I know how to write a sonnet.
I’ve written many before
But I’m not going write one now.
That’s not against the law.
I’d much rather write a ballad
Or a poem that’s free of all form.
I was writing pictorial poems
Even before I was born.
I hummed before I heard words.
I needed no metre or rhyme.
I was given a gift that’s divine.
In February 2024 I went into hospital for a cardiothoracic operation which is on the main thoracic artery. I should have been home in about two weeks but whilst I was on the operating table I suffered three strokes which left me comatose for about two weeks, during which time I was living entirely in a deep and very realistic morphine dream. When I say the dreams were realistic I should also say they were pretty fantastical but totally believable. To me they were the only reality. I could not tell that I was dreaming. I am still not sure if some parts really happened.
The strokes left me incapable of reading, writing or drawing which are my three main interests. My degree has also been delayed again.
A year later I can write and use my smartphone, which had become a complete mystery to me, and I have listened to Audible quite a lot but I’m able to read books again. I still cannot draw. My keyboard skills are a struggle. I used to like walking in solitude and it often inspired poetry but although I can walk I can’t go out alone.
April is poetry month, and I have not written a poem since my stroke last year. I’m not actually sure whether I can still write poetry but poetry month seems to be a good opportunity to test myself out and so I do intend to try and participate this year and I will post the results onto Dreaming Path regardless of their merits. We shall see. It’s an experiment.
Many things come in twos
Two eyes, two hands, two feet,
Two ways of looking at the world
To make a view complete
The up, the down, are not the same,
But I suspect a third
There maybe many other ways
(Some of them absurd)
But who’s to say which view is real?
It’s all a twisted tale
The world is full of multiples
To put us in a spin
If you think you know it all
Let me put you straight …
I went out the other day
and saw me coming in!
my thoughts today are not inspired
no deep emotions stoke the inner fire
no image scampers out across the page
the world bursts in with wings and horns
distracting me, declaring I’m no poet
all my hopes bereft, forlorn
poems are made of dancing words
delicious words that tumble out
marked with flows and rhythms
they skitter-scatter on the page
they fascinate, seductive
they have power and strength
imposing form upon it
an ode, a ballad, sonnet
I try to see connections
until they find direction
seeking out….
what’s that word?….
ah yes – perfection
A Letter
Write a letter to the world as if you will die tomorrow – then take some lines from the letter and turn it into a poem
You can see more prompts on the Writing Prompts page on top menu bar
Oberon threw a web of stars
Titania washed it with the dew
Roses opened,
as they should
Gentle daughter of the Tamar
Titania sleeping, dreamed of you.
Oberon bought you here
to dance
He pulled you from the depths of river
Placed you on a marble bridge
Leaving all the rest
to chance
Puck is always quick to meddle
He loves to open lovers eyes
He pierced me
with his well aimed lance
The river never flowed so far
The world was never quite so new
All was peaceful
in the wood
Gentle daughter of the Tamar
Tender smile and heart that’s true
Magic shines
in all that’s good
In your arms I feel water and fire,
cool streams and fountains.
I hear the beating of drums and the lyre.
I see rivers, valleys and mountains.
In your eyes I see moonlight and starlight
as they shine on the rising sea.
I see soft clouds spring open, sun bright,
and the flower that springs from the seed.
I see your eyes open wider in wonder.
I feel horses running in rain.
I seek lighting striking and thunder.
The storm takes me again.
I feel the tides as they rise
and your body as it clings.
We fly as our souls mingle and burn,
until the tide turns
and retreats in a sigh.
I give you horses,
you give me wings
Faded in black in white, about nineteen-thirty,
Two boys sit on a window ledge, that house,
Narrow street between mountains, back, front,
A valley that smells of coal dust and soap,
Where the women polish the doorsteps daily
Dark red, down on their knees in gossip.
This photograph says so much about them,
Even then. My uncle sits prim and nervous
Worried he may slip from his perch,
Buttoned up in his best suit and collar
Ready for chapel and prayers I suppose.
His round face in glasses, held stiff.
While my father leans sideways, younger
By two years, swinging a leg and squinting
With the sun in his eyes and his knees all scuffed.
Dreaming of music and organ pipes
And the catapult hidden in his Sunday pocket,
A strong wish to be off there and up in the hills.
These brothers stayed like this all their lives
Never truly following the same paths;
One toeing the line for all he was worth
The other refusing to break his own rules,
Always the wild one up in the hills
Frustrated by all the restrictions of life.
This house has been kept for ghosts.
They live here now, dimly present, unheard.
She thinks she is preserving her childhood
by keeping their furniture, the curtains,
everything just as it was.
She holds up the screen for their shadows
to flicker against, with love.
These ghosts are more than memory.
I almost saw them once or twice
when time slipped sideways, ajar.
I enter the room and feel them,
feel the warmth on the arm of a chair
where his hand leaned just a moment ago.
I know he just left by the opposite door.
There is a slight disturbance in the air
as real as the solid oak table by the window
and the light on the polished floor.
It is winter now.
The house would be cold and damp without them,
though they hang in a fine sea mist by the fire.
At night he climbs the stair ahead of me.
They were always ahead of me, here
long before I came.
We don’t intrude. We live side by side.
When I am gone it will still be so.
I turn out the light and make my way to bed
in the dark
knowing they did the same.
I travelled far, found a home
where my flag of honour flew
I thought it so, I worked for you,
for all I thought was true
you illustrate this event
with a comic book cartoon
and say you did it in good faith
am I too serious?
I should lighten up I guess
it’s just a party
all in jest
just a game, no harm
take my paper, take my words,
trample them in mud,
tear and shred my tribal banner
tell me this is love
I have been to parties
festivals and celebrations,
gathering, joyful tribal dances,
where my banner flew in wind
sunshine shone on open pages
there was light and dignity
I never thought to leave
such grace and charity
this though is another place
your run me round in circles
I see your honeyed traps
the charm, the exploitation
such manipulations
will never capture me
I have already gone
I left your circle game
The Dreaming Path 