~
The Tree of Remembrance (for my brother who died before I was born).
~
I forgot.
The tree did not.
~
The tree grew tall above the plot
where I, alone,
ten days old,
and not yet bones
rotted with the leaf mold.
~
With each year I climbed above
through roots and buds and branches.
In leaves I wear a crown of love,
the breeze my soul entrances
~
and now I know
that all we have are chances.
© A.Chakir 2023
Jimmy is a jolly chap.
Bobby is a bully.
Pete’s a cheat.
I don’t know Francis Woolley.
Heinrich is an honoured man,
his virtue is complete.
Henry Long is handsome,
and Terry Tann’s a liar,
but Tom from Tobermorey Street set my heart on fire.
He’s kind and strong and sweeter
and when it comes to what we did
he’s very much discreeter.
© A.Chakir 2023
I won’t send you flowers.
~
Love poems abound with flowers
denoting lovesick nights
bouquets of restless hours,
or scented petals of delight.
Roses, roses, roses
red, pink and white.
Don’t you have enough by now
Strewn beneath your feet?
As you walk you crush them.
~
I’m tired of your demands.
It’s not what loves about.
There are droughts and floods,
withered buds and broken bowers,
weeds running wild,
(weeds that later rot).
Why should I pick flowers
when I know you’ll watch them wilt?
~
I won’t refresh your vases.
Go and see the garden.
I grow delinquent dandelions
and neroli for neglect
(bitter orange for your lips).
© A.Chakir 2023
At the centre of the forest an acorn
like a fallen star landed on the earth
and opened as an oak, six centuries ago in April.
In 1582 Shakespeare leaned against her, dreaming of his future.
Whispering susurrations.
All the trees are listening.
She’s deep and well connected
beneath the forests skin
and speaks to hundreds of her kin.
Dew soaks through the leaf mould. Can you smell it? Can you hear her?
Through storms and hurricane
draught and blight, day and night
she spreads her knowledge and advice.
I climbed her branches and looked across the valley waiting for my lover. Shade spread out, cooling heated senses.
She soothes and shelters
a family of creatures
who cluster to her succor.
Our squealing children run, kicking up the autumn leaves pretending they are squirrels, bandits, unicorns.
No sapling thrives without her.
Saplings need their mother
She is their school and mentor.
The canopy above is cradlings leaves fine veined as baby birds refracting sunlight.
Come, you will be welcome too
But you must respect her.
Protection should be mutual.
Robin Hood and Marion are hiding there in harmony. Herne still hunts the careless.
© A.Chakir 2023
Voices from the Village
~
i.
A little history before we begin.
Let me take you in to Husbands Bosworth,
by a deep and ancient path.
A settlement in the Domesday Book,
in the Hundred of Gartree,
County of Leicestershire.
There were boar and deer in the woods back then.
Lord in 1066: Aelric son of Mergeat.
In 1086, landowners Guy of Raimbeaucourt,
and old Gilbert of Ghent
now to hell or heaven are sent.
All the plough teams are listed,
villagers, freemen, small holders, surfs,
meadows, mills and livestock
are all there in the book.
Let’s have a closer look at my own times.
~
ii.
Some of the families remained.
The manor house still stood,
surrounded by ancient cedars,
close to Sandy Lane
and the church with the gothic spire
that replaced its Saxon sire.
In Spring we had a fete.
The kissing gate was down Dag Lane
on the way to the railway crossing
and strange Ruby’s cottage.
~
iii.
He lived in Honeypot Lane.
In the 1950’s
they watched TV next door
until they got their own.
Things were different then.
We had good neighbours
and everyone mucked in.
I’d go back to that again
without a qualm.
~
iv.
Life was charmed.
We did country dancing in the school yard,
and nature walks
and picnics down Gravel Hole.
Good times were had by all.
The village had a soul.
I think there is some old cine film
of the sword dancing team.
I have boxes of photos in the loft.
I’m going to have a hunt.
~
v.
Uncouth youth,
lolling about and bragging
on the corner on Friday night.
Winkle pickers, hair slicked into a quiff,
duck’s arse at the back.
Sticky with Vaseline.
Lazy lout, hanging about.
Always the last to leave the pub.
Propping the bar, gossiping, boasting, blabbing.
Thinks he’s the king of the village.
Bully boy.
Every decade has one.
~
vi.
I remember the nature walks
up to the gravel pit spinney.
I stumbled on the track
down Tom Smith’s field
and cut my knee.
You remember the way?
I plastered it with burdock.
I still have a scar to this day.
~
vii.
Remember that winter it snowed and snowed?
We had drifts above our knees.
The canal froze over.
Icicles hung in the trees for months.
Horse breath plumed warm and soft as I passed an apple.
~
viii.
I tracked the hares and foxes.
There were footprints everywhere.
That was the year of the Ice Queen.
Fairies and frost.
So clean.
~
ix.
Lizzie with the pig tails
was my best friend back then.
I was nine and she was ten.
I still miss the village,
the fields and Windmill Hill,
the horses in the meadows
and our secret den.
In summer we played all day
and went home with the sinking sun.
© A.Chakir 2023
Write a poem of your own that has multiple numbered sections. Attempt to have each section be in dialogue with the others, like a song where a different person sings each verse, giving a different point of view. Set the poem in a specific place that you used to spend a lot of time in, but don’t spend time in anymore.
~
I decided to write about a village I once lived in. A place I miss. I belong to the Facebook Group for the Village School we all went to for a while. I was there in the early 60’s. People share memories there. I have used my memories and theirs in the poem, and a few of their words.
A blackbird in the garden
~
A blackbird came along the path.
I watch for him each morning.
I throw sultanas from a jar,
a favourite for his coming.
~
He pecks them up but seeks for something living.
He bites a worm clean in half and eats the flesh with relish.
He let a beetle pass in peace. He must know its flavour.
It’s not an act of giving. The garden is his table.
~
I saw his eyes, like polished beads
in fear survey the garden.
Ebony, obsidian, blizzard stone, black diamonds.
I see how they have hardened.
~
I saw the murderous killer come
on velvet paws, crouched low
to snatch her prey in play.
She’s as black as he is.
~
Predators, both of them.
I pray and bang the window.
The bird surprised flies fast away.
Today by me he’s pardoned.
~
The cat casts her amber eyes
in my direction, glaring.
I swear at her and clap my hands.
Yes. I stand in judgement.
~
On my stove the bacon fries.
I crack an egg that’s fertilised.
I vow I’ll be a vegan.
The blackbird is my reason.
© A.Chakir 2023
Copied from https://www.napowrimo.net/
As you may know, although Dickinson is now considered one of the most original and finest poets the United States has produced, she was not recognized in her own time. One reason her poems took a while to gain a favorable reception is their slippery, dash-filled lines. Those dashes baffled her readers so much that the 1924 edition of her complete poems replaced some with commas, and did away with others completely. Today’s exercise asks you to do something similar, but in the interests of creativity, rather than ill-conceived “correction.” Find an Emily Dickinson poem – preferably one you’ve never previously read – and take out all the dashes and line breaks. Make it just one big block of prose. Now, rebreak the lines. Add words where you want. Take out some words. Make your own poem out of it! (Not sure where to find some Dickinson poems? You’ll find oodles at the bottom of this page).
Today I used ‘A Bird Came Down the Walk’ as my inspiration.
~
Perceptipatient
~
He is always watching.
I watch him watching everyone.
I’m sure he knows I’m watching him.
He’s very clever.
His face, a mask, hides all
and only shows politeness.
He hides his thoughts so well.
He’s a sphynx I can’t decipher.
Did Buddha watch the world this way
and hide, revealing nothing?
Does he sit in judgement
or does he make internal notes
to populate a novel?
No words are new.
They’re only reinvented.
~
He looks at me and looks away.
I think he thinks I’m writing,
but I’m silent, drawing him
for a future painting.
I will mix my colours well.
He’ll be quietly captured.
~
When I carefully draw his eyes,
and flesh his mouth with pigments
I see he is contented.
He’s enjoying thinking.
© A.Chakir 2023
The Yellow Duck of Doom
~
Archaeologists are never
entirely scientific.
They speak with great authority,
their interpretations are terrific,
but far-fetched very often,
stretched to fit their theories.
My fear is
they often get things wrong.
~
Evidence of declining crops,
frantic population shifts in search of food,
signs of climate drift,
ice melts and deserts spreading,
river shifts and flooding,
will fit us in perspective
in the downhill slide of time.
In this they will be right.
But will they see the causes,
our greed and wastefulness?
I hope they see it was our fault.
I hope they damn us,
if we’re not yet damned enough.
~
So much for them to find here.
Our landfills are treasure troves.
With mounds of plastic objects,
They’re a picture quite fantastic.
They’re the temples of our towns.
~
The yellow ducks they find will be widespread and many.
They’ll be noted by every kind of scientist seeking the profound.
They will debate what we worshipped, loved or blamed.
Stories will abound.
~
Nothing is apparent.
There will be no links to bathrooms,
soap or thick, soft towels.
These things won’t be transparent.
They will think we took our last breath of burning air and fire
and poured it into prayer
to the plastic Duck of Doom
to turn the threatening tides.
~
For all the good we’re doing,
I guess we may as well.
© A.Chakir 2023
The Dreaming Path 