Sharing Shelley’s moonbeams…

1200px-Percy_Bysshe_Shelley_by_Alfred_Clint
Percy Bysshe Shelley

My poor neglected blog – again. There are no excuses, but there are reasons, this time anyway. My mum died two weeks ago now. The funeral was less than a week ago and frankly, it is all still too raw to write about, and I am not sure you would want to hear it anyway. One day perhaps…

But I felt I had to write something today, about love, about yearning and about the possible joy love can bring. Losing someone is terrible, the pain such a contrast to happier times. The world seems a desperate place at the moment. We are surrounded by terrible images, endless news ‘updates’ that seem almost to glory in the horrors human beings are facing. We long to help, do what little we can and then watch others seeming to do so much more. How tiny and inadequate one can feel at the moment. We live fast-paced lives as if we are immortal, yet death is all around us and frighteningly close.

But we are surrounded by love too if we can but see it.

TR
Tom Riley in Lewis

One of my favourite poems is not, believe it or not, by John Keats. Called Love’s Philosophy it is by his contemporary, however, and fellow Romantic, Percy Bysshe Shelley. I don’t read much Shelley, to be honest. He wrote ‘Adonais’, an elegy on the death of Keats which, however well meant,  was no small part of the early movement that saw Keats depicted, quite wrongly, as a rather fragile man, incapable of taking the criticism without swooning and dying. However, I was drawn to this poem by an episode of the crime drama Lewis called ‘And the moonbeams kiss the sea’, which featured a rather lovely performance by actor Tom Riley as an autistic artist, innocently forging letters in Shelley’s hand. This poem is quoted in what has turned out to be one of the best episodes of a fantastic series, and turning to my poetry shelves I read it in full and fell in love with it immediately.

Love’s Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In another’s being mingle
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdained its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea –
What is all this sweet work worth,
If thou kiss not me?

Full of dreamy innocence, whilst at the same time using the laws of the natural world as a means of seduction, the second stanza strikes me as one of the most captivating expressions of the potential joy of love. Those images of nature as lover are irresistible and lead inexorably to that last line, which charms as it pleads. It is simple and lovely.

It may seem odd to share a poem such as this when I am experiencing a personal loss, and so many others are staring into an abyss. However, it is now that our love for one another is often shown most clearly.

After all, what is the point of all the wonders of the world if we can’t, simply, love one another?

It isn’t all roses & chocolates: the love of ‘La Belle Dame…’

John_William_Waterhouse_-_La_Belle_Dame_sans_Merci_(1893)
John William Waterhouse – La Belle Dame sans Merci 1893

I have written a number of posts highlighting some of the world’s most beautiful love poetry.  Many are under the banner of ‘Love Songs you wish you had written…’, a meme I took from the wonderful Dad Poet, David J Beauman. Some of the poems I have chosen in the past are full of longing, or are wistful. Some are simply dedicated to a chosen one, or highlight the very simplicity and ordinariness of life in a comfortable, loving relationship. I am in one such, so it has been, I suppose, more natural to choose poems that praise something most of us search for, more or less successfully, throughout our lives. A few have been more cynical, or tempered with the sense of an ending, but I don’t think any have focused on the unhappy or even destructive consequences of a disastrous affair and I thought it might be time to redress the balance a little. After all, St Valentine’s Day is not for everyone. The poem I have chosen today might convert many to the joys of singledom, for example……

La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats  (published version, 1820)

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery’s song.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gaz’d and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes–
So kiss’d to sleep.

And there we slumber’d on the moss,
And there I dream’d, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry’d–“La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!”

I saw their starv’d lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.

This is one of John Keats’s most famous poems, subject to a myriad interpretations, linked to his love for Fanny Brawne, his fears about the destructive nature of passion (particularly on his poetic ambitions) and his incipient decline into the latter stages of the tuberculosis that was to kill him in 1821. It can be read as full of ‘double entendres’ – sitting a woman on his ‘pacing steed’, garlanding a ‘fragrant zone’ and enjoying much sighing and moaning, suggestive of a night of passion. Or you can read it as a gothic tale of a cruel “beautiful lady without mercy” as the French translation of the title suggests. In any event, it is, in my opinion, a brilliant, tightly structured ballad that creates intense atmosphere and offers a clear warning to those beguiled by passion and romance –  if only our nameless knight had seen the kings and princes already abandoned by their cruel lover- ‘I saw their starved lips in the gloam,/With horrid warning gapèd wide,’.

I have written about how Keats has influenced artists through the ages – from the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood , through to graphic novelists, comic-book  writers and contemporary film-makers, but to day it may be seen as one for those who are rather sick of the hearts, flowers and sickly sentimental commercialism that often seems to accompany St Valentine’s Day. Have a good day anyway……

 

 

 

On St Valentine’s Day – Love poems you wish you had written 2015 #4 – UA Fanthorpe

love_poem_400x400So we come to the ‘big day’ itself. The 14th of February, St Valentine’s Day and apparently the most romantic day of the year. Of course, for many it is nothing like that, by circumstance or choice.  There is something rather uncomfortable (and occasionally nauseating) about seeing rows and rows of red cards of various design (and taste) in the shops as soon as Christmas cards are swept into the stock room once more.

However, the sentiment is a fine one and when I called for requests this year, asking my readers and friends on social media to suggest love poems for this short series, one stood out as distilling my feelings for my own Valentine – my lovely husband Peter. And it isn’t by John Keats (though I was sorely tempted of course!)

fanthorpe180U (Ursula) A Fanthorpe was a British poet who died in 2009 and I have to admit that I didn’t know much about her poetry at all, until prompted by Jessamy Carlson  (‏@rjc_archives ) on twitter. Her obituaries describe her as ‘a great role model for all of us who could do with a bit of ‘late flowering’ ‘ and I am determined to read more of her work in the future. I think this poem sums up that kind of love that, whilst ‘everyday’, is vital for the maintenance of another’s happiness and which inspires devotion, understanding and acceptance. I have a very ‘suspect edifice’ at times, and regularly require a metaphorical re-wiring and re-pointing. This is quite different from Donne, Auden or Yeats, but utterly believable and real.

Atlas

UA Fanthorpe, from Safe as Houses (Peterloo Poets, 1995)

There is a kind of love called maintenance
Which stores the WD40 and knows when to use it;

Which checks the insurance, and doesn’t forget
The milkman; which remembers to plant bulbs;

Which answers letters; which knows the way
The money goes; which deals with dentists

And Road Fund Tax and meeting trains,
And postcards to the lonely; which upholds

The permanently rickety elaborate
Structures of living, which is Atlas.

And maintenance is the sensible side of love,
Which knows what time and weather are doing
To my brickwork; insulates my faulty wiring;
Laughs at my dryrotten jokes; remembers
My need for gloss and grouting; which keeps
My suspect edifice upright in air,
As Atlas did the sky.

What do you think? Do you still find it romantic, as I do, despite the imagery being more practical than poetic?

Sadly, I could not find a reading on YouTube and there is no recording of Fanthorpe reading Atlas on The Poetry Archive, although she reads three other poems, including ‘Earthed’.

So this week of love poetry has been fun for me, and asking for requests took the pressure off a little as I struggled to sift through the many, many poetry books that fill my shelves. There were other poems suggested, including Because I liked you, a sombre piece by A E Houseman, How do I love thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, La Vita Nuova by Dante and a number of poems by Carol Ann Duffy, two of which were included on a companion post by the lovely Dad Poet. My thanks to everyone who got in touch.

So on Valentine’s Day love and be loved, or take heart in the thought that somewhere out there is the person for whom, one day, you can find a just the right poem. I hope the past few days, and my previous posts on poetry (just search in the box above or find ‘poetry’ in the word count to the right) have given you a few ideas.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Love poems you wish you had written 2015 #3 – W. B Yeats

William_Butler_Yeats_by_George_Charles_BeresfordWell, haven’t I had some wonderful suggestions for this series of love poems for St Valentine’s Day and beyond? Donne, Auden and now Yeats. This one, I have to admit, is one that I have loved since my teens, with that vain hope that one day someone would write something like it for me….

Hey ho, such is real life that nothing has yet been forthcoming and a limerick might be the best I can hope for now. But that doesn’t prevent me, and it seems many of my Facebook friends, dreaming. This great poem – Aedh (or He) Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven was suggested by Jane Earthy, Ada Mournian and Deborah Metters, amongst others and it is one of those poems that itch to be learnt by heart.

William Butler Yeats was born in Dublin in 1865 and became one of the foremost literary figures of the twentieth century. His protestant background did not prevent him breaking with tradition and affirming his Irish nationality and as a young man he was intrigued by Irish myth and the occult and dabbled in spiritualism. There is so much to say about his life, and his love life, that I can’t hope to summarise here, so I recommend you visit The Poetry Foundation website.  It offers a  succinct biography that details his life and influences; he was a fascinating man and a great poet.

He wishes for the cloths of heaven, published in The Wind Among the Reeds in 1899is brilliantly imaginative and colourful; the poet admits to financial poverty but offers his love his dreams instead, seeming appealingly vulnerable (they are ‘only’ dreams). However, the richness of the words (and cloth) he spins are so utterly compelling that who could resist? The musicality of some of the lines is wonderful – I particularly love The blue and the dim and the dark cloths/Of night and light and the half-light…..

He wishes for the cloths of heaven

W B Yeats 

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

I have found another lovely reading, this time by Sir Anthony Hopkins. Brief, but beautiful.

Could you trample on the dreams of anyone who wrote those words for you? Thanks to everyone who suggested this one – truly a poem anyone could wish to have written, or have written for them!

Love poems you wish you had written 2015 #2 – W.H. Auden

220px-AudenVanVechten1939For the second of my posts, specially written as we approach St Valentine’s Day, I focus on a poem by W.H. Auden. Anyone who has seen Four Weddings and a Funeral will know the poem which starts ‘Stop all the clocks…’, so movingly read by John Hannah at the funeral of his dead partner, played by Simon Callow. It is chokingly good, and bitterly sad.

However, for this week, as requested by historian Jessica Meyer on Twitter, I am reproducing another great love lyric by Auden – Lullaby. Sometimes referred to by the first line ‘Lay your sleeping head my love…’ it is about time passing, the inevitable fading of beauty and the enduring nature of love. Auden was born in 1907 and is now regarded as one of the greatest writers of the 20th century.  He was a great poetic technician, but also wrote remarkable prose on profound topics. He is a poet I love to read, although I have never studied his work in depth. So I simply respond, and in this poem I like the way a classic meditation on love is subverted – most particularly by the lover’s ‘faithless’ arm. Is this a reference to atheistic beliefs? Is this about a night spent making love to someone other than the poet’s regular partner (with a further reference to fidelity in the third stanza)? Or is it simply a recognition that we are all frail, imperfect human beings when it comes to love and that in that moment there is no-one more entirely beautiful and adored than the sleeping lover? What do you think?

Lullaby
W. H. Auden, (1907 – 1973)

Lay your sleeping head, my love,
Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms till break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.

Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy,
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit’s carnal ecstasy.

Certainty, fidelity
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell,
And fashionable madmen raise
Their pedantic boring cry:
Every farthing of the cost,
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost.

Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly round your dreaming head
Such a day of welcome show
Eye and knocking heart may bless,
Find the mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness find you fed
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.

Again, I have found a reading  – sometimes it helps to hear a poem read aloud (although I always like to read it to myself, under my breath or out loud and proud if I am alone in the house!) and this version is accompanied by some sweet music. I would love to know what you think, and as always do let me know your own favourite poems.

Love poems you wish you had written 2015 – #1 John Donne

JohnDonneLast year I followed the example of the fabulous David J Bauman over at The Dad Poet and posted some of my favourite love poetry. I had a great time rediscovering some old favourites and finding new work that moved me; poetry that really had the power to distil emotions and make me cry out (internally anyway!) ‘Yes!!’

So this year, I thought I would do something similar, but with poems nominated by friends on social media. I have always maintained that those who say ‘I don’t like/get poetry’ just haven’t found the right poet for them, so I do hope something on this blog inspires you to take a closer look, for Valentine’s Day on the 14th, and onwards.

The first poem of the week was nominated by Lorna Fergusson, over at Fictionfire, and seconded by Emma Darwin. It was published nearly 400 years ago, but it still has the power to send (pleasurable) shivers down the spine…..

The Good-Morrow
By John Donne

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I
Did, till we loved? Were we not weaned till then?
But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?
Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers’ den?
’Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.
If ever any beauty I did see,
Which I desired, and got, ’twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls,
Which watch not one another out of fear;
For love, all love of other sights controls,
And makes one little room an everywhere.
Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone,
Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown,
Let us possess one world, each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears,
And true plain hearts do in the faces rest;
Where can we find two better hemispheres,
Without sharp north, without declining west?
Whatever dies, was not mixed equally;
If our two loves be one, or, thou and I
Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.

This is a wonderful evocation of the sensual and spiritual aspects of the love between two people, and as the film Fifty Shades of Grey hits the screen, I posit the idea that Donne is sexier by far than anything E L James came up with. The lines For love, all love of other sights controls/And makes one little room an everywhere is so quietly passionate that the intensity of the emotion expressed can escape you. Makes me go all warm inside and conjures up an illicit weekend away – 48 hours and never leaving the room…….

I thought I would also offer a reading of the poems I post on here, if possible, and on YouTube I found my favourite actor, the lovely Kenneth Branagh, reading it. Do let me know what you think, and if you have favourite love poems of your own.

Enjoy 🙂

Talking Books talks Broken Dreams & Bottom Lines – Darel Pace on life & writing

BD&BLMost people who know me would not expect me to read a ‘chick-lit’ novel for fun. It has been mentioned to me that if I read light-hearted books I would be less prone to depression, but quite apart from the lack of insight that statement contains I think prolonged exposure to some of the stuff out there on Kindle would have the opposite effect.

So when Somerset author Darel Pace agreed to come on my 10Radio show Talking Books to discuss her book Broken Dreams and Bottom Lines, I was a bit worried that I might not be able to talk to her about her book honestly, in case it was one of those frothy stories where the last chapter is predictable having read the first and the author might as well not have bothered with the intervening 50,000 words. Thankfully, Broken Dreams is not like that at all. In fact it is a joyously sweary, genre-subverting and funny book that Darel has made sure gets as much exposure as possible on Kindle – to the point where it has spent some time in international best-seller lists.

The lead character, Liss Birling, is someone who wants to believe that a woman can have it all, but her life isn’t really turning out that way and circumstances constantly remind her that she is more or less muddling through. Single parenthood; the ‘modern woman’; the test of career, children and happy marriage as all that matters; it is a book that Darel makes sure really doesn’t fit the usual chick-lit template. She wanted to be more ‘real’, more like the truth of life for many young women in modern Britain. A storyteller at heart, it is clear that Darel has fun with her writing, although as you will hear in the interview below – it has been really hard work to get the book ‘out there’. She combines her writing with her job as a teacher and has found her students, their parents and her colleagues supportive (despite the rude words!).

There really isn’t any way I am going to be reading chick-lit by the bookcase load. It really isn’t me. My ‘light’ reading is generally a crime novel – a cosy whodunnit. But if it is something you enjoy, especially if you are a fan of Sex and the City for example, take a look at Broken Dreams and Bottom Lines. Darel was a great guest and I wish her luck should someone buy the film rights. Melissa McCarthy should be waiting for the script….

Broken Dreams and Bottom Lines is available on Amazon Kindle for the special price of 99p for September. Darel also has a successful blog at http://darels-world.blogspot.co.uk/

Love poems you wish you had written #5 – John Keats

John
John

On this, the 14th February, I reach the end of my series ‘Love poems you wish you had written’ with one that most who know me would have anticipated from the very beginning.

This poem still offers the John Keats reader much to think about. When was it written? To whom? Does Keats want to be like the star? Or is he rejecting its lonely view of the world, cold and distant and unable to do anything but observe its beauties?

The film ‘Bright Star’ (Jane Campion 2009) brought this sonnet to the attention of a much wider audience, who saw it for what it actually was – a poem for Fanny Brawne, the woman to whom he was, at the end of his life, secretly engaged and who inspired the following exclamation of passionate love:

“I have been astonished that Men could die Martyrs for religion—I have shudder’d at it—I shudder no more—I could be martyr’d for my Religion—Love is my religion—I could die for that—I could die for you. My Creed is Love and you its only tenet…”

Some still believe this to be his last poem, written on the boat that took him to Italy in the autumn of 1820. He had just five months to live and his best poetry was behind him then. He found it difficult to write anything and even to think of Fanny caused him  great pain. This sonnet was actually written to Fanny much earlier, when he was in better health, and probably revised on that last voyage. In it he is, I believe, admiring that ‘bright star’ so steadfast, so splendid and spiritual; but rejecting the aloof, eternal view it offers in favour of a reality that allows him the physical contact he so desires and the unchangeable love that is subject only to death.

Bright Star

by John Keats (1795 to 1821)

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art–
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors–
No–yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever–or else swoon to death.

 

And of course, as it is the Big Day itself – St Valentine’s Day – I dedicate the following to Peter. His name means ‘a rock’. He certainly is mine. 28 years this year says much and the last two lines of Anne Bradstreet’s poem speaks for me here.

To My Dear and Loving Husband

by Anne Bradstreet (1612 to 1672)

If ever two were one, then surely we. 
If ever man were lov’d by wife, then thee; 
If ever wife was happy in a man, 
Compare with me ye women if you can. 
I prize thy love more then whole Mines of gold, 
Or all the riches that the East doth hold. 
My love is such that Rivers cannot quench, 
Nor ought but love from thee, give recompence. 
Thy love is such I can no way repay, 
The heavens reward thee manifold I pray. 
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever, 
That when we live no more, we may live ever. 

I hope the day brings you all the love you seek.

Love poems you wish you had written #4 – Billy Collins

The Sonnet - William Mulready
The Sonnet – William Mulready

Thus far I have taken this series of posts on love poems very seriously, largely because well, love is pretty serious isn’t it? The intensity of the experience and the joy and pain that love brings are hardly a laughing matter most of the time. Don’t misunderstand me; you can have an awful lot of fun being in love. But even in its lighter moments, I think love moves us in a way that goes to the most sensitive and fragile parts of our being. People describe the act of falling in love as ‘scary’, as the act of giving ourselves wholly to someone else makes us so vulnerable that it isn’t something we do lightly.

But the wonderful Julia CopusElizabeth Barrett Browning and David Constantine, the poets in my first three posts on this subject, have expressed those moments when love cuts literally to the heart of us so well, that I couldn’t resist something a little more humorous; more of an exercise in writing a love poem.

Billy Collins’ poem ‘Sonnet’ isn’t deeply moving but it is still a ‘love poem’, almost to love poetry itself. He is, in a sense, just entertaining us with a sonnet about the different ways in which the sonnet form has been shifted to suit the poet holding the pen. A poem about writing poetry. However, I also think he is taking a pot shot at poets who strive so hard to write a poem to their love in sonnet form that it becomes a puzzle to be solved –  words slotted in to fit the rhyme scheme or metre, as much as a genuine reflection of feeling.

Anyway, I like it. I hope this video in which you can hear Billy Collins read the poem works on here, as the poet’s voice does add a little something. The vision of Petrarch in his ‘crazy medieval tights’ (although I rather think he was more of a robe man…)  is bit of a giggle for another dreary Monday morning…

Sonnet – Billy Collins

All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now,
and after this one just a dozen
to launch a little ship on love’s storm-tossed seas,
then only ten more left like rows of beans.
How easily it goes unless you get Elizabethan
and insist the iambic bongos must be played
and rhymes positioned at the ends of lines,
one for every station of the cross.
But hang on here while we make the turn
into the final six where all will be resolved,
where longing and heartache will find an end,
where Laura will tell Petrarch to put down his pen,
take off those crazy medieval tights,
blow out the lights, and come at last to bed.

The last in my series (can I bear to end it? I have loved choosing these poems!) will be a sonnet, an absolutely brilliant one. It will be up on St Valentine’s Day itself.  Lets see if you can guess who it is by…..

Love poems you wish you had written #3 – Julia Copus

Julia Copus
Julia Copus

I have written before of the wonderful Reading Matters group I was, and still am, lucky enough to be part of (we call it ‘Reading Still Matters’ now that the Royal Literary Fund have moved on to other projects). The leader of our group was the wonderful poet and dramatist Julia Copus, a past winner of the Forward Prize and author of three collections; the most recent of which, ‘The World’s Two Smallest Humans’, was shortlisted for both the Costa and T.S. Eliot prizes. I went to the launch, and was lucky enough to hear Julia read her work and I treasure my signed copy. Through Reading Matters she has inspired me to read much more widely in the wonderful world of contemporary poetry.

Her love poem that I do so wish I had written was first published in The Spectator in 2008 – A Soft-edged reed of light. Her soft voice loads the words with additional meaning, so do listen to it here, on The Poetry Archive website. but it is no less wonderful to mouth the words, quietly, to oneself…..

A Soft-edged reed of light

That was the house where you asked me to remain
on the eve of my planned departure. Do you remember?
The house remembers it – the deal table
with the late September sun stretched on its back.
As long as you like, you said, and the chairs, the clock,
the diamond leaded lights in the pine-clad alcove
of that 1960s breakfast-room were our witnesses.
I had only meant to stay for a week
but you reached out a hand, the soft white cuff of your shirt
open at the wrist, and out in the yard,
the walls of the house considered themselves
in the murk of the lily-pond, and it was done.

Done. Whatever gods had bent to us then to whisper,
Here is your remedy – take it – here, your future,
either they lied or we misheard.
How changed we are now, how superior
after the end of it – the unborn children,
the mornings that came with a soft-edged reed of light
over and over, the empty rooms we woke to.
And yet if that same dark-haired boy
were to lean towards me now, with one shy hand
bathed in September sun, as if to say,
All things are possible – then why not this?
I’d take it still, praying it might be so.

Simple; story telling; sends shivers down my spine.

I have two more poems to post in this series as we approach St Valentine’s Day on Thursday. The posts haven’t had as many views as I thought they would. I am not sure why that is – are we less romantic as a species than I thought we were? Is the climate – economic and weather – so cold and gloomy that romance is ‘off the cards’? Seems a shame if that is so. David over at The Dad Poet is doing his best to help me spread the word about the poetry we both love so much, but I obviously need more help! If you love poetry, love this poem – give it a plug. I am not just out for a big ego trip and blog stats aren’t my favourite obsession but go on – poetry heals, it really does. And boy do we need love and healing right now.