stars

Day 12 ~ I didn’t use a prompt today

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Considering Time

Where will we ever find time?

The answer to that
depends on the date of your death.
Consider it might be tomorrow
and make up your mind to live.

But, you’ve misunderstood my question.
I will rephrase it. Listen.
Where will we find time?

Let’s look in the hedgerows first
to see which plant are budding,
are they limp or dry?
Have all their leaves been lost?
Has a bird built a nest or are all the fledglings fledged?
Did they all fly away to the south?

A year is the same as a decade
or a summer can last a year
but only when you’re a child.
Time is a relative concept
linked to innocence.
It moves faster as you age.
To witness time watch an apple
moving from ripe to rot.

I don’t own a clock.
I don’t expect precision.
If you want to arrange a meeting,
I’ll meet you when the sun dips down
behind the ridge of your roof,
or later if you like
when Mercury hangs above us
a step to the west of Jupiter,
almost parallel to the the moon
(that is to say, on April the 12th at roughly half past nine).
I will wait for you there but if that’s too soon,
any chance meeting is fine.
These moments hang
on the infinite line of time.

Do you think it ‘s all on a line?
I don’t.
Everything turns around and everything’s relative.

The rotation of the stars at night
is faster than we perceive.
I’ve seen them move, from dusk to dawn,
by sitting as still as a rock.

© A.Chakir 2023

Day 6 ~ Poems from the French and Portuguese

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Todays prompt was to read a poem in a language you are not too familiar with (so that basically you don’t understand it) and then, just from the sound of it write a poem of your own – I did two from French and Portuguese

Alone in the Dark

I contemplate my foolishness baffled by
the contrast of smoke and pure air
the leaves rustle outside my window
a piano is playing next door

I hear a tender tune of meetings in this moment
a song of the night, the earth
the dance of eternal stars,
inexorably close to my heart

The night again! after days of comedy
with no laughter, the sadness, my sickness
can’t be cured by the beautiful flowers.

The universe responds, but I cannot subsist
the days repeat and repeat, shouting encore.
My life is only sadness as I sit here alone in the dark.

Love is urgent

The urgencies of love
made me embark
on rough seas

the urgencies of desperate love
solid, square and cruel
bring my lament to the waves,
crashing around my feet

it’s urgent, it’s all going by too fast
so many kisses I sought in the cornfields
looking for roses and rivers
and open clear days

is my heart so impure
that I can’t find the light?
This love is urgent.
I came to the estuary
and now I am lost in the sea

© A.Chakir 2023

First Day at School

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

I had a new gym bag. My grandmother made it. It had a drawstring and it was black. It hung on a black iron peg with my coat. The row of hooks on the wall reached out at me like traps to be caught on and hung. I heard the birds singing outside where I wanted to be. The place had a special smell, one I ever after associated with school; warm rubber fading to wool, a hint of polish, gym shoes. It made me feel nauseous. Even now as I conjure it I sense a mixture or suffocation and nervous impending terror.

I had been given a desk that was red, my favourite colour back then but it was the sparkles that drew my attention. The stairs to the upper room had a sparkle, little stars trapped in concrete. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach as I climbed the sparkling stairs. I kept my eyes down and stared at my feet stepping on little stars. My laces had come undone and I didn’t know how to tie them. I was ashamed of being so stupid. I had tried to learn but the laces always escaped. They were going to draw attention and all I wanted right then was to find a cupboard and hide. There was no cupboard out there on the sparkling ascending stairs. I had to go on.  I did find a place to hide. I took a long time to come out.

water and stardust

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

why are you weeping?
the music of water sings to the stars
and falls to the earth in the rains
seek out the rainbow
satisfy thirst
rest when the sun sinks in the west
the fire is still lit in the hearth
night becomes day soon enough
we are made of water and stardust
we must go with the flow
water will find it’s own course
nothing will stand in the way
dry all your tears and shine
open your heart to the source

Faded Charts

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Perhaps it isn’t wise to love a sailor.
Good things sweep away in summer storms
but the tides are unpredictable
and times have changing patterns
when the breezes shift.
I left my compass in the cupboard
wrapped in faded charts
and i couldn’t see the stars.
I should have thought before I lifted anchor.
I should have thought before we left the land.
I can only tell you that I’m sorry
that I had to loose your hand.

Home

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

The river always pulled this way,
quiet in its flowing.
I followed close
but had no way of knowing.
I only had a longing,
undefined, unsatisfied,
a well too deep to fathom.
I bowed my head in sorrow.

But life is strange.
The river curved and flowed away.
I could only follow.
It lead me to a pasture.
The waters pooled.
The stars, reflected,
shifted,
a secret, silent mirror.

When night was at its darkest,
I made a lonely sojourn here,
So tired from this journey.

I lit a fire.
It flamed
It burned.
I built it to a beacon.
You saw it where you wandered.

Home was never truly home
until you came to share it.
The light was never quite so bright
nor the fire so strong
until you sat beside me.
And now each night
I sit with you
and count my lucky stars

Lucky Boy.

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Mr. What-Was-His-Name
Had many Things
He lived in a house
Very fine, fit for Kings,
But the doors folded inward
And never lead out.
I ask you, my friends,
What was that all about?

The boy on his doorstep,
Had flowers in his hat.
He sat on the doorstep
And talked to the cat.
The cat said his fortune
Lay out in the fields.
The boy on the doorstep
Was happy with that.

The boy wandered off
In search of a wood.
He whistled and sang
As he went on his way.
His only thought was
‘What a fine day!’
When he was hungry
The berries were good.
He never did anything
Quite as he should.

When the night fell upon him
He looked at the stars
They hung high above him,
Over his bed,
Where he curled himself up,
Under a tree
And slept the sleep, of the just
And the dead.

Mr. What-Was-His-Name
Had many Things
He lived in a house
Very fine, fit for Kings.
But the boy, in the morning,
Woke up with the lark.
He shook off the dewdrops
And sprouted fine wings.
Lucky is he who whistles and sings.

Homespun Twaddle

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

a fae should never wear feathers
they would float much too far off the ground
they’d soon blow away and might not get back
that’s what the old wives say

*****

don’t drag people down rabbit holes
until you’ve been there and back by yourself

*****

meddling with magic has unforeseen results
thinking you’re clever is the act of a fool
wizards and chess masters think they see all
but they have no control of the stars

*****

if you live in stone houses
don’t cast the first glass
we are all far too fragile for that
looking tough never works
when you’re shattered
false dignity makes it worse

*****

I am not wise
I’m an idiot
So I never bother with fools

Apples and Bees

/ A. Gouedard / 2 Comments

I would lie beneath the trees
And dream the hours away, in heat
And listen to the hum of bees

The apples tumble at my feet
Full of warmth and summer sun
Dripping juice so ripe and sweet

How smooth this nectar on the tongue!
I steep my sense in joy, replete
And feel that I am ever young

The sun will sink, the evening comes
As the hourglass, tireless, runs
But I will stay here, in the night,
To look up to the endless stars,
Rotating glimmers fill my sight