~
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
By the river the blossoms are falling,
Disarrayed by unseasonably storms,
And worn weathered gravestones outside the church
Are granite grey, cold, threatening forms
Sheltering ash of anonymous dead.
Under stained glass windows inside the church
The genius poet lays his sweet head.
Rosemary’s remembrance overcomes age.
Words unforgotten repeat his own tale.
Across the long years his thoughts pace the stage.
Ill fated fortunes are storms we must sail
and love can win through to make good amends.
Love overcomes all that savage time ends.
i have a pebble
smooth and brown
with a sheen
but unpolished
it sits secure
in the palm of my hand
we went to the garden
just the two of us
i carried a spade
and the ashes
the day was fair
and no breeze blew
my father made
this sheltered space
down among the roses
and here i dug the heavy earth
no marker for this grave
i picked up a pebble
held it
a secret no-one shared
we said a few words
we stood in silence
my mother turned away
i have a pebble
smooth and brown
with a sheen
but unpolished
it sits secure
warmed in the palm of my hand
small
significant
so easily lost
It’s raining sticks and old ladies.
The ice runs down my back.
I squint.
Wet is an understatement.
It’s as cold as a winter grave.
i hated that old chair
a predecessor of the grave
it wouldn’t sell
it’s weight was great
i left it standing empty there
a chair i never sat in
Shakespeare’s county is April wet. The trees stand, drawn in dark brown lines, shrouded in a soft grey mist. Fine rain falls in constant drizzle every day. Acting as a tourist guide to visiting friends I lead them from Tudor tea shop to Tudor pub, huddled up against the cold. The smell of beer soaked into old wood greets us at The Garrick door. We can shelter here and wait for the time when the play is about to start.
Now as friends we gather here.
The play’s the thing and
the rain it raineth ev’ry day.
On a plinth, Shakespeare sits, in thought, high above it all. I was taken there often as a child. The sun shone then, every day it seemed. I squinted up at him and shielded my eyes against the sun as he sat quiet, dark against the light, somewhat of a mystery. But the light changes hour by hour, and the weather season by season. He is a man of this town and the surrounding fields and his birthplace and his grave are here.
Sundays were a pilgrimage
with a hey and a ho!
When I was a little tiny child.
The wind and the rain has always been plenty.
Present mirth, hath present laughter:
What’s to come, is still unsure.
~~~~~~
(the last two lines are by Shakespeare – I thought I should allow him to add the last few words and the title)
Turn to the left and thrice about.
At the crossroad, by our hill,
he thinks that he can build his house.
Spin a spell and kick him out.
The path we walked so many years
now is shuttered by his door,
where we passed freely long before
His hens wont lay,
his milks turned sour,
he doesn’t understand a thing.
The accursed fellow cut our tree.
It was the favoured of our king.
He won’t be sleeping well again.
No dignity, no saving grace.
He won’t live in liberty
until his final resting place.
His book and candle cannot save
a wretch as foolish as he is.
We’ll be dancing on his grave.
By the Avon, there was one,
always known as Stratford son,
who summed the world with liquid tongue.
Wisdom spilled and warmth of wit
keep his words forever young.
The paths he walked today are thronged
by wandering tourists, curious still,
about the story of our Will.
Above his grave,
pointing upward to the sky,
the shadows on the ancient spire
are swept by sunlight after clouds.
I said a prayer to please his soul
and left a sprig of rosemary.
By the river, under trees
through the graves, row on row,
I smiled to see an ‘upstart crow’
sauntering with dignity.
when a person has a birthday
how ever old they are
you think about a child
and all the gifts they crave
with all the world spread out ahead
wishing on a star
but later on in life,
you start to realise
it’s not about the birthday gifts
you only wish for greetings
from loved ones flung afar
all the distant family
and all the friends you made
just to see them smile again
though they are in the grave
it’s hard to have a party
when the guests are gone away
and you are the last of them
to linger here and stay
you watch the children gather
you offer them some cake
you smile and laugh and bless them
and linger for their sake
Go gentle, gentle, into that good night
Old age brings acceptance of this last fate
Fly, fly to the beckoning, golden light
All seasons will end by pre-ordained right
The wise men know that when the hour is late
Their soul will take leave for eternal light
Good men do not fear the long, deep dark night.
Do not rage, sadly berating your fate,
Go gentle and rest, return to the light
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
Will sing in their dreams with no wish to wait
They will fly swiftly, to shining, bright light
Grave men will ponder the beauty of night
They will pray tenderly, knowing their fate,
Remembering all that was loving, bright
And you my father, in that blessed night
Look upon me, with no sadness, and wait
I will not rage at the death of the light
I will go gentle into that good night
***************************
(sorry Mr Thomas – you know this means no disrespect – you are my favourite poet after Shakespeare – and I will pray for you often)
The Dreaming Path 