Echo and Narcissus

Reading Norman Mailer on Picasso yesterday, his musing on the true nature of narcissism reminded me of this poem I wrote a couple of years ago.

Beyond the mirrored surfaces: the trees
tie the earth together with the sky,
their feet in clay. Their tortured arms upreach,
their torsos stretched to breaking by the strain.

Around the fringes, daffodils pretend
to pour narcissi onwards without end,

while on the water, blasted branches rain,
and seek the rippled sky, and try to teach,
as flustered clouds go rolling ever by,
that half the world's an echo on the breeze.

Roy

Lovestruck Romeo

If WB Yeats
Wrote songs for Dire Straits
He probably wouldn't write this…

I called from beneath her window;
from the pavement before her door.
In her garden I felt the wind blow
autumnal and chilly, but more:

it carried her voice away, as
she called from her bedroom high.
It carried her pleas to stay as
though they were but a sigh...

And though I could see her speaking
and her anguish was plain to see,
the sound of the ash tree's creaking
hid all other sounds from me.

So all of her words she sent me
and all of my heartfelt cries
were dust. 'Twas as though she meant me
to leave -as a dry leaf flies.

Roy

I haven't written much poetry lately, but I'm announcing something of a:

Regime Change

For many months no sonnet dared complain,
nor even raise its head. A new regime
had come to power, threatening to reign
a thousand days of reason. So extreme,
some sonnets ended things to end the pain,
'ashamed of their unreason', it was said.
Looking back, it's tricky to explain:
how horrible they felt less awful dead!

The thousand day regime was quick to wane.
'Thank God the world has changed', our uncle said,
'a sonnet can live freely once again,
without the world comes down around his head.'

It could have lasted longer: in the main
regimes that listen, last. But you explain.

Roy

Hearing the glorious sounds of blackbirds this morning reminded me of a poem I wrote almost a year ago on a similarly lovely morning:

The Blackbird Doesn't Know His Song

The blackbird doesn't know his song
is filled with music, just that he
is bursting with it, may explode -
unless he vents his urgency.

The brown bird though, may know her mate
is singing for a chance to breed;
to generate, not celebrate:
a symphony that sings of need.

Soon, cocooned, their young lie still,
but yet they hear their lullaby,
and learn of all the songs they'll spill
upon us - idle passers-by.

Roy

Poetry on the Fly - I wrote this directly onto this blog immediately after reading a review of Tony Harrison's latest collections, Collected Poems and Collected Film Poetry in today's Times Books supplement.

A rhyming poem seemed so caught
to poets with their freer hearts
who needed space to lay their thoughts
away from rhyming's stops and starts.

But rhyme can help a poet find,
as Tony Harrison remarked,
the undercurrent of the mind,
the path on which we'd once embarked.

The fact remains that rhyming's place
is safe, while thought takes effort still:
We're likelier to win the race
when running faster down the hill.

Roy

This is another oldie. You may recognise the references in the first couple of verses - thereafter it goes its own way. I'm still not satisfied with this one after many attempted re-writes, but reflecting on it now, maybe it's not so bad... Still, comments, suggestions and questions are welcome.

Storms and Wrecks:

If all our fires were fuelled by wrecks,
each shattered vessel would provide
a blaze, and all the splintered decks
would warm our shivered selves inside.

But this is not the way of things:
The wrecks bring wetted wood ashore,
and shattered hopes and drowning dreams,
so I shall welcome storms no more.

You slipped this port some time ago
and sailed a hopeful course to sea,
but though I see you founder - no,
I shall not call you home to me...

as sirens drew men to the reef,
unfeeling as they lost their all.
No, I'll not prosper from your grief,
but whisper, and I'll hear your call.

So, weep your storm or cry to me -
this port's not inundated yet.
Though you are never weak to me,
remember - I will not forget:

When storms would shatter you and all
your timbers on the angry sea,
you still shall hear this welcome call:
Your shelter I would always be.

Roy

I won't even pretend this is good poetry, but the message is valid:

Leap

A man with perfect pitch who will not sing and doesn't play;
a woman of great beauty who will hide herself away;
another woman blessed with brains who sets her sights too low -
so many unfulfilling lives, but how are we to know?

Unless we spread our wings and try to leap from where we are
we'll never know if we can fly, or if we can, how far.
Unless we test the limits of our courage and our art
we all live little lowly lives, and lose before we start.

Roy