Poetry

Day 2 – The Land, for Lizzie Sutton who showed me it.

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

where the imp is lurking
beside the garden gate
wild garlic plumes of scent
fill the evening air
don’t go down there late

and mind the blood red peony
don’t trust her at all
she’ll lure you with her beauty
and when the pretty daisies come
you won’t hear their call

the garden is a jungle
full of clever traps
to put a bramble in the way
or drag a poor boy off
to troubles and mishaps

regard the summer dog rose
regard the fruiting trees
regard the lovely roses
regard the fountains flow
these are things that please

but when we leave the garden
be sure to hold my hand
I’ll show you where my den is hid
beneath the hawthorn hedge
come with me and be my love
and understand the land

Day 1 – just my cup of tea

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Life is like a cup of tea

We take it as we like it.

Some people drink it plain and weak,

Some make it sour with lemon.

I like my tea dark and fresh

With just a little sugar,

Rather as I like to live,

Strong but with some pleasure

Christmas in Warwick

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

From Westgate tower to castle walls
By gentle ways the gradient falls
And all the time you laugh and smile
Bringing pleasure to the mile.
Past little shops and alleyways
We wander on these rainy days
While in the church the choir sings
Of all the joys that Christmas brings.
Turning homeward though square
We stop in cosy cafes there
And by the fire of logs that flame
In winter warmth I’m glad you came
To spend this coldest month with me
And decorate our Christmas tree
With gifts that only you could bring
And secret notes the angels sing

A poem by Billy Collins

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

I had to post this because I remember that feeling too. Brilliant poem

On Turning Ten – Poem by Billy Collins

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I’m coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light–
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

Contactless

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

no one spoke a word to me
three days have past, since the last,
(a drunk outside the station
who wanted company)

in the shop I pay for milk
no hands to touch
no coins to pass
an electronic beep

contactless transaction
(shallow smiles)
(I could weep)
thanks is all we say

if I laid down
beside the road
and fell into deep sleep
it might bring some relief

but every day I walk for miles
to pass the time away
‘Is this the road to Coventry?’
‘They all are mate, I think’

 

 

 

*** being sent to Coventry is an expression or an action that means no-one will speak to you – you are excluded

 

Sad Roses

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

look at the roses

there is the vase

a symbol of passion

expensive perfection

force-grown under glass

and this is your gesture

of undying love?

a weed from the ditches

plucked

as you thought of me

out on your walk

would  show me far more

weeds persist

weeds push through

when the growing gets tough

your love without loyalty

isn’t

enough

 

 

 

 

Rue Des Barres

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

In the Paris Cafe

on Rue Des Barres

I see you are hungry.

You need a cold drink.

Your thirst isn’t quenched.

You flirt with the waiter,

who looks like Chagall

with his curved archer smile.

Nothing is wrong.

He responds to your mirth.

Your hands

the wings

of a trapped butterfly

flutter and flap.

You are trying to grip.

Your twinkling eyes and deep-seated desires

have more rising steam than the dish he presents.

You’re on fire.

It’s a sign of your burgeoning age.

But it’s not as late as you fear.

I take a sip of clear water

That’s all I now need.

I don’t want fancy wine anymore.

I am fine.

Lean back in your chair.

Relax at my side.

I have told you before

How deeply I care.

The future is certain, open and wide.

Questions of honour

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Nimue Brown's avatarDruid Life

If a chap in a chivalric or mythic tale announces that his honour has been damaged in some way, you know there’s going to be a duel or other violence. His honour may have been damaged because he didn’t get the right cut of meat at the feast, or someone suggested his wife is not the prettiest woman in the history of the world. The speed of his horse may have been questioned, or some more obscure personal pride thing that no sensible person could have seen coming. And then, so that honour can be satisfied, pain must be inflicted, maybe even death. It’s a way of thinking about honour that has never made much sense to me.

For women, honour is usually framed in such stories as being all about not having sex, or only having sex with the man you are married to. The woman who has sex…

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O

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

words are not enough
i could draw a line of dots
expanding into O’s
each one larger, broader, wider than the last
until they spread and shifted shape
into one gigantic throbbing heart
to embrace us in its grasp