.
Circumstance
Dictates he has control
Of the whole
Play.
The ringmaster may pay
To have his way
Tomorrow and today,
But, heres the thing
should the string
Break, will the puppets stay?
Thank you to Dawn D for kind permission to reproduce her poem, “The Oak”. The below is copyright and may not be reproduced without the explicit permission of Dawn D. Dawn’s blog is currently private. You can, however contact Dawn to request access.
The Oak
Die Eiche
Ich bin die Eiche.
Ich bin das Eichhörnchen, ich bin der Vogel, die in dieser Eiche leben.
Ich bin die Frau, die unter dieser Eiche vergewaltigt wurde.
Ich bin der Mann, der ab dieser Eiche gehängt wurde.
Ich bin der Wind, der durch die Blätter dieser Eiche fließt.
Es gibt keine Zeit, nur Ewigkeit.
Ich bin frei, ich bin stark. Ich bin Ich!
The oak
I am the oak.
I am the squirrel, I am the bird, that live in that oak.
I am the woman who got raped under that oak.
I am the man who got hung from that oak.
I am the wind that flows through the leaves of that oak.
There is no time, only eternity.
I am free, I am strong. I am Me!
(For the original post please visit, https://dawnsnight.wordpress.com/2014/02/05/poetry-2/).
A serpent with a smooth tongue
Did feel
The heel
Of a girl’s shoe
As through
The grass
It slithered.
The girl quivered
But knew not she had been stung
By one who lives among
Rakes in suits
Who’s boots
Will trample a maiden’s heart.
She had not the art
To comprehend
The depths to which man will descend
Nor how he does attain his fell ends.
Carpet by heels worn.
Man’s heart torn
Asunder
By blades that plunder
His nightly slumber.
To and fro
The dancers go.
Ever changing,
Exchanging
Well worn words.
Love my friend, is for the birds …
The Poetry Book Society (PBS), founded by poet T. S. Eliot is to close following the withdrawal of Arts Council funding. For the Guardian article please visit (https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/jun/03/cuts-hit-poetry-book-society-to-close).
Scent on a pillow fades.
In woodland glades
The willow
Weeps
As dusk creeps
Over the land.
The sand
Where lover’s feet Trod
Is printless now.
Oh see how
The grassy sod
Forms a bed
Where the dead
Sleep
And those that loved once, no longer weep.
K Morris - Poet 