Virgin Snow

Hiya, its been a while since my last post, sorry, I think I just got a bit lost in the general Chaos of being a human being. Anyway, as Christmas is nearly upon us I thought I'd better buck my ideas up and send a festive missive. Perhaps you'll get that one nearer the time, but for now, here's this...

I suppose that Christmas can be about new beginnings; of seeing signs of hope in a seemingly hopeless world. With this in mind here's a poem called Virgin snow...

She drifts
down a slushy, whooshy,
sloppy street,
churned by feet and Prams

She was pure,
as was a patch of snow
clinging to the curb
splashed by passing
carrier carrying people cars

She flinched
but, she is as she was
untainted
but tainted
as she drifts
and drifted...

...head down,
scarf wrapped,
tight, as her skirt now,
which had flowed
like the snow
as it drifted in the wind.

A smile,
as she glanced down
at her passing figure
and the figure inside.

Untainted,
as she was,
untinted,
but tainted
by the slush
outside.

Lovely Jubbly

I knew a man
who once tried to sell
underpants
printed with verses from the Koran.

Hard to sell,
so he stuck to the hard sell,
cheap as chips,
only more sacred.

Sacred as the market,
"Tis good, you buy?"
A long way from Camden
Middle Eastern Cockneys
brush away the flies.
"Tis good for your wife"
"Keep her away, the trouble and strife!"

I meet a man
who tries to sell
gilt framed verses
from the Koran.

Hard to sell,
so he stuck to the hard sell,
cheap as couscous
and just as sacred.

This poem was influenced by a recent trip to Tunisia; the Market Traders used a bit of Cockney slang to entrap the tourists! But behind the facade it was easy to catch a glimpse of the grinding poverty which entrapped many of them, as well as the faith which held them together.

The man unwittingly selling the sacred underpants was my Father in Law, doing his bit to improve faith relations in Leicester...

Freedom Food

Freedom food
from happy Hens,
marked with the stamp
of quality.
Free range,
given room to peck
and cluck.

From golden grains
to golden yolks,
and packed
recycled
and green.

But green,
no longer,
although recycled,
she breaks the shell,
with slow moving fingers
and coughs up phlegm
as yellow
as the splash
of freedom
once tasted.

Never Mind

"I'm all mind"

she said, searching within me

"All mind, that's all there is"

She reminded me of Princess Diana,

for all she crashed,

but nobody ever sent her flowers.

And nobody ever sent her flowers,

but what use are flowers?

When the senses become arbitrary

and the body

can only find comfort in yesterday's sheets.

And we want to touch,

but we remain in separate rooms

wrapped up in yesterday's sheets.

All mind,

oh...

...never mind.

As you read this I am currently taking time off work due to depression. It's been a long, hard struggle, but I'm finally beginning to see some light at the end of the tunnel. I wrote this poem "never mind" some years ago, but it seems even more relevant today than it did then.

I remember sitting with a young woman in hospital, she was obviously very bright and talented, but on that day she just gazed past me, seemingly unaware of my presence or of the world around her. It was as if we were in separate rooms, not by choice, but we were just not able to pass through the doorway to meet with one another; she was experiencing the sort of depression which blanks out everything but the inner consciousness, and although I could not read her mind I had some idea of the isolation which she was experiencing.

Depression is sometimes mistaken for "being a bit stressed" or "feeling a bit down" , and sometimes those who suffer from this very serious illness are not taken seriously, or else people just don't understand, so they tell you to "cheer up" or to "pull yourself together" ; none of this helps.

We sat together for a long time, each of us silent; engrossed in our own thoughts. Then slowly, gradually, she seemed to pass through the door, and find a seat next to mine. We became aware of a third presence; one who shares our isolation and pain, one who dies, as we die, time and time again. We sat together in our lonely room, and found communion.

Field Trip (poem)

Deepest maroon,
the red bus waits,
a trip for the classroom,
exploding outside the school gates.

"Are we nearly there yet?"

Shined up for a day trip,
a trip in a day.
Climbing steps,
we trip over our feet,
tripping and sliding and running...

"Bagsy the back seat!"

"You're not sitting with me!"

"Sir, Sir, Toby's been sick sir!"

We've not even set off yet.

Deepest maroon,
the red bus departs,
from school gates,
to fields of deepest green.

Deepest green,
the bus departs,
heavily armoured
for a day trip
a trip in a day.
Climbing steps in the line of duty.
we trip over feet,
tripping and sliding and running...

"Take her up the back seat!"

"She's not sitting with me!"

"Sir! Sir! Toby's been sick Sir!"

The troop has not even set off yet.

But with deepest maroon
she fills the room,
and the company,
trip...