it’s like banging your head against the wall
that would not fall
but you did
as you slid
trying to flee
all that would never be
all that would stop you from standing tall
it’s like banging your head against the wall
truth
Dereliction and devotion
“You see,” I said
“I can’t write award winning poetry
and do housework.”
And at no point
did she turn to me and say,
“You can’t write award winning poetry.”
Karma suits you
an invite
a tentative knock at the door
tea and toast and tears
and all those things shared through the years
if I could I would love you more
less flexible now and yet
still we remain
intertwined
Day of the wren
No time for eloquence
to fall upon frustrated ears.
No Sanhedrin and no Saul,
the onlooker was but a call
away, shielded behind the safety
of the bloodied panic button.
A glutton for punishment
and conscription, was voluntary.
Preamble
How do you convey violence, its impact and aftermath: explain everything and nothing, stand up and remain anonymous? How do you explore and challenge conceptions of – and blurred distinctions between – victim and perpetrator, participant and witness, guilt and innocence, blame and responsibility, fear and courage, fact and truth and fiction? How do you convey stark, brutal and often incompetent reality without visceral detail? How do you challenge your assumptions and maintain self, vision and experience? And can it really be done in less than 50 words? To what end?
I can’t answer.
15 years to figure out how I wanted to approach a subject. Another year for that idea to rest, develop and take shape. And in the end a matter of minutes to write.
A blur.
A lifetime.
It seems appropriate to post the finished piece on the feast day after Christmas, where it will pass unnoticed – which is as it is should be. A merry Christmas to you all.
Bluecoat
on a bench
beneath a tree
within the walls
they were betrothed
Beyond Merlin Crag
beyond Merlin Crag
a glistening Aradaidh awaits
the broken sky as breathless as I
plodding rather than prancing
up the rough track more
usually travelled by machine
bumping and jostling
its cossetted occupants
I’ll grant you that
“I’m re-writing Ulysses.”
“Surely not,
a mammoth task!”
“More akin
to a minor miracle,
given
I’ve never read it.”
On this day
against their hopes
a giant resting
among giants
found by friends
for in truth
he was never lost
Failing light
After the squall
another step up the stony staircase
another step closer.
A striding beacon
towering in the middle distance
signalling that to come.
Each step fragile
memories pass father to son
a failing light burning bright.
the jericho roads 