Waves of men thrown at the guns
like water thrown on a fire;
the geography of their births
costing them their lives.
Who should “ask what you can do
for your country”?
Rock and clay recognize no borders;
sacrificing lives for a line on a map
is no service to a nation
but makes a bonfire of its people.
Pool of water
you pick beauty, like an apple,
from this panoply
and set it there,
a fragment from a canvas
lying in the gutter.
I look down
on The Four Courts
austere and grand
like Ozymandias,
“sneer of cold command”
half sunk in the sand;
remnant of an empire
shivering
in an April breeze.
We all live in here;
teeming around each other,
drinking from the same tap,
turning in our beds in unison;
recycling our breaths.
Sooner or later, each of us
turns up at our neighbour’s
offering worn-out clay,
coming away with a mirror
and the wood from a kitchen table.
Deep
like an ocean.
Moonlight dim
and silent.
Empty
like a dancehall
that was once ........
Not my heyday.
Forty years earlier,
cycling
in the early hours
through countryside
like a dream.
That memory
an exhibit
now;
collected,
preserved in a jar
with label’s print
barely legible.
Was carefree then,
pedalling
your way home;
happy countryside.
Happy life.
Unseen turn.
Exhilaration that.
Pumped up heart
huge with joy,
youthful expectation
unbattered.
Quiet suddenly.
In that countryside
a front wheel spinning.
The fish
that is solitary
in the ocean
is essential to the stillness
that is around it.
Stillness
that is a consiracy
waiting.
And the stone walls
suddenly
stone-deaf to whistling.
In the dim light of a December evening
swans, bright as lit matches, are gliding
over the streaming oarweed of traffic lights
on their way to Harold’s Cross Bridge.
Ghostly on winter’s glass,
oblivious to the world’s commotion,
passing without trace, blind to their own beauty
and all the more beautiful for that.
Light falling
like snow through the leaves.
Walking among the anemones:
my giant’s feet
sinking into that sprawl of city lights.
The woods silent,
its million ears pricked.
I stay inside,
inside myself.
Raindrops leave
perfect rings on the sand;
BB King sings
with his lips in a perfect o
but that’s not
what I want to say.
A child never spoke,
not in a year
except once
to say no.
I thought about that
and surmised
his parents
had left him short.
Rain magnifies
the grey of clouds.
The electric wires
sag;
yes, and on days like this
I remember.
What I remember most:
a gable end
when a window was
my world.
That boy never smiled,
not once that year.
Green, vibrant in rain,
but chilly,
encages
but seems infinite.
The oyster catchers move along
but nothing changes;
I drop the magazine
pick up the laptop
and the rain
pressing harder against the window;
I will read the magazine;
he refuses to look up.
I've seldom used the haiku format; however, not having a prolonged piece of poetry to mind but having some impressions on scenes I come across every day, haiku suddenly appeared to be a very useful choice. So, here then is my 'bash' at haiku.
Showers in the bay,
unfurled clouds their sails –
the Killybegs Regatta.
Oystercatchers hunched
searching for shell fish
are spattered ink on a page.
The white cloud is clinging
to the mountainside
as tight as unwashed hair.
The oystercatchers
that were flecks on the strand
take to flight chevron shaped.
A hail shower
extends upward into cumulus –
atomic bomb.
Meteorites
trailing the circuses
we’ve lived.
Curling,
shaping to each other
as though time
will eventually interlock us;
two rings.
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.
Monday was murky, the house was all percussion with rain;
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.
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!
