Cos every little thing, gonna be all right

Cos every little thing, gonna be all right

Don't worry, on that joyful bounce of reggae beat
I hear him sing
about a thing
cos every little thing, yes every little thing
gonna be all right
the upward lilt, the chipsy stride
and yes I know it's just a tale
told to a child, for soothing fears and fright
middle of the night 
your mother's here and dad
this place this home
grandfather built, laid brick on brick
take note, that's not with straw nor stick
we're solid, safe against the wolf

And yes I too have nonsense told
to comfort in the dark
declared that monsters don't exist, not fact but purely fiction.
Let's grasp the lie, the fairy tale
where good will always triumph
and join the dance with chipsy stride 
turn up the music, make it loud
cos every little thing
yes every little thing
gonna be all right.

24th November 2015, Hounoux

Hallelujah!

As through the window's dusty panes the sun
the sky, the landscape shines
so in my early morning bed
here's Cohen singing in my head
his sad but glad, in rising fall
a dirge for love that's going wrong
a poem that he's set to song
resolving in the lovely Hallelujah

Hallelujah in the alto part
a cry to make us lift our hearts
encapsulating in one word
what goes from eye to heart to mouth
the deepest periwinkle blue
the vines in lines a blood-red square
patchworked with yellow, ochre, sage
with blue-green cypress stood in queues
without a thought for artist's view
sentinels as windbreaks sown
but now to stunning beauty grown

and all become as farmers toiled
to work the land to hand it down
with guidance now from bureaucrats
this year the sunflowers, next more wheat
in spring it all will zing bright chrome
with rape crop everywhere for oil


so through the window's dusty glass
there's heritage, the patrimoine
and agriculture, science and nous
technology and politics
and early morning in my bed
here's Cohen singing in my head
it goes from eye to heart to mouth
the sad the glad a paean of praise
repeated and resolved in
Hallelujah.

November 7th 2016, Hounoux.

Well worth the limping

Well worth the limping

We set off walking, rucksack picnic packed
south to the garden botanical, indirectly
round the up and down, the in and out of hidden coves and cliffs
secret sunny places, October bathers and boaters
me with my knee, the left one, shouting at steps
several thousand at a guess
in earth and rock and brick
but on we strode and limped, with stops for views
through parasol pines, the blue of sea and sky
gnarled and knotty branches twisting sideways
until the garden, ah at last, and gorgeous from first glance
paper flowers, bougainvillea,in all the hottest shades
orange, purple, crimson, pink
rampaging up and over, twining in curls
my favorite light blue, sky blue, plumbago, still profuse
Spain being warmer by degrees
and tree upon tree, cork oaks, araucaria, cyprus,  mimosa
(acacia, four varieties at least) with palest yellow fluff
of flower, yet  visible, palms in a grove
giant cacti clumped in family groups
acres and acres on the cliff edge, clinging
spread and grown in ninety years of loving cultivation
the long ago vision of an English woman and her
Russian, settled in Catalonia.
Shrubs and trees and flowers, botanical reference and legacy 
pepper, musk and sweetness, scent and birdsong bursts
and for us, well worth the limping
Thursday picnic in Paradise.

October 2015, Calella de Palafrugel, for Jude

Beyond the moon

Beyond the Moon

Beyond the moon, three-quarters full and floating
boating
white cotton sheets hang on the horizon
and next-door but one,
ghosts bleached by the sun 
four shells misaligned in a square
cockles, scallop, sea snail
are calling forlorn through the half-open door
begging the tide to turn

October 2015, Calella de Palafrugell.


 

Buenos dias, Catalonia

Buenos dias, Catalonia

The sea in the  morning's breathing
like a giant, happy in her sleep
untroubled by dreams piratical, or merbabies 
dancing in schools, unruffled,
only a  few white manes flying, along the rocky shore
but otherwise a rhythmic inspiration, expiration,
lulled I'd say
by Charles Trenet
la mer, qu'on voit dancer
the shush, the whoosh
the sun above, shining in through slats
buenos dias, Catalonia
good day.

October 2015, Calella de Palafrugell

Certain from day one

Certain from day one

It's not often nowadays I get to lie and watch you
me wake, you sleeping
for as we've aged and no more
early-wailing babies/ clocks
are set to start our days
you've turned full lark, to my nocturnal bird;
but in the half light, dawn through shutter slats
creeping in fingers
your four-square profile, forehead, nose and chin
still straight, though softened, obviously
provokes a memory from first discovering days
spring 1970, before you knew
(me on the other hand, certain from day one) 
you're driving and I'm pretending otherwise
but cannot look away
forehead, nose and chin.
I'm dazzled, mesmerised
unable to believe this, my good fortune
my new man, become, though still a  miracle
(my reward or perhaps entirely undeserved?)
but now and always, my old man 
best-beloved, 
dearest dear. 

October 2015, Calella de Palafrugell. 

Ballerinas perched on stilts

Ballerinas perched on stilts

Although I've craved the balm of pen on paper flowing
clear page filling line by line, and in the end
some kind of rounding, resolution
yes, that's what I meant, or near as words can come
encompassing the thing
still I've shunned the life poetic, kept the pen on purpose capped
for I'm fearful and I'm flinching
for I know where it will lead

I can write of days of Autumn
rust red supermoon eclipse
blue grapes snipped and piled in buckets
salt flats shining, salt like snow
those elegant flamingo, balancing on stilts
and stepping through the water with a ballerina's grace

But I'll slam the gate on monsters
Here be dragons!
Look away!
Turn my face from what is lurking
run like hell before they roar

Let my mind be full of Autumn
snow flats shining, salt like snow
and the palest pink flamingos
ballet dancers  perched on stilts

October 2nd 2015, Hounoux, for Lyn, my fellow-dragon slayer.

So though I carry poetry

So though I carry poetry

I've mostly been a fan of words, a dialect devotee
smiled at nuances in accent, syntax subtlety 
an apostrophe well-placed
I've put my faith in language, believed in le mot juste
conjured like a waiter with a click, and apt
to cheer or comfort, soothe or clarify,
but lately I'm not so sure
for more and more they fail me, don't answer at my call
and even marshalled artfully, their power appears to wane.

So though I carry poetry and crossword-solving's my delight
I see that there are times, non-stop rolling catastrophic, on the news
or quiet whispered down the line
when grief's abyss is opened up
to Lear's appalling howl,
never never never never never
no words
just nothing to be said. 

July 30th 2015, Brighton and Hounoux 
   

May 8th 2015

May 8th 2015

This time, like news of grief
about to hit, tsunami on its way
and all of us but bobbing flotsam
going under
the tolling bell, doom in the knell
dread in the exit polls.

So, sick at heart and sicker
we wordless took to bed
enough said
opting for oblivion
news blackout, curtains drawn
and lovely the nightingale sang. 

June 14th 2015, Hounoux.

Rounded like an egg

Rounded like an egg

Bold unbowed
her curve and camber lovely
as an S
arc and bow and bend
swells and folds, rolled
rounded like an egg
and all the world within

5th May 2015, Hounoux

Anzac Day 2015

Anzac Day 2015

Charlie Chaplin, mother sang

didn't rush to war

not for him the Dardanelles

stayed instead to entertain

black and white on silent screen

brightly shone the moon

How much of love and light and joy

is buried with our darling boy

carved in stone, Gallipoli

forty thousand men and more

didn't live to make their mark

slaughtered all too soon

Countless stories never lived

all that might have been

gallant Anzacs donned their hats

fell in step and waved goodbye

Matilda waltzing with the band

jolly swagman tune

Tommy Atkins with his pals

whistling, marched away

Picadilly, Leicester Square

grieving Dolly left behind

siren songs, adventure's lure

heedless to their doom

One hundred years, what lessons learned?

Still the marching bands

red and gold the regiments

clean white graves and monuments

poppies, anthems, poetry

plaintive wailing bugle call

we may shroud it all in beauty

talk of sacrifice and duty

but the truth remains obscene

dulce et decorum, dying

such a bloody, ugly, lie

27th April, 2015, for Sue, whose grandfather, Lieutenant John Lionel Calvert Booth, was mortally wounded on April 25th 1915 at Gallipoli. He died of wounds on H M Hospital Ship Itonus on April 28th 1915 aged 38, and was buried at sea.

I think of Susan

I think of Susan

I think of Susan in the bathroom 
where her Galliano shoes swagger
and swank, still life
or by the conte crayon curvy nude
on the bedroom wall,
the oriental shirt and mannequin, juxtaposed
first-ever flowers, tulips, seriously askew
and tentative
but bolder daffodils

For Susan taught us week by week
called us artists, said Be brave
and try the right side, where the soul
creative, can breathe and stretch
and grow

and so I think of Susan
light and lovely
her precious legacy


April 16th 2015, Hounoux, for Susan and for Gill, with love and thanks

As rainbows shimmer

As rainbows shimmer

Even the sodden farms
their fields winter dun or darker,
sparkle, shine under luminous sky
muddy tracks now waterlogged
are silver strips
there's lime and light, spring promise
green patchworked with the browns
and all the spectrum red to violet
in garlands strung
as rainbows shimmer, shameful
on spiders' ancient webs

28th February 2015, Hounoux

Preserved like plums

Preserved like plums

I see my feet
brown like an egg and small
warm from the sun, in sandals
last year's Start-Rite
my short toes free, the toe-cap cut
by mother with a razor blade
was the leather red? 

I see my arms
also bare beneath the sleeves, puffed
pale blue and knees
summer-coloured, with a scab
soon ready for the picking
always war-wounds then
when life was all outdoors
with dirt in finger nails

and time was not yet learned
from the checkered china clock
or the Victory jigsaw, seasons in each corner
but told instead by the cress seeds
wet on cotton wool
egg-box sprouting, ready yet for tea?
Sandwiches with crusts removed
or the bean on blotting paper
jam jar on window sill.

Long days then from dawn till dusk
when I was near the ground
so noticed worms, wasps, stones
(collected those with holes for luck)
knew the smell of pineapple on mayweed
threaded on a stalk
flicked plantain heads for catapults
joined daisies in a chain

I see my feet
on the garden gate, perhaps my brother's too
where we have climbed for lookouts
mother must have said
to watch and wait for dad's return
six day week routine
another country then unreachable 
but technicolour clear
preserved like plums in a bottle
sweet in memory

25th February 2015, Hounoux, for my friend Wendy, some sunshine for your day

Dust on a sunbeam

Dust on a sunbeam

Four days now separate my time with you
time out of time, three weeks
that now in memory glow, rounded and perfect
a scene in a snow globe where glitter floats
dust on a sunbeam

And now that I am elsewhere
the enchantment in the past
can I pin down the magic, woven spell
tell how it is
how you hug and hold me
light bright in your eyes
shed tears to show you're glad
hold out a hand to help, take my bag, lock my bike
tell me to sit whilst you pin jasmine
and roses, hibiscus, sunflowers
in my hair and declare
no irony, Beautiful!
and somehow I suspend  my disbelief
all cynicism flown?

You offer coffee, food you've made with love
at dawn, rising early
you gently press for a date, a visit to your homes
where family wait smiling, pleased at our return.
For all these days we cycle to your village
cries of Vanicum! Hi how are you? Smiles and salutes
Good morning mam!
And love is shown in care and concern
are we well, have we eaten, quick the fan, take your rest.

Though some would struggle, find it all too much
the fuss and food
for me it's never so
just a miracle of love 
shown in the small and daily
cherishing
tears as we depart
connections made, whole-hearted
my soul fed
a golden snow globe glitter 
glow

1st February 2015, Home Stay Marari Beach Kerala, for Pam and Wendy.

Thin as a stick

Thin as a stick

Thin as a stick a lizard lurches
slips down the door frame
freezes still
the air in the room mercifully moves
fan-swirled
a ghost of a breath
my body beached, beaten by the heat
evaporates the sweat, wet, in rivulets
coconut fronds wave
desultory, flicker and clack
as January days grow hot
glass is rising, daily soars
my body, beached
no lizard
is beaten by the heat 

January 31st, Marari Beach Home Stay
 

In Kerala there's half a moon

In Kerala there's half a  moon

In Kerala there's half a moon
flat on its back and strange
not as it hangs in the west
but slung in a blue-black sky
hot wind in the night, pulling
and pound of the sea
relentless its rhythm and rise
rising to fall, over again
ceaseless and over again.
Time and the tides
magical moon
high in the hot black sky.

30th January 2015, Marari Beach, Kerala

This India

This India

India teems swarms sweats
full sun throbbing
insists and persists
thrum thrum of a drum
train rattle and clack, clackety clack

India teems swarms sweats
life is cheap work is hard
days are long life is short
the pulse and the beat, heat
the colour and culture, our custom this culture
this India
our way

Daily and dear
the rituals are strong, the heart beat insists
in spite of the squalor, the problems the pain
survival a struggle
no justice no pity, just poojah and prayer
the gods here are legion
entwined in our custom our culture
our lives, daily worship at shrines

Pray for a baby a girl or a boy
for health, education, a chance to succeed
for work and for marriage, enough food to eat
that life will be better, this life or the next
this India our India
in spite of the filth and the foetid, fight to survive
the pity the pain
astounding appalling
the gorgeous the vile 
beloved our country our birthplace
this India our culture
our way

23rd January 2015, RUHSA campus, for my family in India with so  much love

Today's frames frozen

Today's frames frozen

Today's frames frozen clicked and stored
mind's eye, treasure trove

express in a rattle and clatter whistle and wind
too close as I cross the track

mashed and messy brash
magenta yellow clash, funeral garlands
strewn and fresh-dropped cattle dung

skinny-legged hen strutting
and afterwards her skinny-legged raggle-straggle,
dusty powder puffs

silly goats in a wayward huddle
eddying out of line

women on the wall watching
laughing as we go by, 
giggling children too, calling Hi

mam welcome you come
flowers for you pin flowers
which you like in your hair?

small brown legs jumping dancing
bursting full of beans
dark eyes bright, young life

last and gorgeous 
a flight of turquoise blue
lost in the trees then perched, slash of red at the beak
white vent, posed for a photograph
kingfisher, still in the sun

13th February 2015, RUHSA, for Jude, photographer

The dear familiar

The dear familiar

 We take an early morning taxi ride, a coach
a long-haul flight, a Chennai taxi
dodge and weave, close our eyes and pray
a train air-con, what bliss!
A heave a grunt of heavy bags, staggering and sweat
and one last taxi, black and yellow
Katpadi to home
the dear familiar.

Tata trucks, Soundhorn, Latteri and KVK
the ATM, bus stand
then PKPorum, slow, turn left
still rutted final road
Paul's hotel unchanged
the dear familiar
RUHSA building newly blue
wood-smoke scented curls, rising heat and spice
crows and tamarind trees
hibiscus orange blooms
a click a clack a clickety clack
train's long long mournful call.

All day, all night and half another day and all for this
for this
Unlock the door, switch on the fan
listen...
we are home!

9th January 2015, RUHSA S India, for Pam with so much love