poetry diary

There was a fir tree this morning,
beside the drive.
Now there is a new horizon.

That tree came home for Christmas
in nineteen ninety eight.
A triumph of domesticity;
surviving planting out,
children and twelve summers,
until it blocked the light
and had to go
despite a fight.

Felling trees is always sad,
I find – their slow joy of growth,
and patient presence;
stillness and solid love of earth,
roots us all as one,
and tames the sun.

So shame on the axeman.
You have much to learn:
let houses move instead.

© Matthew Rhodes 2011

Day building slowly from the east.
Dark frames of magic beasts reach out,
uncurl and strengthen, with the sun
still crouching, growling, out of sight.

Unthinking motions of the spheres.
Unhalting journey of these trains.
The force of gravity; this too,
draws on, and down; you cannot fight.

And now the sky grows light, and grey.
You cannot hide, can’t run away.
Courage, my friend, is not out there –
courage is yours, for every day.

© 2011 Matthew Rhodes

I wrote this on the train as the sun rose this morning, in mistaken response to a prompt that I thought I’d read somewhere on the web to write a poem about courage, but can’t now find! (Stop press – I just have – it’s writers island). However, I opened up my laptop and found an empty file labelled “Courage” so here’s a poem…… (I’m glad I did, it made the journey much more fun).

Rainfall gentle against my skin;
sky draws night from dampened streets.

No one moving without purpose, now:
yet all without haste – fresh:
the quiet, clean energy of another day.

These are the harbingers of city life –
street sweepers and delivery men,
a woman setting out her stall,
an opening door.

Peaceful, and incomplete.

© 2011 Matthew Rhodes

I’ve always loved the early morning in towns, all over the world – just before the day starts, and the people arrive, but after the first shops and cafes have opened and are just readying themselves for the day. There is a better poem here, but I thought I’d make a start and see if I can improve on it with time.

Shared with Jingle’s Poetry Pot Luck April 2011

This is a reworking of my very old poem below. Not sure I’ve learnt much, but enjoyed the challenge from we write poems. I feel this would benefit from another rewrite yet!

Existence, at nineteen, is a blank page
in a book unwritten, and without
rhyme.

And the moments of love
that follow,
if you are lucky, by chance,
and in unexpected places,
resonate for years, like wars.

The poetry of life is a wonderful thing
and at forty four more complicated again
than you can possibly expect, when wondering
about existence, and love, is a route to pain.

Different perspectives: understood more, and cared
less for, having invested so much in our own.
Mostly by accident, in fact, we have bared
our soul, and sought others’ identities, on loan.

And those moments of love
return, again:
just moments – months or weeks;
so much more than rhyme,
which is easy, in time.

Poetry is not.
Uniqueness –
cannot last.

© 2011 Matthew Rhodes

This is a poem I wrote nearly 25 years ago, in 1986, which I am going to rewrite in the next few days in response to a prompt from we write poems. It reads as a little artificial to me now, but I do still like the gentle rhyming and its simplicity, and I think I just allowed the words to flow with the rhythm. I was doing an engineering degree at the time, if this is any excuse (?). It’s a bit odd seeing how long ago this was – and I still exist (and write poems)!

Existence but a line
in the poetry of the world.
Love no more than a rhyme
in a stanza of life’s ode.

The soft consistent beauty
of every grain and cell,
a source of constant bounty
for all to read and tell.

In myriad interpretation
verses might shift and change,
but no sum of contemplation
can rearrange the page.

One instant understanding,
time then turns your head,
and views always appearing
in different hues are read.

Seek not imposed uniqueness –
the words alone are fixed.
For each in their uniqueness
to diff’rent meanings led.

© 1986 Matthew Rhodes