poetry diary

Rising gently like the sun,
a quiet murmur amongst leaves;
unlike the wind, somehow
digital, and wet?

And from the road a soft squashed,
receding, sound of moving wheels
escaping unseen, but
serious and set.

Then, through rising consciousness
a harder, wetter, foreground brings
the interrupted dream
of a rivulet.

I draw back the bathroom blind,
predicting summer rain, and find
quiet satisfaction –
I can listen, yet.

*********

I awoke to light rain this morning.

Once we were young and rose at dawn
to watch our fathers put to sea.
As jewelled boats merged into mist,
our grandmas sat us on their knee.

Dark sails once more against the moon;
and fishes idling near the quay.
We dreamed each night of their return,
and sang and sang to ease our way.

Then we were wed and rose at dawn
to kiss our young loves to their boats.
And walking slowly from the shore,
bright laughter echoed from our throats.

We threw our lines and scanned the waves –
your eyes shone out from every cloud –
we dreamed of home and planned new lives;
our sun-swept limbs stood tall and proud.

Dark sails once more against the moon;
and fishes idling near the quay.
We dreamed each night of your return,
and sang and sang to ease your way.

Our children played along the shore;
sailed past in toy ships made of shells.
You sang the slowing songs of whales;
we warmed calm village nights with tales.

Always our hearts yearned for your arms;
for children’s laughter warming hearths –
Far from the master’s urgent calls,
riding sharp spray through angry squalls.

Dark sails once more against the moon;
and fishes idling near the quay.
We dreamed each night of our return,
and sang and sang to ease our way.

And now our children set the sails –
We hold our grandsons on our knee.
The ebbing whitecaps in your hair
mirror the rhythms of the sea.

Dark sails once more against the moon;
and fishes idling near the quay.
We dream each night of our return,
and sing and sing to ease our way.

————

On the penultimate day of our holiday we went to a concert given by the local choirs in the 12th century church of San Vicente de la Barquera, a perfect and ancient natural harbour on the north coast of Spain. For their final piece, the conductor on impulse asked the choir to split into men and women and move out into either side of the nave, so that each half of the choir sang to the other over the top of the audience. I didn’t understand a word of the duet they sang, but it was the most moving and beautiful experience.

This poem is my re-imagining of the words of that duet. The women sing the verses on the left, the men on the right, and the ensemble sections are in the middle.

Posted on dVerse.

“This is my happy place,” you say,
and make it so with naked girls
and ancient books; sunflowers,
soft armchairs, opened writing desks,
a framed window with flower box;
pots and hedonistic rugs.

My happy place might share most things:
different girls perhaps, and books;
more plants, a clarinet and maps –
scents of summer, apple trees;
water too, for evening swims;
a seed table for birds.

I wonder though, to balance this –
for every happy place we make
might there not be as well a sad,
unhappy place, with pots unfilled;
fires unmade, and a woman –
unopened and unread?

******

There is a sign above the fireplace in the small and very cosy cottage we stayed in last week (see Human landscapes below) which says “This is my happy place”. I have only met the owner twice, and he and his wife seem very happy, so apologies for the third verse. The sign and lovely house prompted reflection.

Unexpectedly
suspended yellow
against blue;
lemons amongst leaves,
anticipate
juice-shocked
tongues.

******

There was a lemon tree in the small courtyard garden of the second cottage where we stayed. To my Northern European eyes this was very exotic.

An eagle,
dark against clear sky.

Slow seeking seeing sensing slides,
twists and glides –
high –
through naked shrinking hills,
seeks,
with one purposed swing of silent wings
and glint of gold against the blue,
tension-spilled –
falls, brings
sudden death –
fresh
kills.

******

There were many eagles and griffon vultures near where we stayed in the Picos de Europa.

Without the mountains, this house
makes a home with art – sensual
terracotta reds and gold;
and warm, most human breasts and thighs,
drawing me to cool, silent,
watching eyes, which say: ‘I am
beautiful – like you – (and mountains too),’
and with a yard, and lemon tree,
glass of wine and distant dog,
you welcome me;
human nature, shaped in stone.

******

We have moved to a cottage by the coast. There is no view here, in the centre of the village, but the owners have made it a wonderfully welcoming and cosy space with art and careful design. This includes, slightly disconcertingly at first, many nude images of the owner’s wife, who also gave us some excellent cake.

I like the contrast with the mountains and that both equally make visitors feel relaxed and comfortable.