Poetry

without power

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

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

we gathered more brushwood and bracken
kindled the fire, make it crackle,
piling on logs and driftwood
we had dried in the yard in the summer

the kettle was boiling,
bread steadily rising,
as we sat near the wood stove,
silently gazing, drifting in dreams,
telling stories and fantasies

hot baths in steam and candlelight
snuggling under thick blankets
while the wind rattled the roof tiles
making a flute of the drainpipes
life went on unchanging, undaunted

when the power came back
we flicked a switch and turned on the radio
the world stepped back into the house
bringing nothing of value

tonight in another time and place
i live in another era, with no power
the house instantly grows colder
i wander about with a battery torch
in rooms full of shadows

i missed you more
than the woodsmoke and firelight
and any old luxuries of survival
but none of it matters now

The Wound

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

I have a horse I trust and rely on
I feed him, groom him, love him.
I stroke him, he nuzzles my ear.
My heart is gladdened when i see him
When i approach he comes without call.
We move as one in the wind
In a harmonious motion and rhythm
To ride him is pleasure and joy

If he were a wild cat trapped in a corner,
Or a scorpion entering my tent at night,
I would not feel this trust and calmness,
No affection would shine in my glance.
I might expect to sustain a wound,
A wound that might even be mortal.
But my horse is not a cat or a scorpion,
He is my friend and companion.

So the wound from my beautiful horse,
When he suddenly turned and kicked me,
Hurt more than scorpions’ sting or tiger claw.
I don’t know where this blow sprang from,
Some hurt of his own perhaps.
Now we look at each other a little askance
And I wonder how to approach him again.
I only know I must heal this

This healing is bound with my love of him
But my wound is still open and sore.
An enemy is expected to hurt us
We guard against the attack
But when a creature cherished and loved
Gives the blow and the hurt
This wound ploughs a furrow far deeper
It strikes straight and strong to the heart.

The White Cow

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

the palace of gold and blue
stood high above on the hill
shimmering in heat like a mirage
the chatter of monkeys was shrill
in the river below elephants bathed

later that evening, so clearly recalled now,
as the sun dipped down in a pink haze
we saw a sadhu with a white cow
we followed to a tea stall
by the steps of an old temple

the cow so beautiful, gentle
its eyes lined with khol
wore a garland of marigold and a bell
that rang softly as it gazed at me
reaching my heart and casting a spell

on the temple steps we sat
slowly sipping hot tea
beneath a sickle moon and one bright star
we spoke in quiet voices
until the man and the cow both bowed and walked on

i see that cow as clearly years later
as if it was but a moment ago
i listened to the sadhu’s every word
it was the white cow i heard
it spoke only of acceptance and love

Mystified

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

How do people fall in love?
Is it purely chemistry?
How does that work
When you can only feel an atmosphere?
Body language, eyes,
A smile at all the right moments.
But more than this it must be.
All meetings are by chance
So how is one more meaningful than another?
Instantly and mutual.
With friends it’s all we have in common
That makes and holds us, long or short,
But love? We fall before we even know.
The head may struggle to hold back
But the heart is already given,
And who can ignore the heart.
So without a metaphor or rhyme
I ask myself these questions.
The older I grow the less I really know.
No certainties any more.
I am mystified.
My heart is not.

Distraction

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

i write
she sits by the fire
stretched on a rug
smiling
i try to write
how distracting
how beguiling

the bees in their hives
lazily buzz
outside the cottage door
my pen drips honey
sticky, sunny, runny
not a word reaches the page

i stare at the page
keep glancing at her
remembering moonlight
starlight
firelight
last night
and honey
always more honey

Pan is out there
in the garden again
spreading his scent
in the air
the sweet floral notes
that play
with his deep musky darkness
wafts through the window

the silver bells
on her ankles jingle
as she uncrosses her legs
she is dreaming

i watch every movement
her toes to her thighs
they invite me
delight me
excite me
unwrite me

Pan

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

Pan hides in suburbia

But he stalks the midnight streets

Bringing amorous dreams

With secret smiles.

Some people say he is dead

They must have no sense of smell.

Some say he’s the devil

To tempt you into hell

But I know he is magic.

I heard his thrilling music

As it flew along the wind.

I fell under his spell.

He got in my hair and tangled it,

He made me feel free and real,

He whispered on my skin.

There is no danger in Pan.

He brings nothing but good,

Pleasure is no sin.

Pan never caused a battle

Or shattled anyones feet,

He dances with joy

In a dervish whirl more wild

Than a tornadoes spin

And brings in a summer breeze.

He sets all the leaves to dancing

And flickering with beautiful light

High up in the branches of trees.

He makes brooks babble

And babies laugh at nothing.

He shines in lovers eyes.

If more people followed Pan

The world would be more wise

 

 

Gannets

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

in an empty room
i held my breath
in silence
with thoughts of a lonely granite rock
far out to sea
where the cry of birds is deafening
where the surf spray rises in air
and the high sky above is grey

A poem by Tamara

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Old shell

Empty shell covered with wrinkles
Pearl shine brushed away by winds and tears.
Drops of memories dried by layers of sand.
Sad eyes looking blindly over my shoulders.
I stop and stretch one arm forward.
Touching the white unnourished locks.
Sudden rush of images inside dead eyes.
A smile between the drapes looks surreal.
Little sound comes out of the bottomless cavern.
Fragile like the fairies wings
Sparkling like children voices on the snow.
Just one smile, filled with tender memories.
Short.
Gone.
Silence is back inside the empty shell.

 

(This was written by Tamara, not me – having seen, through a window, an old woman out in the winter street)

There is a Love, Like No Other

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

There is a love, like no other
I try to find the words to tell
It swells the heart
And swims in the throat

A golden burst
Both high and deep
More than passion
It glows, not burns

Soft and wild
Sublime embrace
That reaches out
Explodes, yet stays within

It reaches for the Universe
Strong and peaceful
Always growing, always huge
Yet dwells inside a human heart

Heart-long-leap
Boom-gush-torrent
Doors flung open
Wide and warm

No touch or kiss
Can quite express it
I need a word that says all this
But I can only call it Love

Old Man Willow

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

I am Old Man Willow
I nurture bees
I am called The Honey Tree
I am loved by Thrush and Hawk
The Cat and Hare confide in me
I shelter Mistletoe and Primrose
Primrose juice inspires the Bard
I gave dreams to Orpheus
I am of the Sacred Grove
Honoured in the Wisdom Old
To talk to me, it is not hard.
I am home to resting Cranes
Who like to build their nests nearby
Together we will bring good fortune
And many stories we enfold.
I protect the rivers banks
I am first and last in leaf.
Rest by me
Come give me thanks
I soothe all grief
Lay beneath me
Watch the shadows
And the flickering of Sun
Filter through my sighing branches
I am Old Man Willow
You need have no fear of me
If you walk gently, kindly, in the wood
And damage not any tree