Author: A. Gouedard

Storytellers (a pantoum)

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

when the power went out we were ready
the oil lamps were already filled
the white candles stood in their holders
all was comfort and warmth

the oil lamps were always filled
we gathered more brushwood and bracken
all was comfort and warmth
we kindled the fire, made it crackle

we gathered more brushwood and bracken
piling on driftwood and logs
we kindled the fire, make it crackle
the flames rose high as they burned

piling on logs and driftwood
we sat near the fire as it blazed
the flames rose high as they burned
we sat by the fire, telling each other tales

we sat near the fire as it blazed
while the wind rattled the roof tiles
we sat by the fire, telling each other tales
life went on unchanged

while the wind rattled the roof tiles
the bread was steadily rising
life went on unchanged
until the power came back

the bread was steadily rising
we flicked a switch on the radio
when the power came back
the world stepped into the house

we flicked a switch on the radio
bringing nothing of value to us
the world stepped into the house
the house grew instantly colder

bringing nothing of value to us
now all would be darkness and shadows
the house would grow instantly colder
there is no source of heat these days

now all would be darkness and shadows
I miss the wood smoke and firelight
there is no source of heat these days
I miss the stories we told

 

 

(this is a re-write of an earlier poem I posted – called Without Power – I rewrote it as a Pantoum to see if the form improved it – I think it has)
 

 

 

In the Garden

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

I lost you,

somewhere in the garden,

where a path took a turn

downhill.

 

There’s a tangle of roses entwined.

Some of them have dark thorns

that cling to your skirts

as you pass.

 

The paths are a tangle, a puzzle,

twisted around like a rope.

I can’t  undo or decipher them

but I heard a distant sound,

amongst all the songs of the birds,

the gentle play of a fountain.

I need to slake my thirst.

 

I am sure I will find you there.

I met you once by a river.

By water I’ll meet you again

 

 

Backwards

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

and now, if we go backwards,

where was the beginning?

if we choose to start again,

what will we be losing?

would the end still be the same

despite a change in choices?

 

I’d go back for just one thing,

to hear again the voices

of those who went ahead,

the ever loving dead

 

Fes ~ The Theatre of 900 Streets

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 
the faces, of the local audience,
light up with sunny smiles
as the Europeans
make their entrance
into the narrow streets.
the stage is set,
the show is on,
the magical charm is awake

the old Medina,
a  medieval world preserved,
says the guide.
nine hundred streets,
folded into a map
in the tourists pocket,
too detailed to ever unfold

it’s not a stage set
it’s real and alive
it breathes
brimming over with sounds
superstitious minds
and watchful eyes

a river runs underground
smothered by stone
wherever the river is close beneath
paths echo with sharper sounds
as leather slippered feet
run down the time smoothed steps.
it has always smelled the same
coriander, cedar, wood smoke,
an undercurrent of sewage
where the river rises for air.

outside the apothecary,
where snake skins
and dead hedgehogs
sit side by side
with potions and herbs and bones,
the donkey brays loud in the sun
with plastic crates of American Cola
lashed to it sack covered back.

the tourist thinks
this looks out of place
amongst the hand made baskets.
the scenery is despoiled,
but he takes a photograph anyway
as an old man turns his face away,
to protect his soul

behind the scenes
as the tourists move on
turning the corner out of sight
the faces fall back
into time worn care
and long acceptance
of very few dirham today

in these months of endless drought
the young men sit and dream
of satellite dishes and motorbikes
and passports out of this place
but they rest their hands on their hearts
and bow

The Bridge Over the Weir

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

 

weir bridge

 

a mirror reflecting a bridge

blue span across a calm pool

with a foaming drop to the other side

where swans drift in gentle spray

lazily begging food

 

i lean over and watch them

warm sun beating down on my back

so peaceful here in summer

 

when the floods come in winter

this is another place

the water rises and roars

the river booms

vibrating the beams

close to my feet

 

debris in swirling bundles

crashes into the bridge

a whole tree lodged on the edge

in muddied, tumultuous foam

 

the banks of the river burst

threatening houses

and making a lake of the park

where the swans glide idly in pools

 

they are undisturbed

while my heart pounds

to the booming beat of the bridge

 

 

 

 

April Showers

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

rainbow
high arching
rain on eyelashes

wind
whipping leaves
in a loop

blackbird
flies upward
singing the sky

puddle
reflects me
shimmers and shivers

you
a stranger
do not smile

rain
for you
obscured the sun

Queen of the Horses

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

 

In golden silks and brocades I appear,
on a horse so white he gleams in the night,
the horse that pulls the high sun in its course,
is mine, in this fertile land, shedding light.

Pwyll sent his horsemen in pursuit of me.
For two days and nights we ran, while they tired,
my stallion never lengthened his stride.
Pwyll the Prince of Dyfed, a man admired,

came out to hunt me, through the wild lands,
I fled him, ahead of his pleading words.
I delighted in the thrill of the chase
and stopped for the solemn promise I heard.

I had come to this place to possess him
but I am never so easily won.
I rebuked him for the harm to his horse.
To wed the Prince of Dyfed I had come.

My name is Rhiannon, of the horse, the land
and the moon. Queen of the Horses, riding,
mother of the lost one, later returned.
Three mystical birds fly with me, hiding.

I come from that Otherworld, fairer far,
my fathers domain, the deepness of seas,
Find me in the wind that runs in the grass.
I shimmer on waters surface in breeze.

When you stand on the high, ancient, hills
where the wind whips and tugs at your hair,
when you see the breath of a horse on cold air,
beneath and between, I am there.

Nervous

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

sitting alone here, in my room, lost in my thoughts,

sifting ideas, drifting in dreams

 

but stop!

 

was that a sound I heard outside?

is something sneaking about in the night?

i hear my heart beating loud in my ears

ba-boom ba-boom ba-boom ba-boom

 

i had a nightmare about this once

people were climbing the garden wall

they were hooded, and secret and carried long knives

i barred up my windows and locked up my doors

i fought then with fury

i beat them off

ba-ba-boom ba-ba-boom ba-ba-boom ba-ba-boom

 

waiting, listening the time passes slowly,

my ears are alive to the sounds of the night

i turn off the light and look from the window

a thief in the darkness  rummages about

then delight

i see there’s no danger

it’s only a stranger astray in these parts

a beautiful, nervously watchful

red fox

From Alice

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

 

The Mad Hatter sees

to the deeply crazed core, the heart of the matter.

When he dropped in today , escaping the rain,

I was thrilled and delighted to see him again

 

When you look at the world in a different way

There is wonder, adventure, in each new born day

Mad, a bit sad, never bad

He’s the truest friend I ever had

 

Next time it rains I hope he comes back

He reminds me so much of something I lack

It’s always good to have a long natter

There is wisdom aplenty  in tea time chatter

 

 

 

 

People Passing By

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

sitting in a summer street beneath a sunlit tree
people passing by
fleeting thoughts showing in their eyes,
eyes that hold delight, dismay, disbelief
this moment, in this day,
memories flooding in, fading, flying, dying
the growing gravitas of this ones frown
shuffling feet, passing through the shadows
children running, laughing, shouting
a shoal of flashing fish, sparkling,
crowds parting,
flowing and repeating

i see her passing
she is thinking
can i buy that dress today,
what will I wear tonight
is my hair alright,
she sighs
i see her sorrow
does all love fade and die

a man stands alone an hour
gravity weighs him down
his feet deep rooted
i could go and greet him
a simple walk across the street
a meeting
the moment passes

i stay beneath my sunlit tree
watching how a leaf falls
the summer hours are fleeting