Condemn-nation

I will not fly their flag. There is no pride
In what this island has become. Just shame
As all humanity is cast aside
To pass some loathsome law. Not in my name.
How can I feel affection for a place
Hell-bent on showing those in need who dare
Approach our door we’ll slam it in their face
And if nobody likes us, we don’t care?
No. I will not commemorate that saint
Or vow to this, my country. There must be
One pure thing left in England free of taint
Unblemished by their lies and cruelty.
And happily, he is among us still
In soul and spirit. Happy birthday, Will.

Today is St George’s Day, supposedly a national celebration of our patron saint here in England. I have never flown the white flag with the red cross (which has long been associated with the nastier end of English football, as well as more straightforward nationalism) and can see no circumstance in which I ever would. It is especially distasteful given that last night, the Tory government passed a law that will enable it to deport asylum seekers to Rwanda, in defiance of international law as well as common human decency. Since 2016 there have been many reasons to be ashamed of my passport, but rarely more so than today. So I take bittersweet consolation in the fact that it’s also William Shakespeare’s birthday. Just a shame I have to go back to 1616 to find something I can feel any pride in today. N.

Defiance

So, what are you? they asked me, and their tone
suggested they’d decided my reply
would disappoint them in advance. My own
reserves of confidence were all-but dry.
How to admit the truth? How could I dress
my life’s threadbare achievements in a way
to make them more respectable; confess
exactly what it is I do all day?
But I spoke boldly. Poet, I declared:
Make of that what you will. For I am proud
to tread a path that others have not dared
and followed my true calling, not the crowd.
By normal measures, surely I have failed;
Yet cannot help but think I’ve still prevailed.

Wander as I will, the sonnet is the form I always come back to. Rigorous yet malleable, endlessly fascinating and challenging, and capable of containing so much more than its compact dimensions suggest.

Chain letters

Urban nightmare, everything grinding:
Grab Brompton; no obstacle.
E-bike emancipates;
Slender racers send dreams soaring;
Go off-road, downhill –
Let tough hardtail, lightweight trail, long-travel lunatic carry you.

Unlock kinetic connections,
See endless scenery:
Your regular routes, sudden new ways
Show secrets: slowly you understand
Doubt, thirst, terror, redemption;
Never reverting, gathering glories.

Solo outings: silence, emptiness, space
Enrich heart-searching.
Go out together: rotate leads, share effort
Tame each hill. Laugh.
Holistic cure, efficacious self-medication.
Never regretted. Doing good.

Another attempt at yesterday’s ridiculous each-word-starting-with-the-last-letter-of the-one before-it formula, adding the complication of trying to actually write about something. Good, mind-bending fun for a Friday; wishing everyone a great weekend.

Joined-up thinking

Sit tight.
Too often now
We exhaust talent,
Time, energy, youth
Hurrying, gaining glory;
Yet troubles still loom,
Make everything grow wearisome.
Enjoy your rest.
Treasure each hour;
Respect the earth,
Hope every year
Reveals something good.
Dream mightily. Your road
Disappears sometimes,
Shadows swell. Let them:
Much happens, slowly yet tenaciously,
Your reason never realises.
So. Observe, engage, endure.
Even now, when no obvious step presents,
Some elucidation nears.
Sit tight. Tomorrow waits.

Lying awake in the middle of the (very hot) night, I had the idea of poem in which each word starts with the last letter of the preceding one running through my fevered mind. It seemed a good idea at the time, but when I sat down and tried to write it, it was much harder than I thought! It’s a very tight constraint: it’s hard to form complete sentences and really only allows for short, pithy statements, giving the resulting piece a rather gnomic feel I’d usually run a mile from. Anyway, it was fun to do, and amazingly almost makes a weird kind of sense (if you don’t look too closely). A suitably daft piece for our crazy weather and times. N.

Out of season

It looked like summer’s end had come. The days
Died younger, leaves curled, fruits hung heavily;
The shadows lengthened in the holloways
And plough and harrow worked on steadily.
Our minds made space for thoughts of times ahead:
Of wool and wood; of frost and fire and rain,
All warmth stripped from the land, the sky like lead,
The Hunter striding through the night again.
Too soon, it seems. We hide indoors as heat
Engulfs the gasping fields beneath a sun
Like molten copper, torching our conceit
That all past carelessness may be undone.
And so we watch the world burn with our shame.
No place to run. And no one else to blame.

Calling

I want to be a poet:
Nothing more do I desire.
The longing burns within me
With a fierce and fateful fire.
I want to make the verses
Everyone can say they’ve read.
(And they will still be quoting
Even after I am dead).

I want to write collections
That win prizes every time;
The darling of the critics
And the saviour of rhyme.
I’d boldly burn the rule-book
Put the whole world in a spin.
Then sit back and put my feet up
As the royalties rolled in.

Far too long now have I waited
Let the years go drifting by.
No more cowardice or caution:
It is time to do or die.
I know this is my purpose
My life’s sole appointed task.
So, please, let me be poet:
Or is that too much to ask?

The world is full of people
Blessed with useful skills: not me.
I have no place in commerce
Play no role in industry.
So I will be a poet
Confident and unafraid
When I’ve answered one last question:
How the hell do I get paid?

Falling down

Now comes the season when we lie
Along the roadside, heaped up high
In cardboard box and plastic crate
That passers-by might deem our fate.

A few of us are smooth and firm
Untouched by blackspot, wasp or worm;
And take our places at the heart
Of fruit-bowl, crumble, pie and tart.

But most are doomed to be discarded
Brown and rotting, rank, regarded
With contempt; no one will taste
Their sweetness. All are gone to waste.

One tree gives life and strength to all
Yet chance determines where we fall.
And if our landing should prove hard
What hope for us left bruised and scarred?

The wind blows keenly now and shakes
The branches roughly. All it takes
Is one untimely storm or frost
And every one of us is lost.

Back to work…

Scrambling, rambling
Stuttering, muttering
Railing and flailing
Huffing and puffing.
Muddled, befuddled
Weary and dreary
Bemused and confused
Tired and mired.
Frustrated, deflated
Groping and hoping
Dragging and lagging
Deleting, repeating.

Yet striving, surviving
Vigorous, rigorous.
Drafting and grafting.
Still fighting. Still writing.

A charm for resilience

Strength from the strong.
Hardness from the hardened.
Deep roots from the deep-rooted.

Stretch to the sun, welcome the rain.
Stand firm in your home ground, bend to the wind.
Do not fear the storm.

All things shall grow.
All things must die.
And all will be well.

Sestina: Midsummer

So. Summer reaches out a fiery hand.
She takes the crown from Winter’s hoary head
And wears it now in splendour, with the sky
Her banner raised in triumph, all the green
And smiling land her realm. We waited long
For this, the greatest glory of her reign.

Those iron months of cold and endless rain
When gleeful frosts nipped any careless hand
And feet and clothes were never dry – all long
Forgotten and forgiven as we head
Where ancient stones stand in their sea of green
And turn our faces to the dawn-grey sky.

And now light spreads across the eastern sky
As Sól gives Arvak and Alsvir full rein.
Long slabs of shadow swing across the green
Beneath our feet. We reach a hand
Towards the gold horizon, let our head
Be filled with dreams and wishes held so long.

And who would blame us if we said we long
For this to last forever: that the sky
Might never turn to ashes overhead;
No battlements of clouds raised, dark with rain
No flake of snow upon an outstretched hand
Or end to this sweet world of lustrous green.

Yet even as we gaze upon the green
Soft-shining land where meadow grass grows long
Awaiting now the skilled and eager hand
That cuts the hay, we glance up at the sky
And mourn the dwindling days of Summer’s reign
Her slow decline and death that lie ahead.

Then let each leaf and grain and flowerhead
Each tree and pasture clothed in gleaming green
Be now to us a charm against the rain
And storm to come. For it will not be long
Before the night returns, reclaims the sky
And we are gripped by Winter’s cruel hand.

We cannot stop the rain. What lies ahead
Lies in some other hand. Yet hope is green
And lingers long, however dark the sky.

I’ve been meaning to write an aestival follow-up to my first sestina, Midwinter for a long time, and finally got round to it yesterday. The sestina is a challenging form that requires a long run-up, hence the 12-year interval, and the fact that even then I’ve posted this a day late! Solstice is, of course, an ancient pagan rite, so I added some standing stones, and borrowed Arvak and Alsvir, the horses who drew the chariot of Sol, the sun goddess, across the sky, from Norse mythology.