Last year,
I read Birdsong;
a serious, sophisticated, sexy book.
This year,
I put out birdseed.
Which is a start.
© 2010 Matthew Rhodes
Shadows long on the table –
Winter sun warms your hand.
I think of winters past,
In the snow.
Snow bright against the trees –
Squirrel runs for the hedge.
My mind follows its tracks,
In the snow.
So still and clear, orange leaves –
Framed outside my window.
Like Japanese woodcuts,
In the snow.
Grass tips through ice, caught, and
Waiting for snowmelt; they
Mirror my heart – trapped, now,
In the snow.
© 2010 Matthew Rhodes
Raindrop on my windscreen,
Hesitating.
Gravity-drawn downwards.
Air pushes back.
Traces of pathfinders:
Others follow –
Junctions and choices, blurs
Against headlights.
Indicator and pause.
Slow curve and bump.
The car stops. Gravity
wins: do it now.
Autumn light on leaves.
Golden, like the ring on my finger,
And just as magical.
It was so windy last night,
with rain.
The ring slipped off again,
And again. Rain battered. It’s cold.
And miserable. Outside,
But inside feeling warmer
It’s not so bad.
Imagination bridges in and out;
Past and future;
Me and all of you.
And cannot be trusted:
Magic – like the ring on my finger.
Except it’s gone now.
© 2010 Matthew Rhodes
Today is a beautiful morning in Brussels:
Blue sky with jet contrails,
And quite quiet for a city.
Streets are damp, with odd leaves from unnoticed trees.
The sunlight reaches only the tops of the tallest glass and steel skyscrapers, and their flagpoles, Giving them an air of aspiration, hope and promise.
And making you look up.
Fatal errors have been made from such perceptions, Which are so false I think.
Give me the human tenements, with their silly facades and idiosyncratic doorways – graffiti and tramps – promising little, but almost always a pleasant surprise inside – any day instead.
And here, they are just
across the road, above Pizza Hut – another sadness, out of place maybe for those seeking authenticity, but also the reassurance of common humanity.
I went in there last night;
they seat customers according to nationalities in little ghettos of common culture tables.
I didn’t like this, and objected,
saying that I spoke French
(in French)
but then a glance at the faces
of the French
made me feel not welcome,
and I saw that it all makes sense,
And that world war three
will be started by a waitress.
And now another day begins.
To battle all!
© 2010 Matthew Rhodes
Places of waiting, spaces like beaches
But without the fun.
And people as water,
Ebbing and flowing,
Selfish and mindless.
With officials like crabs
Among the rockpools.
Experienced travellers feel this
And go with the flow.
Others, impatient, fight it and end up
isolated eddies;
lost and bewildered,
Giving an ultimately calm place an air
of sterile desperation.
And I’m being unfair on Eurostar –
generalising to all
terminals and airports.
This is a small one.
But it’s still the worst part of the journey.
© 2010 Matthew Rhodes
Soft, soft, my love;
warm, warm, your heart;
long, long, the road,
while we are apart.
Slow, slow, days flow,
hard, hard, each task;
far, far, your arms,
no more do I ask.
Soon, soon, I yearn,
closer still to be;
stay, stay, my love,
for all eternity.
© 2011 Matthew Rhodes
I wrote this poem when I felt I might be in love a while ago. It was her favourite. I just found it again and felt like publishing it. Eternity wasn’t quite achievable in the event, but I’m still glad we met.
I worried
that if I kissed you
the world might dissolve,
and my heart melt; all logic lost.
I felt a thousand flowing butterflies might rise,
set fire to common sense.
Some would float, others flit – pause;
might spread their wings,
absorb your light;
might soar in the sun –
enjoy new feelings of being
so alive
and yet so sensitive to you,
like the sun,
giving them light and life.
And when you’re gone,
or merely obscured by cloud,
they would vanish;
leaving only the holes they’d burned:
perceptions of beauty, joy, connected hearts;
feelings I might not have known.
And this might hurt too much.
I worried,
that if I kissed you,
all this might happen.
But oh,
I did.
Please kiss me again.
© 2011 Matthew Rhodes
poetry diary 