after the party
later on
the lovely part was
when there were only six of us left
we had to sleep in one room
by the fire we sat and talked until dawn
and when we woke again at mid day
these strangers were all close friends
we never met again
Author: A. Gouedard
Grace
emerging from a night that’s almost gone
my mother moved about the kitchen slowly
such quiet grace should herald in the holy
brush strokes of light burst forth and shone
what shadows will the evening bring
when light is low behind the window blind?
if i look out what comfort will i find?
a choir of angels, distant, softly sing
Late Fairytale
a loom stands in the corner
the work left incomplete
slippers beside the fire, grown cold
missing the warmth of her feet
this place is full of cobwebs and dust
a broom leans by the wall, forgotten
an emerald bowl holds trinkets, jumbled
does anyone live here at all?
the garden is wild and overgrown
the birds, left unfed, have all flown away
the pool by the fountain is empty and dry
where children used to play
the faeries who hid away in the rain
will return with the nightingale
Ode to my Violin
I. The Immigrant
Languishing in a prison, long forgotten,
the shape of music itself, a broken violin.
My eager hands, outstretch for embrace.
I had longed for you for years, missed you
without knowing, a yearning deep in the soul.
Darkly glowing wood, old, mellowed, unloved.
Born in a Saxony village, generations of travel
to land on these shores, unwanted again,
thrown out when friendships died.
Bridge collapsed, one hanging string,
bow, shredded wisp of a white horse tail.
You lay hidden, cast out, forgotten,
a tramp in a gypsy encampment.
II. The Vow
I remembered you. My blood thrilled.
Ancient wood restored, all molecules aligned,
by the strong hand of the bow.
Your exhilaration echoed beside my ear,
double stopped strings reverberating,
the leap to the high exalting note,
expressing, completing, every wish in my heart
from sorrow at beauty to a wild need to dance.
I vowed to honour you, gave you devotion.
I knew you could sing, sing for me,
by the constant stroke of the bow
III Discipline
Scales, scales, scales, over, over, over, repeat,
scales, scales, scales, over, over, over, repeat.
Again! Become a master, with a gentle hold,
never grip, however strong the heat.
This flower is tender, this horse is wild.
Circle the bow in the jig, keep it bright.
Hold the bow slow and steady, dreaming child,
as poignancy stretches through twilight to night.
Wake me at dawn. To repeat.
IV – The Sonnet
Humming like a honey-bee,
dark throated wood, a deep forest note,
a salmon leaping a waterfall in silver light.
The clear cry of the lark in summer.
Sun on a high mountain, clouds,
a deep pool in a wide sweep of valley,
sparkles, shadows, the whirling dance,
the wild hunt and the flame.
Ecstatic violin. My lifting heart.
All these paths we took together
as I paced the floor, always circling,
unable to be still when you sang.
You kindled a spark in my blood
as sweet as a love affair
Perfume
The smell of roast coffee haunts the street.
I wait to reach it, breath deep
as we pass, my mothers high heels clatter
briskly across the cellar grating as she drags me
by that alluring café where people are talking.
I imagine them all as artists, writers,
just as I want to be. Is coffee the key?
In summer, roses and sun cream,
the smell of a warm tennis ball,
at the pool, fluoride burns in my throat,
hot tarmac, big roller pressing it flat.
The heat of a greenhouse full of tomatoes,
geranium leaves crushed between fingers,
new mown lawns and sprinklers.
Wet dogs, the strong deep smell of horse,
bran mash and hay, wintergreen, autumn, leather,
new baked bread and a simmering curry.
More pungent the scent of a dark, damp wood,
seaweed on the wind by the ocean
that catches my heart and opens my lungs.
No hurry then as the world stands still.
My father smelled of sawdust, tweed,
tobacco, fresh paint and engine oil,
of his indefinable tribal self,
nothing like anyone else.
As a child that smell meant safe,
warm as the smell of a fir tree
bedecked in Christmas lights,
firelight shadows on walls.
I can recall the perfume,
the scent, the pure animal smell,
of everyone I ever loved.
Now give me oranges, rosemary,
bergamot bottled, uncorked,
for comfort alone.
It
it’s out there somewhere, hovering
at the edge of my mind as i turn
it’s out there somewhere, that haunting
form, a musical note, a flute
it’s out there somewhere, in the glide
of a kestrels wing above the moors
it’s out there, somewhere it’s waiting
just beyond my reach, in light
it’s out there somewhere calling me
persistent, it pulls me, always
out to the hills, the woods, out there
somewhere on the blue horizon
it’s out there somewhere, I call out
asking it to come for me now
it’s out there somewhere, answering
follow me, move, get up, come, walk
it’s out there, somewhere inside me
in every dream and whispered sign,
footfalls to follow, blown open doors
i live with it, out there somewhere
i knew it all so clearly once
high on a rock strewn windswept Tor
i saw it spread out across the land
a flying shadow, a glow, a gleam
i heard it in the forest close
tracking my every cautious step
smiling behind my back, laughing
it’s out there somewhere, i saw
it’s out there somewhere, I know
i smelled that scent of old, ancient,
it’s out there somewhere, primordial
lobe, in the depths of memory
it’s out there somewhere, alive
A Question of Numbers – for a New Moon
In one year we travel four billion miles around the Sun
Without even stirring a limb.
We dream fifteen thousand dreams,
Remembering almost none.
How significant those that we do.
In a lifetime we may see nine hundred New Moons
Twenty-five thousand sunsets,
Twenty-five thousand dawns.
How many do we really see?
How significant those that we do.
How many times might my love smile at me?
How many times will we kiss?
How many dreams can we make come true
Before time flees and is gone?
How significant those that we do.
If I thought I’d be gone tomorrow
What would I say and do?
Nothing significant.
The light comes and goes across the earth;
A clock hand that sweeps us away.
Butterflies, unaware
Gone
A rose by the chair
In the overgrown garden
I know they were there
Falling
Falling
I hurtle through space
velocity pushing my breath back
choking on air, falling, eternal spin.
Seven aeons, seven hundred,
Seven days, seven minutes
No sense of time or a reason
I land in a world of stone,
hard and unforgiving.
My left wing broken, unable to fly
I lay on the rock alone.
She comes to me with a scalpel blade,
unpicks every stitch in my wound
with exquisite, fine pointed precision
lost in space, I roll from the rock
drifting downward in free fall
the earth rises to meet me again
old greeting, old paths, old ways,
days barely remembered
this land of archways and doors,
doors open, doors locked, a mystery
I escape from this place
to the trees by the river
where the castle shadow still falls.
Staggering I fall to one knee.
I try to hold on to what’s left of my heart
tired, broken winged, exhausted.
Time and space don’t matter to me
I wish only for peace, tenderness,
to know that she will remember me
Hollow
Hollow
Above the frozen water meadow winter sunlight flashes
frail birches stand in line, a guard against the traffic,
their silvered arms outstretched above the dying rushes.
Icy wind blows bitter from the east, fills my eyes with tears.
The trees, in faint whisper, sighing, leaning,
speak of vanished woodlands they will never know
Far away, in the West, two hundred miles and more,
a brook bubbles, dancing, sings in a hidden hollow.
Twisted oaks, clothed in moss and lichen, entwined with ivy,
born of wilful acorns, rooted in ancient rock, remain undaunted.
From dawn to dusk, the air is full of bird song until the owl hoots.
Peace surrounds, enfolds, and, with night, bewitches.
I stand on this path at the side of the road
gaze at the birch trees, the sunset spread behind them.
This place is so empty.
