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
Poetry
homicide
there they go
in the street,
walking shoulder to shoulder,
this man thinking
it will soon be over,
this man killing his friend
Christmas in Warwick
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
Disconnected
The black mirror you stare at so long and so hard
Has attached itself to the palm of your hand
To show you the breeding of chaos worldwide
And all that doesn’t belong to you
And all the things you want to own
And all the things you never will
As the moments pass by
The black screens flicker
Thousands of words and images fly
Bewitching your eyes
Numbing your brain
With half truths and lies
And glimpses of thoughts you’re too busy to grasp
As you peddle on cycles inside the gym
No sun, no rain, no air, no wind
You’ve forgotten where the real roads begin
You never look in anyone’s eyes
The Dreaming Path 