Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry. Show all posts

Friday, 26 November 2021

Me and the Sea

 



Old friend, it's me again, 

Sorry that it's been so long,

It seems I'm fated never to remain, 

Within earshot of your endless song.


So often I've seen each shifting disguise, 

Revelled in your existential rage,

or your calms that take me by surprise,

Revealed like the turning of a page.


They're all you.


The small boy tossing stones in you, 

The young man idly strolling by, 

The proud father pointing out the view,

The mature man lost in staring at the sky.


They're all me


Perhaps after all we're better this way, 

Our occasional acquaintance forever renewed

Me knowing you'll be there come what may

You there to mirror my changing mood.


I'll try to remain me; I know you will remain you. 

Thursday, 21 January 2021

The Hill that we climb: Amanda Gorman at the Inauguration


 

Amanda Gorman, by common consent, stole the Inauguration show with her poem: The Hill that we climb. But let’s be clear, this was not some whimsical performance, a little girl singing tomorrow from Annie to charm the grownups. These were powerful words, powerfully delivered, whose emotional force was enhanced by, although not reliant on, the relentless onrushing speed of her speech. So what did she say, and how did she use language to connect to those listening?

Firstly, it should be said, Gorman stood on the shoulders of the African-American oral tradition. Even I, as a middle-aged white male, could recognise that, whilst it was not a rap, it borrowed from that forms use of rhythms, rhymes, repetition and variation on a theme to generate momentum.

Secondly, she clearly displayed the heritage of some-one familiar with the bible and with preaching style. ‘We’ve braved the belly of the beast’, an early reference to Jonah that set the tone. The poem is steeped in King James version phraseology; from ‘and so we lift our gazes’ a clear nod to the psalms ‘I shall lift up mine eyes to the hills’ to the explicit reference ‘Scripture tells us to envision that every-one will sit beneath their own vine and fig tree and no-one shall make them afraid’, Amanda gives her poem a biblical authenticity.

Thirdly, Miss Gorman demonstrated her mastery of literary techniques to grab our attention. She is rightly unafraid to use rhyme in a poem that people were initially going to hear rather than read:

‘where can we find light in this never-ending shade, the loss we carry, a sea we must wade’

 ‘because we will never again sow division. Scripture tells us to envision………..’,

‘victory won’t lie in the blade, but in all the bridges we’ve made’

The power of rhyme in the spoken word is another strength of rap, as is alliteration, which Miss Gorman sometimes wields like a weapon:

‘We will not be turned around or interrupted by intimidation because we know our inaction and inertia will be the inheritance of the next generation’.

And sometimes like a call to arms:

‘to compose a country committed to all cultures, colors, characters, and conditions of man’.

Where she and the poem really take flight is with her mastery of techniques such as inversion and opposition to sculpt memorable phrases:

‘So while once we asked, ‘How could we possibly prevail over catastrophe?’ now we assert, ‘How could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?’

‘We will not march back to what was, but move to what shall be’

Just read that line again. See how ‘march’ and ‘move’ are connected by alliteration, yet separated by meaning, the one redolent of bellicosity, the second of possibility. This poet takes a delight in language. This can be seen in her supple, subtle phrasings:

‘That even as we tired, we tried’.

‘the norms and notions of what “just” is isn’t always justice.’

That last line delivers it’s meaning to the ear by a subtle shift in the s sound, to sell a powerful political statement. Because this is a political poem that confronts the realities of January 6th and offers a way to rise above and move beyond them. Its message is rooted in religion without labouring it and it delineates what is going on and asks the question, ‘which side are you on?’ without giving in to negativity. The unity message that President Biden is pushing is re-inforced at the end using history and geography. Gorman uses the compass to encompass the whole nation in her description, name-checks the revolution and echoes one of her poetical predecessors, Woody Guthrie, in doing so embracing a tradition beyond the African-American one and telling her audience, all our stories matter. In ‘This land is our land’ Guthrie surveys the continent:

“This land is your land, this land is our land, from California, to the New York Island,

From the Redwood forests, to the Gulf stream Waters, this land belongs to you and me’.

Compare Miss Gorman’s lines:

‘We will rise from the golden hills of the west.
We will rise from the wind-swept north-east where our forefathers first realized revolution.
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the midwestern states.
We will rise from the sun-baked south.’

and see she has picked up the baton and run with it. Only a National poet could end with:

‘In every known nook of our nation, in every corner called our country,
our people, diverse and beautiful, will emerge, battered and beautiful……..’

‘When day comes, we step out of the shade, aflame and unafraid’.

Lines which manage to simultaneously affirm an almost religious message of hope whilst firmly rejecting the chaos that has so recently erupted. Comparisons have already been made with Maya Angelou. If Amanda Gorman fulfils her potential she may, in a future interview, critique her own work and perhaps call it youthfully naïve, poetically clunky and over-earnest. But for now, at this moment in our time, let’s celebrate it. 

Follow the link to see and hear wonderful performance: 

Amanda Gorman: The hill that we climb


Wednesday, 25 November 2020

Liminal

 


On the map so defined; a solid line of ink that says;

this side land, that side sea.

But I know better. I know the nuance and subtlety

Of this no-man’s land, where each side advances and retreats.

Not just each day, as the moon drags the immense weight of ocean

first one way then the other. But in longer measures of time, where

land becomes submerged here, but builds a further promontory there.

Measurable in a single lifetime, or incremental over aeons.

I may leave an ephemeral mark by drawing in the sand,

sometimes staying long enough to see it washed away.

 It’s temporary nature whispers;’ all things must end’.

But because it doesn’t really exist, can’t really be defined, only

glimpsed and held in memory, this foreshore wields a powerful magic.

 It’s my special place, where nothing else matters, only the present

matters; the sound of the sea, the salt tang in the air, the cry of gulls,

The crunch of shingle under my feet. Only here,

 in this transcendent space, I truly feel alive.




Thursday, 1 October 2020

Unrequited

 


I’m happiest when I’m in range of your smile,

A sensation I neither expected nor sought,

A state of affairs providing pause for thought,

Merely hearing your name makes a whole day worthwhile.

 

You steal in and out of my thoughts like a thief,

I have no defences to keep you at bay

My mind is disordered, my wits are astray,

I fear this path leads me nowhere but grief.

 

Love unrequited is a bittersweet thing,

The sufferer absolves its object from blame,

Curses instead Cupids arrows of flame,

Then gives in to those feelings that make the heart sing.


Wednesday, 8 July 2020

This time last year




Last year we visited Haigh Park in Wigan and attended one of the Friday Food Festivals. It was packed, it was a sunny summer evening, and we stood in close proximity to other people and bumped into them without a care. Because that was 2019 and such things didn't matter. Now it's 2020 and it matters very much. This is my first attempt to express my feelings about the pandemic in verse. It's rough and ready and doesn't aspire to anything beyond conveying a sense of loss somewhere between there and here..............

If you were there at all last summer- this is for you (and if you are in the photograph, I hope you don't mind).

This time last year, we were there

Mingling and moving through a crowd of strangers

Shoulder to shoulder without a care

No thought in our heads of any dangers

 

We were there this time last year

Knowing all we had to do was make some choices

The aromas demanding attention as we drew near

Shouting to hear ourselves above the voices

 

Last year, we were there, last time

Surrounded by faces we didn’t know

Hearing random conversational rhythm and rhyme

Lit by the sinking sunset glow

 

This year it cannot even go ahead

How could it, when so much has changed?

Our certainties have turned and fled

The fabric of our lives is disarranged

 

Go ahead, this year, with a trip? We cannot

even contemplate a Hotel stay

A chance to visit somewhere when it’s hot

Let chance throw something new our way

 

We cannot go ahead this year

And stand with strangers we will never see again

And laugh and smile and be free from fear

So thanks for last year, Haigh Park Wigan, here’s to coping with the pain

Wednesday, 24 June 2020

An old school Twitter Poem

Remember when Twitter was all about the 140 characters; to tell a story, make a point, start a conversation? Have you ever tried to write a poem in 140 characters that evoked a scene? Here's my first effort from a few years ago. I hope you like the tale of unrequited love that it spins.....

A Twitter Poem

We’re all talking,

She says:

Remember the fete?

Yes, I say

Your mini dress

You drank Sol

Danced to Elvis

She looks at me eyes wide

My secret’s out


140 characters




Sunday, 21 June 2020

Connections

Connections

I remember the excitement of leaving,
an early eighties early morning, 
my eighteen hour odyssey unfolding,
to a college no-one had heard of, somewhere
between Snowdonia and the Irish sea.

The train carries me in the footsteps of Boudicca
through Colchester, where the monstrous 
carbuncle of the Temple of Claudius
came to an ugly end, 
not long after it was built. 

Destroyed by Luddites, who stated
very firmly, with fire (and according
to certain obstinate historians, the sword)
that they wanted none of that modern nonsense
here, thank you very much.

And so to London, where the ashes 
of their arson slowly compacts to coal 
beneath my feet. Two days beforehand,
The Roman Governor had arrived.
His press secretary announced,

following "consultation", that London
could not be defended, alas. Collateral 
damage, which could not be avoided, 
was "and I want to make this clear"
to be blamed on the Celts.

The army, away fighting fanaticism
in cold Cambria, would deal with the revolt
in due course. They would naturally help 
to sweep up the ashes and assist where possible
with the subsequent urban regeneration.

So I stand on a Welsh hillside, overlooking 
the Irish sea, hoping to spot the young Agricola
in among the legions passing beneath 
my feet. I reflect on the european union of men
marching past; Italian, German, Dutch, Spanish,

nineteen hundred years before my birth. 
yet more real to this nineteen year old boy
than my future, today decided, as a Hotel Manager,
and my imminent replanting from one place 
to another, connected by death in A.D. 61.

In the year 2001, the phone rings.
I answer, looking out once more
over soaring Suffolk skies,
my twenty year odyssey over
(in case you're wondering, Penelope didn't wait).

"Hello, it's your mother on the mobile-
we're driving through Colwyn Bay
en route to Anglesey, and I thought of you".
Some connections never go away.
They're just re-made with new energies. 






Monday, 1 June 2020

Retired Schooner, Conwy Harbour

Retired Schooner, Conwy Harbour

So sad to see you here, dry-docked; 
Chained fast to rough-hewn harbour wall,
By manacles that hold you land-locked, 
Responsive no more to the rise and fall

Of the Ocean swell; embracing the keel, 
Caressing the stern, a lover and friend
Whose touch you welcome. Do you feel
Any sense of sadness at journey's end?

Princess disguised, changeling under a spell, 
Your gun-ports black with modern paint, 
(Where once they spat the flames and smoke of hell).
In place of England's Patron Saint 

(Red cross on white) the flag of commerce flies,
Tea and scones in the state-room aft, 
Where chart and compass, helped by sun and skies, 
Plotted roadless roads for a salt-scarred craft.

Yet even here your dignity remains, 
Gulls still find a perch on mastheads tall, 
Though bloodstains now defer to coffee stains,
You lie in state, under frowning wall

And stubborn, alien castle towers
of Conwy town (by Edward's English built 
And defiant Welsh reclaimed). Soft showers 
Flood your decks with tears; tears of English guilt.