Blog Archives

Landscape Poems

            In the Mist

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Calling cranes cross overhead like ghosts in the gloom,

Bells echo down the hillsides from hidden forest horses

Like shots across the valley, voices and dog barks below

Reveal others on the path as invisible to us as we to them

Knowing surrounds only by memory and sounds in the

Silence, the mist expands our senses out like landscape,

Until the sun lifts the veil and sends down into our pocket

Of the earth, a gentle caress of golden warmth and sets

The sky blue brightness shining off mountain cloud

Shimmering across imagined land beneath silver shroud.

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            The Same Scene a Thousand Times

A painter can select one scene,

One view, from a certain lookout,

Turn it into their subject: treat

It a thousand ways, in varying lights.

But can a poet? Write a thousand times

Of one mountain range and valley?

Of all the many shadows and scudding

Clouds along its sides, and all 

Aspects of the mists across its sky.

A painter can settle in one spot,

A cottage on a cliff:

Paint through the window.

A poet may install himself

In the same place,

But can he use words more than once

To illustrate the landscape?

Or once used, need he seek new views

To inspire new vocabularies?

It seems the answer lies in the

Lines, led along by eyes, looking

In ever-finer focus always finds

The mind inspired to write.

The scene from above the village of an evening.

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I have no photos of the scenes that inspired the first poem, but the second poem was inspired by sunset in the same spot I watch sunset most Sunday evenings, and each time it’s inspiring, but can I write of the same valley for the rest of my life? Possibly. It depends less on the inspiration and more on my ability I suppose!

Cloud Impressions

clouds 3Thoughts on Clouds.

 

There are many useful words

To describe pre-precipitation atmospheric condensation

Or as we call them, clouds.

Precise nomenclature of

Scientific phenomena,

Predicting what weather to expect:

Stratoculnimbus, cumulocolumbus, cirronimbulus,

 

No matter what construction,

None suffice

To describe

A scene

Of scudding shades of purple and blue and white,

Whorls and wisps and fluffy tufts,

Grey layering over the landscape like heavy cream,

High, hazy hovering, herringbone brush strokes:

 

Thus do poetic panderings, pattering,

Find themselves equally insufficient.

 

Nor would a photo, nor even painting

Do any justice            .

Nothing works as well as our unspoken

Constructions, sometimes,

 

So we simply suffice with stopping,

To stand, and stare, and smile.

 

 

clouds 2

Haikus and other short poems.

Here are some more short poems and haikus that I said I’d post.
I will add them to the poetry page, too.

I haven’t posted recently becuase I’ve been away at home in Ireland, where I don’t get much of a chance to write, or read.
Mostly, I drink tea and beer and chat.
And that’s great.
Of course, afterwards it would be nice to be able to have a holiday alone and catch up on stuff. But summer with the children is on the cards, so only a few hours a day to myself and my pen will be my lot.
I will get a few poems and some chapters of my work in progress, done, though. I swear!

Snowdrop

Early Snowdrop
Still Bows
To the braver bee

Speed

Cyclist careening down
Mountain, crouching under wind
Ignoring the sky.

Daisy

Dark lawn lays an extensive frame
For a tiny dot of pink:
First brave daisy bursting forth
To herald the blooming March of spring.

Drifting

April afternoon
Aspen seeds
Drifting.

Bedtime

Ignored, strangers sight excite –
Wife’s sleeping form,
Pulls powerfully, still.

Saved by Death

High on the corner of a Midwestern cornfield
A family cemetery stands firm, the last
Testament to a town wiped from memory,
Like the soil that once stood below it.

Spring Park, Pamplona

The hinds abide,
While the cockerels cry,
Drowned out by the peacocks.

deer abide

Encapsulated

Narrow country road,
Hedgerow arches over,
Birdsong encloses.

The Birds of Summer

Swifts have disappeared,
Swallows are soon to follow;
Cuckoos long silent.

Rooks

Caged,
Crows’ calls
Echo
Open fields.

Sea Greeting

Surging up the sand,
Touching toes:
Gentle hello.

Original Sin

Originally,
Maybe our sin was seeing
Shame in nakedness.

On a Hilltop

Across silent landscape
Sounds
Reveal their source.