There is no way to change the past.
Anger and frustration cast
Long shadows over dark’ning thoughts.
The sun will run its course.
There is no answer. It is too late
To hesitate or close the gate.
A world awash with colour waits:
No one pauses at the gates.
And beyond –
The glorious mystery –
Of a future lived.
Innocence and imagination –
Children singing at Christmas.
Hope and potential –
simple –
rhythms,
openness,
and love.
And so much happiness.
So much happiness,
So much,
So…
Why do I always cry?
Earnest morning on the first train to Marylebone;
Keyboard tapping men at arms, protected by their grey screens.
Snow outside, still,
And the flat greyness of a foggy day.
It will be beautiful later, we know,
But for now engagement is discouraged.
Laptops make introversion aggressive;
Intruding on my space.
And time too:
The long urge to check for empty mail.
Twin barns in a passing field
Remind me of other lives –
Not simpler, but with different rhythms,
And yearnings for peace.
Clouds still low,
Past Bicester and still another hour to go.
Medieval furrows pointing north;
Ancient endeavours – arms of different men –
Slowly sink, now, into the landscape,
Extruding gentle sheep.
The train hums on.
And on again to London, Monday morning.
© 2010 Matthew Rhodes
A room of people
talking; time passing.
Flowers and champagne.
Waiters push nibbles.
Once you were children;
Now you are married.
Parents are crying:
Their past and future.
Making this smaller
(we’re modern people) –
Apache blessing –
just cannot happen.
‘Send not for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee.’
Is there poetry in numbers?
Accounts have rhythms just like you.
But precision is a fool – it
speaks of worlds in black and white.
And numbers are precise. They make
paths straight for lazy souls.
Passion, magic, and the rest
score nil, or worse…just make a mess.
And love?
Love has eluded millennia
of poets,
So accounts stand little chance.
We choose between sadnesses,
Sliding softly between the sheets;
Alone again and forever,
With you beside me as always.
I write an elegy for patience.
Yours, and mine. Waiting
For different trains
On the same track, at the same time,
And the same station.
So much in common;
But without hope.
© 2010 Matthew Rhodes
Crisp crunch of iced snow,
Tingling toes touched through shoes
Which are no defence
Against this frozen earth and air.
Quiet, but hard, not gentle –
The ground meets knees and hips
Instantly if you slip.
And the grip of frozen footprints on the pavement looks strong.
So cold, in the wind.
So cold, outside.
So cold, the air.
Mulled wine and a fireside –
Imagined warmth;
Lasts the whole walk to work.
Like a tree waiting for Spring,
I long for you.
Like the world greeting the dawn;
Like a cloud gathering rain,
I long for you.
Like a ship willing the tide;
Like a kite reaching for wind;
Like a song calling for words,
I long for you.
Like a heart waiting to break;
Like a cat waiting to pounce;
Like her prey sensing its fate,
I long for you.
Like a canvas without paint;
Like a flame seeking tinder,
I long for you.
Like a needle without thread,
I long for you.
Just you.
Now.
© 2010 Matthew Rhodes
Monday starts,
slow,
but,
accelerates quickly to an endless stream of meetings without pause and
just when you feel there might be time to look at your list of things to do and think the
phone rings and is interrupted by an urgent face at the door wanting a
decision or information or reassurance or just a bit of attention because something
has happened outside…
that may even be important.
But by now I don’t know where I am at all,
beyond time and place where happenings have no meaning.
And urgency is lost.
It’s eleven pm and time for bed.
Tuesday will be slower.
© 2010 Matthew Rhodes
I like the winter sky
and air –
clear, blue and cold.
Uncomplicated
(which is not a simple word).
Greens and browns of still trees
against eggshell sky
and white snow;
quiet, too, in the early morning.
The skipping bird,
is just enough movement
for the scene.
Buildings are smaller and
less threatening
too.
On days like this,
the frozen landscape can be contained
within your mind –
like a child agreeing to hold still
for a photograph –
and all is caught and understood.
Until the thaw.
© 2010 Matthew Rhodes
poetry diary 