Na/GloPoWriMo

Rear-view Mirror

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Objects
seen in the rear-view mirror
might be closer
than they appear.

This warning,
you said,
could apply to us.
All the time you were there,
very near.

I considered those words for a while.
I thought I was far down the road ahead,
far down the road and free.

Following on behind,
you were moving
much closer to me.

You were far closer up than I knew.
Now I consider more clearly
nothing about this is strange.

When the view is so wide and distorted
our impressions can often be wrong.
Things very rapidly change.

All that you see behind you
may not be distant, but near.

Things from the past still affect us.
They creep up on us from the rear.

I thought I could go and forget you.
We were closer than we appeared.
Between glances, the gap had been filled.

Accident happen so fast.
We might have collided
or spun off the road,
or rolled.
One of us might have been killed.

This thought fills me with terror.
To leave you behind was an error.
We should travel in future together.
There’s no sense in having two cars.

Alas! Poor Yorick

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Alas! poor Yorick
his head is disturbed.
His skull’s been exposed
for hundreds of years
with holes that were once
eyes, nose and ears.
He’s only just realised
he’s Yorick, the Late.
Words have been bandied
over his pate
far too profound
for the mind of a Fool.
He can’t understand it at all.
Poor Yorick, alas
his body is gone.
What he wants is a grave
not a place on the stage,
somewhere to rest,
his poor addled head
hopefully blessed,
in a place he belongs,
now he’s dead,
very dead,
very finally gone.
I hope he’s in heaven,
not hell.
Who can tell.
Alas poor Yorick,
poor Yorick,
farewell.

The Last Bus

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

‘The answers are within you’,
is not a phrase
you often overhear
in the street
as you hurry along in town.

The rain was pouring down.
It was sudden.
People rushed into doorways
avoiding hail.
The pavements were pooling.
Gutters glugged.

‘Your ability to influence the world
may be greater than you think.’

I turned to see who was speaking.
Someone looked at me.
I shrugged.
I hadn’t said a word.
I realised
someone else had heard.

‘That girl Tracy makes me sick,
acting innocent. I told her
if i see her again, I’ll mark her’

Now we are back to normal.
And here comes the last bus.

 

Briefly Narcissus

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

He was arrogant, self-centered,
manipulative, demanding,
and utterly, flawlessly charming.

These things can’t exist
in a vacuum.

He was propped up
by admiration,
adoration,
from those who worshiped
his beauty.

He cared not a jot for any of them.
He was far too absorbed by himself.
No one could pull on his heartstrings.

Beauty brings love
to those of no virtue,
and youth is admired
above wisdom and age.

Photographed, interviewed,
followed and praised,
his face filled the magazines.

With no special talent, he faded.
No one remembered his name.
His body was found
in a cold empty room.
He had covered the mirrors
with pages
torn from the old magazines.

Outside the window
a narcissus bloomed,
a symbol of sunshine and spring.
Cupping the sunlight
they may last a week.
They never last longer than that.

Alone Time

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

The girl at the checkout counter
gives me a
side-long look.
She seems bemused
by my words.
Did I say too much
or too little?
How much is ever enough?

I always liked solitude,
it’s as vital to me as food.
But five days alone is my limit,
more is too heavy a weight.
One more ounce, and I’m crushed.

I speak out loud to the mirror,
checking I still have a voice.
Sometimes I answer myself.
I sound like a rusty old clock.
I seem to be losing my tick.

I brace myself for the day
I strap on a shell,
a brave carapace,
to keep the dark moments at bay.
I’m an expert at living this way.

But when friends come to stay
and then go away
I feel that my heart
has been opened and filled
and then,
quietly,
clinically,
stripped.

Mythologies

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Paris often told Helen
that her hair falling down,
partially covering her beautiful face,
and her gesture to push it away
was the first moment he felt
the infatuation
that would alter and shatter his world.

Pygmalion must have spent hours
whispering to Galatea,
recalling the shock,
and the joy,
of his granted wish
when she took her first step
from the plinth.

Philemon and Baucis
whisper their truth
through their leaves
as trees
grown together, entwined

Romeo and Juliet
never had time
to look back.
So many didn’t.
There are too many famous lovers
soon parted by death.

Orpheus should never have looked back at all.

Lovers love to repeat their stories.
Where they met,
how they watched each other before.
Their song.
Their words.
They remind each other,
adding small details,
confirming their private and precious thoughts.

Kisses are careful punctuations
and seal every paragraph.
The ritual of repetition
strengthens fond bonds
to the last.

Insomnia

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

The lighthouse keeper fires up the light.
All you have done is seal up a crack.
Reading at night can’t shut out the doubts.
Nothing you think is quite as it seems
and unwelcome thoughts keep coming back.
Praying is futile. You drift out of dreams,
hanging suspended, close to the edge.
The horses are running.
They’ve broken the lines.
Water is rushing over the ledge.
All that was small has now become large.

Hammer

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

I heard him arrive with a hammer.
It wasn’t the sound that a woodpecker makes.
It wasn’t a bang on the door,
or a well-ordered pattern of beats.
It was a hammer,
hurled through the air at my head.
All the cups on the table were smashed.
I knew it was risky to move.
I dreamed myself up in the blue
and saw myself as a seagulls wing
soaring above it all.
Seagulls remind me of ballet.
Ballerinas have silk pointed slippers.
Thinking of them, my head starts to swim.
I awake to the jaws of a shark.
The table is overturned.
It’s time to exit the dark.

The Rain it Raineth Every Day (a haibun)

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

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)