Old words are valued by some
But old thoughts are lost in translation
Or twitched and reshuffled to serve a new master
In tales that dwell on disaster
Dispelled, disabled, diverted
distorted away from the truth
as history turns a new corner
and books rot away on the shelves
stained with mildew and dust.
To enter with dignity
I begin an adagio
Played in a dark minor key,
Serious and sombre,
A step to the side of my natural presence.
It attracts your straying attention.
Then a plaintive air played without pity
Lures you to sleep
with lavender scent on your pillow.
Mellow with sadness you dream of the hills
And wish you were free to wander.
Swiftly switching we play an expanded cantata
In brisk and rippling allegro
Shifting to pizzicato
Through gladness and frenzy
to uncontrolled magical madness
where, without looking back,
I chain your feet sole and heel to the dance floor
And retreat to the windswept moors.
In February 2024 I went into hospital for a cardiothoracic operation which is on the main thoracic artery. I should have been home in about two weeks but whilst I was on the operating table I suffered three strokes which left me comatose for about two weeks, during which time I was living entirely in a deep and very realistic morphine dream. When I say the dreams were realistic I should also say they were pretty fantastical but totally believable. To me they were the only reality. I could not tell that I was dreaming. I am still not sure if some parts really happened.
The strokes left me incapable of reading, writing or drawing which are my three main interests. My degree has also been delayed again.
A year later I can write and use my smartphone, which had become a complete mystery to me, and I have listened to Audible quite a lot but I’m able to read books again. I still cannot draw. My keyboard skills are a struggle. I used to like walking in solitude and it often inspired poetry but although I can walk I can’t go out alone.
April is poetry month, and I have not written a poem since my stroke last year. I’m not actually sure whether I can still write poetry but poetry month seems to be a good opportunity to test myself out and so I do intend to try and participate this year and I will post the results onto Dreaming Path regardless of their merits. We shall see. It’s an experiment.
Where are you now?
~
All the things that matter to me, mattered to us,
matter so little to anyone else
if they even matter at all. It’s all so intimate. Small.
No-one but you could ever remember how we sat in that bar.
Must be fifty plus years ago now.
I can try and explain, paint a picture, tell the tale of our joy and the blight on our stars,
But why should anyone care?
~
No-one but you can know or remember that one special night
when we met in a world that was flooded with lights.
We were there. We were present. We were so very there.
No-one but you can remind me of words I have forgotten beyond all trace.
I have to scrape every shadowy cave of my brain just to recall the shape of your face.
A face I so loved. A beautiful face.
~
No-one but you could make me keep looking, hoping to see you around every corner, through a window, in a crowd, alone on a bench, out with your kids (assuming you had some), walking through galleries, buying fruit at the market. Do you still play guitar and sing in the street? Do you visit our favourite tree in the park? Have we passed each other by? Maybe you can’t even walk anymore. I don’t care as long as you’re there. Somewhere, still there.
~
I’m so frustrated looking for you.
© A.Chakir 2023
I was feeling ill yesterday and will hopefully post my final poetry month poem today
~
Told to write a fruit poem in 2 parts – I did 2 lines in Cockney.
~
Fruit Fool
~
Apples and pears rolled down the stairs.
Bananas screamed with laughter.
~
© A.Chakir 2023
~
What I Saw in the Fairylands of Wales
~
I was sitting knitting when I dropped a wayward stitch,
a stitch in the web of the worlds.
I saw a one-eyed fish and signs of sudden rain.
I saw the wren new-washed.
I saw hills that were cast by giants.
I walked through warring trees
and heard the starling speak.
I followed him through twisting streets
where all the lights were out.
We left salt at ever house,
to exalt the rising sea and summon subtler dreams.
Then the Wonderchild stepped out holding a burning lance.
He swore to the sinking sun and the valleys filled with light.
The river-crossings and wells swelled with sparking water.
He refused to be baptised and vanished into the wood.
I stood there watching, wishing I’d caught his glance.
© A.Chakir 2023
The task today was to write and index poem. You could start with found language from an actual index, or you could invent an index.
Find a book and look in the index. You will find phrases. Make choices and use them in a poem.
I last used this method in 2015 and the resulting poem was published in Three Drops from the Cauldron (Issue 2). It was called ‘Journey in Ancient Hills.’
The index I used at that time was from ‘Welsh Folklore and Folk Customs’ by Thomas Gwynn-Jones. I will be using the same index today.
~
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
