the door that stands behind her slowly opens
i kick it shut
time after time
each time i look it’s open again
this mysterious haunting door
nothing is visible, nothing profound
i see her longing,
longing for sleep,
i see fear,
a lost look in her eyes,
as i hold her still, warm hand
there are tears in my eyes
i won’t let them flow for her now
the door swings ever wider
and lets in a soft evening light
it’s gentle, that light,
i see that
My children had an uncle.
He took them all out hunting,
they never did say what they sought,
out in the woods, for hours and hours
playing amongst the tall trees.
I stayed home tendling the fire,
baking the bread
and stirring the soup
in the endlessly bubbling pot
I had set to warm with the dawn.
They came back at dusk,
happy and tired
with mud on their shoes
and big sparkling eyes
and when i bathed them at night
and combed out their tangled hair,
sparkling dust fell to the floor,
twinkled and disappeared.
We saw him less and less,
but strange gifts
still arrived at the door
when a wind blew in from the west
(the time i always like best).
As they grew up, he faded,
or maybe he just went away.
The world was never the same after that,
their focus had shifted and torn,
until they had their own children
and told the old stories again.
one for Halloween
She wanders in and out of dreams
and cannot tell the difference.
The people of the night, it seems,
create the day’s agenda.
She follows phantoms down the path
wherever they may send her.
Old houses merge into this house,
old friends, in throngs, attend her.
The door is gone that once stood there,
the chairs misplaced,
the rooms askew,
and only I defend her.
The cellars vanished in the night,
everything is turned about,
she does not know the reason.
Old age has finally found her out,
this is the final season,
but laughter, when I find the way,
battles this confusion.
I feel sad but make her smile.
It beats the blackguards from our gates
and brings some respite, for a while,
and frees me from illusions.
sometimes, in silence, stillness seems like a gift
but tonight, like a desert, it’s arid and dry
i look up in hope, i let my mind drift,
i only see darkness and clouds passing by
i remember my travels in strange foreign lands
I remember the days when my roof was the sky
i measure the feeling, as I stare at my hands
the light gone, i sit here and wonder why
i still have a wish to wander and roam
and how did my journeys all end alone
the truth is,
my travels were all seeking home
If wishes were horses, beggars would ride
if wishes were horses I’d ride a wild horse
a horse that no-one could tame
if wishes here fishes the world would be ocean
if wishes were birds we’d all fly away
no need for a wish would remain
wishes are made of notions, not potions
people have so many fantastic wishes
but still they prefer to run with the herd
I dream every night of thousands of horses
in my mind’s eye I see them all glide
from the east coast out to the west
but I can’t catch one stallion to ride
perhaps a mare would be best
but then I’d have nightmares
and wake in exhausted distress
how would you use a wish from a genie ?
I’d wish for more genies,
that’s just common sense
and I’d wish for more wishes of course
and then, yet again, I’d wish for a horse
but when will the magic commence?
simply wishing for something is casting wide nets
I haven’t caught anything yet
Part One
and Part Two
worth a read – I am all for accessibility. I also like poetry even more when it can be read through many layers and each level works or you can come to understand over time
I don’t know the figures, but it’s pretty obvious that far more people don’t read poetry by choice, than do read it. People obliged to read it for school can’t be counted in this. By and large, the people writing poetry are people who read poetry. After all, no one does poetry for the fame and glamour, the only realistic motivations involve love or catharsis, or both. Often (but not always) people who write poetry seem to assume that they are writing only for the small number of people who habitually read poetry, and this tends to make poetry less accessible.
I read a collection recently that had a lot of classical references in it. Now, it’s one thing if you’re a Hellenic Pagan writing about Greek Gods for fellow Pagans – this is not about you! Pagans aside, access to ‘classics’ tends to come with a certain kind of…
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there she stands
at the bar
over-exposed
painted face
no bra
blanked out
sensitive skin
one thought
‘is this all you are?’
stares at her hands
painted nails
tiny scar
above the wrist
heart screaming
NO!
locked in a box
she straightens her spine
fingers the key
holds up her head
shakes her hair free
chooses living
not dead
political husband
stands at her side
all he ever does is hide
hides who he is
hides what he does
smiles with false eyes
justifies violence
disguising soured love
taking the soap box
he holds forth again
demonstrating
obscuring the view
playing the hero
explaining his views
defending her rights
for all to hear
back home
he’s the terror of her nights
now he’s wolfing his whiskey back
necking his beer
later he’ll drag her round
by her hair
but she stands firm
this side of despair
with time on her side
she’s looking at him
a slight smile curving her upper lip
hypocrite
stupid shit
little boy
he thinks she’s his toy
to parade on his arm
to other men
again and again
and again and again
she mistook his weakness
for some sort of sweetness
but she sees through him now
right down to the core
she knows that he likes her
to dress like a whore
tonight he will try
to break her down
she’ll spit in his face
it’s war, all out war
love displaced
she walks out the door
leaves it swinging
a wave of farewell
cold as ice
hot as hell
on her way
to a far better life
he weeps with self-pity
his last strong-hold
she takes no prisoners
she belongs to the world of the brave and the bold
yes
his loss
The Dreaming Path 