Category Archives: poetry

Sea tree…

Posted on by
2

High on the shore line

Above the storm berm

The winter sea gave out a pilgrim trunk

.

It was thrown up the beach

Like you or I might flick a pebble

.

The corpse of the old tree

Has been gnarled and shaped

By encounters with deep reefs

Where it rolled and shoaled with the fish

And bore the barnacles and wracks

Of the deep blue sea

.

Now it lies here

Like bone of leviathan

.

It has taken on the colours of the deep-

Sea green

Shadow black

Red like the eye of a shark

Grey like the dripping tail of a whale

All faded a little by the blown sand

But jewelled instead by salt crystals

Drawn out in the low sun

.

Who knows where its roots are

Or what of its seeds

Still remain

Green…

Posted on by
Reply

I force my way into the wet wood

Kicking my way through

The tangle of moss covered branches

And the hungry ground sucks at me

Wanting to wrap me in all shades of aggressive green

And from my feet upwards

I am mulched

 

It could swallow me whole

And I would need no grave

 

Still, birch bark makes a fine memorial

And the ragged hanging lichens

Will flutter their prayers

Above me

 

Rest…

Posted on by
Reply

“Come to me” he said

“If the turning wheel has broken you”

So I staggered in his direction

 

“Sit with me” he said

“And we will sip tea

And soak a careful biscuit while

Occasionally raising a listening eyebrow

And enjoying that communal space

When words find rest

In silence.”

 

And perhaps our dreams will dance in the firelight

For a while this room will be the universe

And it will be possible to believe

In starflight

 

“Or perhaps it is enough,” he said

“Just to rest.”

For he was gentle

And humble

Of heart

 

Matthew 11:28-30

 

 

 

Remembering…

Posted on by
Reply

Yesterday was my father in law’s birthday.

Or would have been.

To remember his death in April of this year, Mary suggested we took some flowers to a place he loved. I am not really keen on those displays of flowers tied to lamp posts and benches- the ones that droop and rot into a mess of green plastic. But Mary had a much simpler idea.

So we went to a bridge over the River Eachaig, next to the lovely Uig Hall- a fine, still place where the river runs strongly around a meander and over a weir before disappearing towards the Holy Loch then the Clyde and finally the deep blue sea.

We stood in silence on the bridge, Michaela, me, the kids and Mary. That kind of stillness that is enhanced by the gentle noises around, and the feelings of pain and loss within. The whole world folds in for a while.

Then Mary threw her flower, along with a little note, into the river.

Taken by the current it moved off. Followed in line by Michaela’s, William’s and mine. It was unbearably sad, but lovely at the same time.

Emily was last to throw in her flower, and as she was standing nearer to the bank, the current took it around the meander and almost out of sight, before it snagged on the bank- a flash of yellow amongst the floating leaves.

This upset Emily- so much so that she wanted to go and fetch it somehow, although this was not practicable.

For me, this spoke volumes.

The river moves on and by, to a distant destination. But no matter how strong the flow it is hard to let go.

It is right not to let go.

Because blessed are those who mourn…

A cheerful little poem about dying…

Posted on by
1

I sat in my office this lunchtime, thinking about death.

There is a lot of it about.

Not me of course. I will last for ever.

For most of us, death is a foreign country- one which we are unlikely ever to visit- Moldova or Uzbekistan.

So much of what we do is focussed on avoiding it, delaying it as long as possible, pushing it into the background.

It is no way to live.

So I wrote this poem…

Something is going to kill me

In the end it will polish me off

This machine comes with built-in obsolescence

And already my bearings run rough

.

Perhaps my blood will turn orange

Or my bones will powder like chalk

My brain is sure to malfunction

And my feet will forget how to walk

.

I may be squashed like a bug by a lorry

Or an elm tree will fall on my skull

An arrow of misfortune will stick me

As I am gored by a runaway bull

.

Perhaps we live  love then fertilise loam

And  this heaven-talk is really moronic

Or perhaps there is something aerodynamic in me

Shaped to go supersonic

Brown tea…

Posted on by
4

Brown tea

There is a goodness that rises like

Sap in spring trees

In you and even

In me

Rising like salt tears

As something

Is wrenched and torn

By a glimpse of the pain

Behind your smile

It is there in the small things

The turning of tide of the day from

Broken ebb

To tip toe flow

And the alchemy

Of dark brown tea

Mixed in steaming water

Anyone got a spare bucket and spade?

Posted on by
4

The Goans are off on a traditional British summer holiday.

Cue for a song- take it away Cliff…

(Nice little misogynist twist at the end there!)

This year we are heading to Whitby, on the Yorkshire coast- a familiar old place for us, as we had our Honeymoon at Robin Hood’s Bay almost 20 years ago. We have fond memories of parking our Citroen 2cv with it’s bumper against a lamp post as neither the hand brake nor leaving it in gear would hold it on the steep cobbled street.

The blog will be quiet for a couple of weeks

For those of you who are staying at home, or travelling- may you find rest. May there be some mid summer Jubilee.

May the noise of children mingle with the sound of sea gulls to conjure up best memories of your own childhood.

May the days rest soft and the nights be kind.

And may God hold you in the palm of his hand…

There is a time for all things under heaven

A time for marram grass to move
In gentle air
And for the dying sun
To turn all green things gold
To alchemise the evening
Into a luminal place
On the twilit edge
Between here
And there

A time when the last call of the curlew
Will echo away over the dimming mountains
And the stillness is itself

Whispering

A time for this day

To silence

The soul

From ‘Listing‘.

Reflecting on the losing of humanity…

Posted on by
Reply

Thank the good Lord for Friday. It has been another long hard week.

Regular readers and friends will know that I earn a living by working as a mental health social worker- for around 20 years now. Or to be honest, these days I do not do a lot of social work (although I still practice as a Mental Health Officer)- I do this other thing called ‘management’.  Some days I am not sure how much longer I can do it.

What has allowed me to survive so long working within a large bureaucratic institution has been two things- firstly the need to provide for my family, and secondly the hope that I might be able to genuinely make a difference to the lives of the people I work with. In management, it is possible to fulfil the first, but the second- well the evidence is not as strong.

Being in contact with people in the extremes of distress and crisis on a daily basis does something to you. It is impossible to stay as emotionally engaged as we do when we first begin these encounters. The best of my colleagues hold on to their compassion however- we nurture it by making it shape our language, our small talk and the way we treat everyone we come across. We have learnt that kindness in the small things, despite terrible external circumstances, can indeed make a difference.

And sometimes that is the only thing we have to offer.

Images by Fred Kleinberg

In the course of my work, I come across people who have done terrible things. People who others would say have lost all sense of humanity.

People who have harmed children, or killed and dismembered people.

Others who have locked themselves away (or been locked away) and have lost or forgotten almost all basic skills of human interaction.

Perhaps most striking is watching people slowly destroyed by addiction. To see them in the later stages of this- near to death- and wonder what incredible life force keeps a person alive when skin is bright jaundice-yellow and all organs are playing discords.

Sometimes it seems that almost all that makes us human is gone.

Almost- but not all.

Because in all of these people, despite their brokenness, what is left- what is most visible, is… their humanity.

Unhidden, undefended, right on the surface like an open flesh wound.

And should we lose sight of this, the danger is that it is not their humanity that will be at risk- but rather our own.

I wrote this in response to a recent event…

Deep in the soup and the stew of him

In the ooze and glisten of his grey matter

Some synapses spark and flicker

Sending out electro-chemical dots and dashes

.

And he- wired almost to breaking point

Is all strung out

Senses dulled

But deadly receptive

.

So bone becomes knuckle

Muscles turn to gristle

And poisoned sinew moves like a snake

Ready to strike

.

Later some said he was evil

That some dark thing was in him

Others called him mad

A flesh machine gone wrong

.

Still others bayed for his blood

-as if enough had not been spilt already

They want eyes put out for the eyes he closed

And every broken tooth smashed in return

.

Me, I stand over a stain in an old carpet

Through which something human has fallen

And feel a little of myself

Drain away