Monday, 22 December 2014

Love's not a Christmas thing




I’ll love you with the dance in my bones
and the pigeon calls in my veins
with the soil of my flesh and its stones,
the bungled belly laugh in my brains.


I’ll love you when the dances get dim
when the anklets draw hooks and blood
when pirouette is brimstone and grim
the last thrash of fish on the mud.


I’ll love you when the tinsel’s trash
when the tree’s just needles on the floor
all festive is only one flash,
and the dark is the maw of the door.


I’ll love you still when the music thins
under the amber songs of dawnskins.




Merry festivals to you, whichever you are celebrating, and the very best for the coming year.



Monday, 15 December 2014

Stocking stuffer




The props were made of black and bleak
not a single caravan came by
but I turned both the eye and cheek
and found some loopy plump cacti
thorny pretty and far from meek


growing thick in a crick of rocks
and that too felt as beautiful
as stuffed stockings of windsocks
waving off the stereopull
of incensed roads and office blocks.




Friday, 12 December 2014

Parasol






Early autumn morning, the sun’s warmth’s strong
on the sands, a parasol’s on the ground -
keeled over months ago, its thatch partly torn;
it toppled quietly without any surround sound
and there was no-one to hear it, record
how and when a patch of thatch had come down
its shade rolled small.  The off season resort



abandoned like a dried up fountain, rimmed
with watermarks. The ocean whispers on.
There is one other tourist - the crowds thin
end of summer, the swimmers crush gone
back to city squares, graffiti, imagined
and real grievances, unemployment, phone
apps, power cuts, lives of grim, urban grins.






Saturday, 6 December 2014

Riverlove









A certain yearning for those ancient rivers
eats into the morning without results;
the nearest one’s two thousand kilometres,
and the Hooghly’s distance now measured in worlds
the Benue and the Nile both out of bounds
just indifferent seagreen gulf's around.



There’s far too much inspirational guff
about the threequarterness of oceans,
about how the rivers end up being cupped
by loving seas.  And the televisions
get thinner and bigger, open wider jaws;
yet no rivers come by.  Not one trickle flows.






Thursday, 4 December 2014

Riki's Prayer




Image : Riki Roy



The prompt


"Can you write me a poem too or a prayer whichever you like...where my ashes be strewn in the Rockies near Jasper..as I am in love with the place...and may I be born in Canada to snowboard in Jasper's amazing slopes...where my hubby is my instructor and I fall in love with him again in a new time and place and we marry amongst the singing slopes and enchanting lakes..."




The poem


I.


Snowmelt’s going to be washed to the oceans
someday anyway, so give my ashes to
a fresh snowfall laid at the feet of mountains,
give them to the arms of pinewoods,  the immense
worlds tucked in a print of a caribou.


Give them, my love, to the vast stillness, the flakes
dancing to the leaps and whims of snowstorms,
trembling on the ribbed ripples of tranquil lakes
and when the universe finally remakes
them, may they again take a woman’s form.


May I be reborn around these mountains, close
to these spring-touched fields, these winter-bright slopes;
and one day quite by chance walking these snows
may we meet again where the conifer grows
as stars pin clouds in place with their sapphire drops.


May I be born here on the ridge of a mountain,
come face to face with you, and fall in love again.



II.


Let me be grateful for each scar, each success,
every step taken with you by my side;
and every step taken alone in some dim recess
of memory, but special nevertheless
because each led here, where our paths coincide.


Let me be grateful for wonder and its huge breadth,
the depth of my passion, the lightness of mischief;
the bonds between us that persist beyond death
and the ken of humans, beyond narrow faiths
and streams speckled with leaf-shadows of grief.


And grateful for each grain of sand and grit,
the barefoot mornings, carefree and wriggly-toed
coming in with summers swinging at their hips.
For the jewelled ice on winter nights’ fingertips,
for pristine snows on hard shoulders of the road.


Grateful that you test the knots, ease every climb
just by going ahead or backing me up all the time.



III.


Praying that when I’m remade in some future birth
I walk along this same majestic icefield;
or wavy tracks on a slope where snow’s disturbed,
a red helmet moves against the sky and earth
in graceful loops; and again, my fate is sealed.


It’s déjà vu, “I know you! from someplace else,”
you’re nonplussed but too polite to contradict.
Far below, the green lake ripples, the snowmelts
chuckle gently, trickle soft in their channels.
You’re visibly relieved as I change the topic,


“I’d like to learn snowboarding, give me a try?”
and you unstrap and step off, ever courteous.
I’m shaky as I mount, and your palm’s a sigh.
Thunderstruck at this touch, your smile’s awry -
you finally make the connect between us.


“Notice the helmet’s still red, what does that prove?”
the board steadies underfoot as I start to move. 




For my dear friend Riki Roy, with thanks and much love and friendship. May she be guided to her love and happiness unerringly, in every life that is granted her, and may they both be equally inspirational partners in all of them, as they are now. 

This one is strictly 'write as it comes' - no editing, no over-thinking, posted as soon as written, from the heart to brain to blog in half a morning's work over three consecutive days.  I hope I have been able to do justice to the prompt, Rik.









Wednesday, 3 December 2014

Riki's prayer II




Image : Riki Roy


Let me be grateful for each scar, each success,
every step taken with you by my side;
and every step taken alone in some dim recess
of memory, but special nevertheless
because each led here, where our paths coincide.


Let me be grateful for wonder and its huge breadth,
the depth of my passion, the lightness of mischief;
the bonds between us that persist beyond death
and the ken of humans, beyond narrow faiths
and streams speckled with leaf-shadows of grief.


And grateful for each grain of sand and grit,
the barefoot mornings, carefree and wriggly-toed
coming in with a summer swing at the hips.
For the jewelled ice on winter nights’ fingertips,
for pristine snows on hard shoulders of the road.


Grateful that you test the knots, ease every climb
just by going ahead or backing me up all the time.







Tuesday, 2 December 2014

A prayer for Riki Roy


Credit: Riki Roy


Snowmelt’s going to be washed to the oceans
someday anyway, so give my ashes to
a fresh snowfall laid at the feet of mountains,
give them to the arms of pinewoods,  the immense
worlds tucked in a print of a caribou.


Give them, my love, to the vast stillness, the flakes
dancing to the leaps and whims of snowstorms,
trembling on the ribbed ripples of tranquil lakes
and when the universe finally remakes
them, may they again take a woman’s form.


May I be reborn around these mountains, close
to these spring-touched fields, these winter-bright slopes;
and one day quite by chance walking these snows
may we meet again where the conifer grows
as stars pin clouds in place with their sapphire drops.


May I be born here on the ridge of a mountain,
come face to face with you, and fall in love again.




For my dear friend Riki who leads the most extraordinarily inspirational life and who wishes to be reborn where she now lives and loves. We were reading some verses together, and she asked for a prayer/poem about being reborn in the Rockies.  Stay blessed and happy, Rik.