There’s poetry on the horizon
on a far away beautiful island
surrounded by golden light.
Peninsulas, oceans and islands
blending in shades of soft clouds
fading away out of sight.
Ocean meets air and turns with the tides
and reality hides behind dreams.
Septiums Francis Whimsy, Professor of Celtic Mythology,
Esteemed as an Arthurian authority of some renown,
Made a profoundly important discovery whilst poking around
In an unpronounceable small town in Wales.
He had wandered about in a wood calculating the path of a comet.
While collecting Nitrous Bonnet
(mistaking it for its more fanciful fairy cousin)
He unearthed the Holy Grail.
THE GRAIL!!!
He sat down and wrote a sonnet
In praise of the ancient cup.
But an angel came down from on high
And wafted the old Prof (and the precious cup) up and very far off.
My tutor made a cast of my foot sealed all the way up to my ankle
It was a demonstration of how it should be done
My foot became uncomfortably hot under enveloping plaster
And my arch was slightly flattened under the pressure.
When he cut the mould away it was a relief.
Fifty years later I wonder if my youthful foot still exists
Locked away in the dark of an art college cupboard
Hidden with still life props.
I wish he had posed me on tiptoe like Hermes in the Louvre
Or Peter Pan in the park always ready for flight.
I dont need some fancy foreign name.
Call me a drip ~
To me it’s Coriander!
It doesn’t smell very gentle. It’s strong, persistent, invasive.
It’s the scent of a Magreb backstreet
When it’s mixed with olive and cedar.
It’s worth more than saffron and pearls
To me in my soupy kitchen.
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
The Dreaming Path 