Not googling Vermeer

Not googling Vermeer

Sun being up and early bright 

me too (though less so) 

created slanting shadow grids

recalling Dutch interiors with jugs and maids, pearl earrings 

and now my memory is stalled and flick of the key with revving’s all in vain 

his name, his name? 

Stay calm, relax, oh god, the light’s now green 

picture the windows, blue in her hair

don’t even think of googling. 

How maddening and saddening 

an hour spent with Clive James 

(his name, his name?) 

getting the poems by heart, anon today and Herbert

all three verses perfectly wrought 

Western wind, I’ve wrangled, oh woeful 

for want of a spark in the synapses 

fire of joy unfired. 

But look here ( duck, duck, go not google) 

Vermeer! T’would appear, alive in the era of Herbert. 

Keep calm and be grateful for wifi 

what’s got by heart not by head, instead 

Love Bade Me Welcome, what joy what bliss 

picture this, the slant of the sun through the window. 

23rd March 2021, Hounoux 

For want of a future

For want of a future 

There is no ancient iron key 

such as turned and locked Rapunzel firmly in 

confined within, turret, dungeon, tower

no jailer jangling noisy bunch, clanking 

nor electronic system, tag or buzzer

red light on/off flashing 

none of this security array, not prison cell, thin rations, gruel 

and yet, though no fence is wired, fizz and shock 

no key nor lock 

still we are confined, 

whole world cribbed and cabined 

globally, in chains. 

And though we roam in realms of gold

music, poetry, art 

warmed by the fire of joy 

the leap from the cliff, the pot-hole plunge

a siren mermaid call 

paradise this way, pearly, iridescent 

seducing like chocolate 

yet still, fizz and shock, no key nor lock 

we pace like polar bear, zoo’s shame and horror 

the daily counted steps, back and forth, forward back

for want of a future, promise, possibility 

a tune to play or dance to

hands linked, proximity 

and hold our breath in trepidation 

awaiting the enemy’s call, next move 

pawns,  powerless 

in thrall to the merciless king. 

March 20th 2021, Hounoux 

Undersong

 

Undersong 

Below the stave, 

or higher than the skylark’s sweetest pitch 

inaudible 

a song of glacial moraine, residue 

long ago left

rocks rolled from mountain tops 

now embedded deep, on clay in lumps

the land soft folding, hillocks, tumps 

valleys and foothills, patchwork cover spread 

before the Pyrenees. 

A melody in wind, the Marin, Tramontane 

south from the sea or chilled over mountains, rock and snow 

whistled, whispered through the trees 

across the ochre earth, or swished 

where dew ponds glint and wink 

an air in Occitan,  this land of Oc not Oil 

before the French came  conquering; 

and here the people planted, grew

belonging, their terroir. 

Song of the landscape, sunflowers, cypress 

heard in the heart, the silent murmur 

undersong. 

15th March 2021 Hounoux 

Cader Idris

Cader Idris 

For Cader Idris looms and lowers 

but sometimes glows bright gold,  

crags as backdrops moody, changing 

where shadow clouds in silence slide

all the greens now turned to grey, and in the hollow, 

giant hollow

water’s pooled deep down and dark 

green as green, like bottle glass. 

And should you sleep upon this mountain 

somehow not overwhelmed in land sublime 

where Idris stalks with giant strides, 

then in the morning, legend has it

in bardic songs the ancients sang 

(like Shakespeare’s lovers after sleep 

some magic potion doubtless drunk) 

then one of two you’ll soon discover 

henceforth a poet or a madman 

this is how your life will be.

This is the song the landscape’s singing 

song of the mountains, valleys, longing. 

Poet or madman, throw of the dice 

see how they fell.

Caught in the mystery, awesome, wonder 

Cader Idris casting its numinous spell. 

March 13th 2021 Hounoux 

 

Sunlight pooling

Sunlight pooling 

All day from first light morning’s call 

the sun has dazzled 

more midsummer surely, not March 

before the ides or equinox. 

Ah but cold he said, bitter, biting, 

the sun but flattery to deceive 

for the wind’s from the north 

with ice on his breath, the smack and the crack 

of the lion, not lamb

Hark it doth blow, surely not snow? 

And so

a day to sit in windows sunlight pooling 

through the glass 

in a hazy dream of summer 

where the distant mountains glow. 

10th March 2021 Hounoux