poetry diary

Africa! In the first mouthful a cry,
exuberant and rich, like the joy
of the suited businessman in the hall
when Mandela came to Oxford (I was there
– sixth from the right in the back row, 2002)
which still makes me weep. Dates and almonds
from Morocco, sun-suffered and strong.

Aromas of Asia in the air;
cinnamon and ginger – thoughtful
and intense – flavours in which to swim;
always wanting more and yet too much:
I think of India’s smiling crowds,
her warmth and ‘welcome home’, the noise.
Delicate nutmeg; ancient, wise and human.

Sensual sugars from the Americas,
sweetness swamping tongue and taste:
confident and bright, like Carnival in Rio,
or Miami Beach. Impatient
as the traffic in New York, raisins
from California everywhere,
like yellow taxi cabs.

Europe comes through later, an aftertaste
and reminder to forget so many things;
so many things – that tang of alcohol,
and practised mellowness: a hint
of leather armchairs and smoking guns,
conquistadors and sailing ships. Spanish
sherry – oak-aged and waiting just for this.

Our Christmas cake.

——————-

Every year around this time I bake a (very rich) traditional fruitcake for Christmas with my two children (we’ve done this since they were extremely small, and we all know our roles). This will sometimes last until March. Recipe as above (approximately).

Posted on Poets United.

It begins:
sunlight as fingertips pricking pine tops;
a shiver starting down the ridge,
massaging mountain spines
and spreading opened palms through pastures
which sigh, colour, and yield
(cow bells tingling)
to the dawn.

———

Posted on dVerse.

Midday’s tyrant sun has gone;
and returning now as artist
paints that peak, those roofs, this lake,
like ripples on a mirrored pond,
with light,
made precious in her fading.

———-

I’m enjoying the atmosphere here. This was prompted by the view from the house I’m staying in yesterday evening.

Posted on Poets United. 

Not stillness, but peace;
in the rising evening mist five cygnets
drifting with their mum,
floating with the sun’s failing light
into the cold darkness
of heavy, hanging trees
whispering silence.

———

Beside the Avon on Tuesday evening.

                                           At night
candle-flamed dreams tossed,
like pebbles by spring tides:
climbing the beach, they
glisten

                                           and fight –
realities drowned,
like the wind, by clashing
contradictions, dark
wave-lusts,

                                           which bite,
until forced to flee;
wide-eyed sun exposing
smooth white sands, ready
for dawn.

————————–

I’ve had a few long nights recently, and this brought to mind one of my favourite poems from more than 20 years ago, by Louis MacNeice: London Rain. It’s one of the few poems I know by memory (at least the first few verses):

The rain of London pimples
The ebony street with white
And the neon-lamps of London
Stain the canals of night
And the park becomes a jungle
In the alchemy of night.

My wishes turn to violent
Horses black as coal –
The randy mares of fancy,
The stallions of the soul –
Eager to take the fences
That fence about my soul.

[..]

My wishes now come homeward,
Their gallopings in vain,
Logic and lust are quiet
And again it starts to rain;
Falling asleep I listen
To the falling London rain.

I have skipped nine verses here, but hopefully you get the idea. I think the first verse in particular is fantastic.  This poem is the inspiration for my much less rhythmic attempt at the same topic.