Two Rings

 

Meteorites

trailing the circuses

we’ve lived.

Curling,

shaping to each other

as though time

will eventually interlock us;

two rings.

Form Haze of Childhood

 

From haze of childhood

you grew into yourself,

defined and definite,

glad to be out of it.

Glad to be away,

living within your own fences,

fierce about that:

your privacy, rights.

And still the emptiness

that only past can fill,

you deny it

but it refuses to deny you.

God Creates Barnesmore in a Week

 Monday was murky, the house was all percussion with rain;

God made the mountains and hills, but minimally:

mere suggestions of fir, fern, sally, of uneven slope in the foreground;

beyond that, the cloud gathered like smoke, thickened white as toothpaste,

so there was nothing to see, just a blankness,

and He was pleased with that.

Tuesday, similar; the road with the grass traffic-line

puddled and shining; the lawn an exuberance of green growth,

of docks gleefully extending themselves, all needing to be mown.

He left the mountains out completely; just made the hawthorns beyond

the garden-fence, and left the rest to whatever He wished to dream up,

and He was happy with that.

Wednesday morning the clouds had shifted and He knew

He was going to have to mow the lawn.

He went at the mountains again, inserting undulations,

rocky outcrops, streams, ravines, stretches of evergreen forestry

and above it all bare rocky crests.

He stood on the footpath, hands on hips, surveying it all

And was very pleased.

Thursday too was fine. He took out one of the fold-up chairs

and sat surveying the geography he had created.

Saw that it must fit into a wider landscape, so sculpted hills,

more gentle in curvature and ever decreasing in height

and flattened them eventually into gentle pastures that tipped

down towards the sea, a silvery sliver at edge of His view,

and He was again quite pleased.

Friday, less than satisfied with the whole thing, He put sheep

round-backed onto the slopes and set them moving to and fro like amoebae,

birds flitting through the near distance, swallows swooping

and a magpie perched on the electric wire just over from the house,

then more sheep, shock-eyed, and foul-arsed foraging up to the fence;

and He was pleased.

Saturday, clouds rolling in from the west, was spent erasing, restyling,

erasing, reordering the whole scene. Feverishly, all day long

tippexing out sections which led Him into that chain of changes;

most of the day the summits were absent like the head off a statue,

the week's fine details obliterated and recast at speed, until, near evening

the clouds cleared, and He eventually packed it in

and seemed satisfied.

Sunday, He was slow to rise, and when he did, attacked the Sunday

newspapers. Later He watched The Sunday Match, and, to tell the truth,

I don’t think He looked at the hills all that day.

Parasite Man on Mother Earth

 We are naturally quick to deal with parasites be they lethal or not; we don't like them. Our own parasitic nature seems to bother us less though the list of our damage-making is horrendous. This list confirms us as a deadly parasite

Parasite Man on Mother Earth

secreting toxins,

poisoning the water,

depleting the oxygen,

destroying the lungs,

blocking the veins,

contaminating the blood,

raising the temperature,

removing nutrients,

desiccating the skin,

disrupting biorhythms,

inflicting wounds,

impeding defence systems.

AI: Have your poems critiqued in seconds?

OpenAI released ChatGPT in Nov 2022; it is  a jaw-dropping language tool that really will make a colossal differance, particularly in the educational field but also for all those wanting to produce written pieces, be they essays, articles, reports, emails, etc. It has already attracted huge attention worldwide and has educationalists wondering how the technology will impact the future teaching of languages; indeed, some are wondering if they themselves have a future.

I asked the 'chatbot' if it would comment on a poem; it replied "Of course!" It would do its best to provide me with its thoughts and comments. I gave it the poem in the previous post and instantly, line by line, my reply began to emerge:

"This is a haiku, a traditional form of Japanese poetry that consists of three lines with a 5-7-5 syllable pattern. The poem evokes a sense of transience and impermanence, as the field that was blanketed with snow yesterday is now a blank page to be drawn on.

The use of the word "yesterday" in the first line immediately creates a temporal contrast with the present moment, suggesting the fleeting nature of time. The second line, "blank under snow today," paints a stark picture of the field's transformation, while the final line, "A page to draw on," presents the reader with the opportunity to interpret the blankness in a creative way.

Overall, this haiku is a simple yet effective meditation on the transitory nature of life and the creative potential of emptiness. It encourages the reader to embrace change and find beauty in the fleeting moments of existence."

To say I was impressed is a major understatement; I asked it to do the same with the post before that aggain. Here's its reply:

"This is a lovely poem with vivid imagery that paints a picture of the vibrant ecosystem of a forest. The contrast between the activity at the surface and the more hidden life beneath the trees is particularly striking, as is the use of sensory details throughout.

The first stanza creates a sense of mystery and depth, as the fish dart through the shadows and the afternoons take on a languorous quality. The second stanza introduces an unexpected element with the choirs of earthworms, and the idea of them singing "long-forgotten sea shanties" is a delightful play on words that brings a sense of whimsy to the poem.

The final stanza is particularly effective, with its description of the movement on the surface of the forest. The use of alliteration ("stippled and dancing") and onomatopoeia ("jingling") adds a musical quality to the poem, reinforcing the idea of the forest as a lively and dynamic place.

Overall, this poem is a beautiful meditation on the wonders of nature, reminding us of the rich and varied life that exists all around us, even in the quietest and most hidden corners of the world."

I am, of course, going to have to work to prevent myself running all my poems by it; in fact, maybe I should ask it for its views on that. In the meantime, you should try it, or better still wait for the coming version that is reported to be a hundred times stronger!

It could be that writing workshops are about to saunter off down memory lane following in the footsteps of their typewriting parents!

 

A field yesterday,

blank under snow today.

A page to draw on.

Impression

 

In the depths of trees,

beyond the reach of the sun,

fish are darting through the torpor

of beer-brown afternoons.

Below, in the leaf-litter,

choirs of earthworms

with yawning-wide mouths

sing long-forgotten sea shanties.

An hour turns

like iron-rimmed oaken barrel.

But on the surface all is movement:

stippled and dancing;

juggling the sun;

jingling the passing days away.

Present Day Slavery: Forced Labour

My bones a hoist,

I carry stones;

harness over my skull,

legs levers

flexing extending

all day everyday

fourteen hours in each,

rungs up rungs down,

daylight into darkness

into daylight darkness.

They’ve made ladders

of our bones

who never carried stones;

always climbing

rungs up rungs up

all day everyday

stepping off our skulls

into daylight daylight 

always daylight

always.

Perhaps as many as 50 million people living in slavery of this and many other kinds today, Feb 6th 2023. There is a TED talk which  I recommend though it is not an easy 20 mins: https://www.ted.com/talks/lisa_kristine_photos_that_bear_witness_to_modern_slavery

Away

 

I’m in bed, hearing

my parents’ footsteps on the landing.

then in my room.

They have not come to tuck me in

but, together, pass through the wall

and out into the night.

I cry, go to the window;

a full-moon night

but they are nowhere;

not in the sky

nor in the garden below;

they are gone.

The moon and night,

fields and hedges all have life;

my parents have gone to them.

It is inexplicable,

but so is the room and so is sadness;

and what is the child?

Years later, trying to hear

the sound of those footsteps again;

a different room in a different place;

the tune they made refuses to form;

easier to look out the window,

travel after them into their infinity.

Days

 

Days are the harvest of time. Each a segment

of film-strip lit with its own light and,

for all the weight that fills them,

 thyey are delicate as the dandelion seeds that stream in

their billions through a bright summer’s afternoon.

Turn your palms down; look at the parchment

on the backs of your hands; a certificate of life.

You carry it; it stays with you, ends with you;

a reason to celebrate, for today all our days are this one day;

it is an exhilaration to be.

The Hands That

 

In death it’s often the hands

cranked square immobile

hold the eye;

held solid

that dead soul.

Ah, the hands that could

catch love

now stoney

The Photograph

 

My father in a beam of sunlight from the kitchen window,

the rest of the room a dim background; hands extended,

bending down to his granddaughter, minute particles of dust

glistening around them.

Vermeer-like: an intimate moment made still and lasting in

a slant of light, a gentleness isolated from the moving world;

a glimpse to slow the pulse, stop at the pool of a mind,

contemplate the heart.

Starry Night

 

The intricate weave

of their rhythms

glint and ripple

glitter and flow

sometimes loud

sometimes low

I sit through the early hours

listening

to the stars’ music

across the carnival of the sky

those haphazard harmonies

making an ear of the eye

Cigar Smoke

 

Outside, in dim night light, smoking a Christmas cigar,

looking along the front wall, the angle it makes with the eaves,

the dark triangle at the top of the down pipe;

exhaling a plume of smoke, watching it diffuse beneath

that geometry, the smell of Christmases long gone.

Faces, faint holograms now, waft on that tobacco thermal.

Viewing them coolly in the dank air, those that carried me to now;

life a succession of relations with others,

the rise and fall of characters through my own story,

lights that shone, dazzling or dim, and lights that went out.

They smile, talk and laugh, settle cups on saucers, swish whiskey

round crystal glasses, roll cigars along lips before lighting.

I watch them: acts and scenes on stages that are gone, my boarded up theatres;

watch them,  essential links, coffin-bearers

and stubbing out the butt of my cigar, return to the lights in the house.

A Transparent Eyeball

 

“I become a transparent eyeball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part of God.” 

                                                                                                                                                              Emerson Ralph Waldo Emerson

Reclaiming

the occurrence of all things

in myself;

as close to God,

unfettered

as the free circulation of air;

being

as the sensations of all living

pass through me.