thelibraryrooms

A tap and a fast last call,
What a man may say
As art and play

As a man always plays away
And waylays May
What a day!

A man may catch a pass
At a far away match
Far away, can’t call back…

What a man may say:
“May call back”
A play, a pass, a last call, as Adam sashays away …

Words surround me, confound me
I’m lost in a land of syllables, miserable
Caught in a battle between image and metaphor
Overtaken by a need to express
Whilst gagged and bound up by vowels and consonants

These words refuse to sound themselves into a verse
That someone else can understand
I’m caught in the trap set by my tutor
I want to escape, dash out a line or two
But no matter how much I build a plan …

I stumble and fall
After all
I’m no fan
Of extended simile
My use of language is more mundane

A concrete representation of language that doesn’t fit into the abstract nature of poetry.

The tick of the clock into midnight
it is silent here, save for the wind
in the wood, save for the sigh of the trees.

Something is different, something the same.
The frost creeps across a bridge of branches
cracks puddles into ice, frozen fingers.

This time she rides into the clearing,
this time she glances into fields that
are empty, calls out a name: silence.

She reaches inside, still finds emotion,
hears a break in the silence, hears a call
hopes, is mistaken, the year passes…

I came to you late in life
And grieve for the years lived
Without your voice to live by
Empty years that could have been filled

Instead they stretch behind me
Silent: long nights and short days
Made worthless by the lack of your words
Even now that I have your voice with me I mourn

I regret that I waited out the years
Without you and thought of this as nothing
Not until the beginning of something
Did I learn that a life lived without you was empty

Now that I have heard your voice I fear
For the return to silence comes near
And I know now that this is not the way
I draw myself in, embrace, listen, wait on what you have to say

Gather round, gather round
Your grandmother calls you
T’is the end of the day
Tonight she’ll tell her tale
A Christmas tradition

Once we are sitting
Cross legged at her feet
She is ready to tell
Of the Boxing Day hunt
The Feast of Saint Stephen

She starts with the scene
Frost on the ground
The huntsmen in red
The hounds milling round
A wren in the hedge

She builds up the tension
The boy on a pony
Dressed in his tweed
A whip in his hand
Fear in his eye

She glances around
We jump over gates
Thunder through fields
Caught in the chase
After our prey

Then the call of the hound
The fox gone to ground
A vicious dig into earth
The quarry exposed, dispatched
And a bloodied boy more fearful than before

The moon is still a sickle in the sky
She sent her deluges in the night
Now she masses her army against trees and boughs
You wander beneath her gaze
In the night she woke you with battle
Unprepared your knights still slumbered
Now they wake, after fitful sleeping
They are not ready for the call to arms
She hides her light, as the mist spreads
Across the veiled trees and her treachery
Is obvious, her smile half wonderment
Half infidelity. She carried you here
On a flurry of icy blasts of wintertide
Now she turns and laughs, as you shake
Off your sleep, your weakened rays feeble
In the sky beside her, her solstice
Fresh, this dominion still her own
The tide, under her command, turns again
As you struggle across that misted sky
A shadow casts and catches, spreads
Winter star, winter sun, you call your army
Out across her sky, begin the move
From solstice, past festivals and feasting
Through spring until your dominion

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas

Go gentle…

Dear friend, go gentle into that good night
Preserve your dignity, allow the day
To fade, you need not rage against the light

You have fought the battle with all your might
Made sure that you have been heard, had your say
Dear friend, go gentle into that good night

You have howled the sorrow and cried out bright
How your words and deeds here have held sway
Do not fear; do not rage against the light

You caught the moon, the stars and sang in flight
You’ve no need to grieve the end of this day
Dear friend, go gentle into that good night

As you near death, do not fear the sight
We will bind your eyes, hold you, make you stay
Away from fear, rage not against the light

You, my friend, are not alone, need not fight
The sun surrounds you with its golden ray
Dear friend, go gentle into that good night
Do not fear, do not rage against the light

By the time that you read this I will be gone.
If, in your sleep, you turn, your hand may catch this envelope,
Its foreign presence may even wake you.
You might, perhaps, tear it open, pull out the note and open our curtains.
Even if you see me on the street,
By the time you have left our room, run to the door, I will be gone.
I write this because I know I will not have to face you;
That I will no longer have to catch that look in your eyes;
I will no longer need to rise early and watch you sleeping,
So that I don’t have to face that look, that look that you carry with you each day.
The dark hatred of betrayal that has become
The look that you wear, each day, every day, each minute, each hour.
If it were up to me I would leave without saying,
But this note is my: ‘Goodbye’. I will walk to the end of the road;
I will walk past the playground, where we played as children;
I will walk past the house that I grew up in;
I will only stop walking when I reach the destination
(without me saying I know that you shall know where this will be).
Later you will find me there,
After reading this note, after reading my final goodbye.

I didn’t know:
that I would leave here
that I would grow distant

I didn’t know:
how many years would pass
before I returned
nor how I would change

I didn’t know:
that I would make mistakes,
that I would fail you
and then come back fearful,
afraid that the mistakes were too great

I didn’t know:
that you, as always, would forgive me
tell me that it didn’t matter,
that you would still indulge me
and allow me, imperfect as I am,
to come back through the door

You knew:
as you breathed the air
that surrounded me, as you held me,
touched your skin to my skin,
embraced my body, wrapped
me in the blanket of
your love, your heart

I come from the village
caught on the edge of town
a place to wait
grow up safe

I come from a road
at the top of the hill
where the neighbours watch
flick curtains and gossip

I come from our house,
the place I call home,
3 bedrooms, downstairs bathroom
extended; improved over the years

I come from my parents’ room
the place I was born
top of the stairs, to the left
wallpaper, bedspread, secure