Finale
‘I can’t sing’ he said, quietly humming.
‘Don’t worry’ she sang.
‘Neither can I.’
They arrived at some kind of harmony as soon they tried.
They were enchanted, ensung,
enthralled to the music soaring, undone.
Lovers singing the song of each other
make patterns, staves, notes in the dark.
It can’t be wiped out once it’s written.
© A.Chakir 2023
Splitting pentametres makes the tune roll.
Think about water and raising the waves.
Hey ho, let the words flow
No need to write like grammatical slaves.
No need for sailors, no need for salt
Hey ho, let the words flow
Scatter some verbs, let the syntax revolt
Mention some senses, avoid the trite phrase
Hey ho, let the words flow
Don’t rest on the rocks, that strand is a phase
Don’t forget metaphor, burnish the truth
Hey ho, let the words flow
Don’t use old words like begads and forsooth.
Hold onto the rhyme, don’t let the rope go.
Hey ho, let the words flow
© A.Chakir 2023
No Sonnet
I’m not in the mood for sonnets
Or ghazals, triads or odes.
I’m writing a ballad instead
I don’t want to write about love
I’ve got that walking rhythm now
The chorus will soon come along
It should have a bridge, it wont
I’m not making any effort
I can’t be bothered to rhyme
except in the chorus ahead.
The chorus is coming right now!
Who on earth would be a poet!
I could have just stayed in bed.
Oh, who would be a poet
Sing loud, sing clear, be unread.
No-one should be a poet
To be read, write memes instead.
© A.Chakir 2023
Luke
Life is a road with many whips, silent crossroads and knots.
I’d fly off with the birds, if my wings weren’t hidden.
I’d feel the wind on the water and see the birds songs.
I’d hear the strong blast of yellow that comes with the sun.
But none of that ever happened.
Once upon a time it seemed possible.
Everything seemed possible then,
in London with Luke I might have stayed happy
if the roads never twisted and bent
We walked through the City Squares
amid the Mimosa, Jasmine and traffic fumes.
His skin had the scent of dried cedar.
Pimlico, Stepney, Westminster and down to the docks,
we ducked and dived into museums to feel the heat
then down through Covent Garden.
Five miles a day is nothing,
when you’re looking for something to eat.
‘Buy a rose for the lady, mate!’
We had no money, no dosh, no doe.
You can pick roses for free in the parks.
Money is meaningless in paradise garden,
brimming with beauty and rain soaked grass.
The bridges criss-cross the river
following constellations,
and the stars that shine out in the dark.
He calls her ‘Angel’
But I think he is hers.
That won’t stop me predicting an end.
He holds her hand inside his coat pocket
To stop their world falling apart.
Eles não terão sorte.
They don’t stand a chance.
The trees in the park bend down
to listen to their words.
Lovers prattle and tease with affection,
whispering on the air.
It’s all scattered amongst the leaves.
Their words may still be there,
treasured in tree bark or written in fallen twigs.
Time is moving on.
O tempo é um traidor
The sparrows come home in the evening,
the pigeons are losing their feathers,
the fountains are freezing over.
A clock chimes in Whitehall.
Eros shifts on his plinth, covered in dust and decay.
© A.Chakir 2023
It’s complicated!
The prompt today was to create a poem that is also in the form of a list.
The Great Divide
To make a home you need more than bricks and mortar
Or well seasoned timbers.
You need money to furnish your nest
With warm beds and comfortable chairs
And food in the fridge and the cupboards.
Your cupboards must never be empty.
Love is never enough when you’re hungry
And you have no money for pleasure.
What you may have is too much time.
You may try very hard to be happy
You may cling to each other with sadness
But the world won’t let love exist
When the power goes out in the winter
You children won’t stand a chance.
In an ideal world there is warmth and laughter
The table will never be empty.
The house will smell of warm baked bread
Angel cakes rise in the oven.
Outside the windows the sun will be shining.
You will sit in the shade in your garden
Watching your children play,
Forgetting the great divide
Between nothing at all and plenty
© A.Chakir 2023
my poems don’t have Roman noses
they never dip down at the end
they may be a little broken
as I am, in my middle
they may dip and bend
here and there
but the truth hurts
so I always lift up the tip
© A.Chakir 2023
Todays prompt was to read a poem in a language you are not too familiar with (so that basically you don’t understand it) and then, just from the sound of it write a poem of your own – I did two from French and Portuguese
Alone in the Dark
I contemplate my foolishness baffled by
the contrast of smoke and pure air
the leaves rustle outside my window
a piano is playing next door
I hear a tender tune of meetings in this moment
a song of the night, the earth
the dance of eternal stars,
inexorably close to my heart
The night again! after days of comedy
with no laughter, the sadness, my sickness
can’t be cured by the beautiful flowers.
The universe responds, but I cannot subsist
the days repeat and repeat, shouting encore.
My life is only sadness as I sit here alone in the dark.
Love is urgent
The urgencies of love
made me embark
on rough seas
the urgencies of desperate love
solid, square and cruel
bring my lament to the waves,
crashing around my feet
it’s urgent, it’s all going by too fast
so many kisses I sought in the cornfields
looking for roses and rivers
and open clear days
is my heart so impure
that I can’t find the light?
This love is urgent.
I came to the estuary
and now I am lost in the sea
© A.Chakir 2023
My mother, looks vague
as we gather around her bed.
My sons, my grandchildren, my daughter-in-law
trying to make conversation
that doesn’t completely exclude her,
though she’s deaf and has dementia.
We struggle.
I consider her birdlike limbs.
She looks at me deeply puzzled.
She doesn’t know who I am.
Isaac her gentle carer
holds a drink to her lips,
stroking back her hair,
that inadequate cap to her skull.
He’s asking her how she feels.
‘Exactly the same’, she says
‘Exactly the same?’ he asks.
‘Exactly the same’ she says
‘As I was ten minutes ago
When everyone in here asked.’
We all laugh.
I see a diamond glint in her eyes,
a humourous flash of cunning.
She’s enjoying herself.
Ninety-five years old,
Flirting with Isaac
Teasing, smiling, still winning.
© A.Chakir 2023
Todays prompt was to use laughter and the juxtaposition between grief and joy, sorrow and reprieve.
Today’s prompt was to write a triolet.
A triolet is an eight-line poem. All the lines are in iambic tetrametre (for a total of eight syllables per line), and the first, fourth, and seventh lines are identical, as are the second and final lines. This means that the poem begins and ends with the same couplet. Beyond this, there is a tight rhyme scheme (helped along by the repetition of lines) — ABaAabAB.
But I decided to play with it so I have written a double-triolet and a triad.
The Man with Lambs in His Eyes
the Ocado man came today
the sunshine arrived in his trail
he saw the spring lambs on his way
the Ocado man came today
he’d been watching the spring lambs play
they’d danced all his worries away
the Ocado man came today
and sunshine arrived in his trail
seeing the mirror this morning
I looked deeply into my eyes
I saw a strange sign and a warning
seeing the mirror this morning
no recognised face was forming
it gave me a total surprise
seeing the mirror this morning
I looked into faded dark eyes
the Ocado man came today
with lambs dancing in his eyes
and wiped all my troubles away
© A.Chakir 2023
The Dreaming Path 