The poems in this section are ones I have written which reflect on life – its joys and sorrows, its lessons and its surprises. Some are very personal, perhaps ‘confessional’. Others, I hope, are a celebration. They certainly, I think, help tell “my stories” of life. Comments added might help explain the ‘inspiration’ behind the poem and perhaps my current reflections on the topic.
Bully
It is perhaps easier to bully yourself into feeling better
when the sun is shining and your soul feels light?
Easier than now
beneath an overcast sky struggling to scatter spits of sleet which chill my cheeks
slightly?
How to bully the spine to lift, downtrodden shoulder blades to stretch
lungs to suck in air to feed the blood stream,
mind to clear and lips to soften into something like a smile?
Walking helps – and playing
with my rumbustious dog who claims attention
rudely – another bully.
Then – as I kick the ball for him to chase
and follow him in his seemingly erratic meanders
I realise
there are more daisies than before – spring carpets growing at long last
the ground is drier, grass becoming thick and firm, less mud
more dandelions daring to gaze at the sun.
The year is turning as is my mood
bullied into hope again.
Winter this year has seemed very long, with water-logged garden (more of a pond) and muddy walks. The weather has been crazy with days when despite warm sun, bitter winds have been around and sleet showers. I wrote this when I finally realised Spring had arrived at last – with a promise of Summer to come – in more ways than one!
Strong Man Dying
Strength comes in many forms.
I see you now, watch you breathe
hear the regular rhythm as you
fulfil your final marathon.
Your strong body has taken over
from your battered life
continuing still
to maintain itself beyond all expectation
(as always).
I sit here, and watch, and listen
holding back hot tears
or at least – attempting to.
Do you see them wander down my face, I wonder –
with your spirit eyes?
Do you still hear my sighs, my words?
Can you read my thoughts?
I think about the strength of all our loves.
My love for you, dear brother
The strong love of all those now gone
precious ones
who loved you, too – and me.
I think about those who still remain
especially those who grieve
because of loving you
whose dreams of seeing you healed
now die.
“Peacefully in his sleep”
Looking at you now, dear brother,
peacefully sleeping,
the years, stresses, problems
and pains of life
sloughed away
as you sink ever deeper
into your last sleep,
I wonder at your new beauty
and thank whatever God there is,
whatever fates there are,
that you have been in my life
all of yours.
My brother Malcolm died on 15th September 2015 – almost 11 weeks after his beloved wife, Sandra.
Hibakusha
‘Hibakusha’ they call you
‘Survivors of Hiroshima’ and Nagasaki
seventy years ago. You live on, not least
in city names now famed by shame and tragedy
by cruel memories and tortured tales of horror
truly told – of what man can do to man
in an ‘ungodly’ path to an ignoble peace.
Film clips of black shadows imprinted on concrete wall,
I remember,
all that was left of the people walking there
seconds before the Atom Bomb exploded
into their lives, their deaths
a radiant extinction
then known, now grown.
6th August 1945
60 to 80 thousand people killed instantly
mushrooming to
140,000 – in the Summer months to follow.
Men, women, children, creatures – all –
nature itself extinguished
burnt and fouled.
Uncountable numbers and places damaged beyond repair
impossible not to see – not to hear
long-lived testimonies to horrendous pain
and ‘civilized’ suffering
decades on.
Yet still ‘we’ argue for the right to kill
beyond and within our home and borders, kill
those who do not think the same as us
or live as we would have them live, kill
those who deny or defy ‘our own known’ truths, kill
for an egotistical vanity that currupts
the only true source of love and faith.
Man’s humanity to man?
Pamela Gamesby
Written after reading an article in ‘The Weekly Guardian’ (07.08.15) ‘Seventy Years on, Japan’s atom bomb survivors tell the world: never again’. It brought to my mind a film I used to regularly show students when I was teaching – one taken just after the explosion – with an image I will remember forever – of shadows burnt on a wall – all that was left of the people who had been walking there.
Tomorrow-now-come
‘Tomorrow is another day’ Scarlet says
clutching at hope in the hurricane of change.
Change – life’s curse and blessing
raining loss
reaping new directions
trundling through years-become-decades.
Towards what end?
if end there is ……….
when tomorrow is ‘now come’.
Much of my writing is about change. This poem was written more in hope than expectation as I made my way towards one of those ‘significant’ birthdays – ones which remind us we are ‘mortal’. I felt a bit like Scarlet O’Hara in ‘Gone With The Wind’ – waiting for the calm “after” the storm.
All birds migrate
All birds migrate to some degree and so do we
a mile or two, maybe, to some more sheltered place,
or far away to a mountain height, perhaps,
or over a wave-kissed sea.
It is easier when the season of moult is over
new feathers grown – when
we are prepared for flight again.
All birds migrate to some degree and each learns to sing
its own song.
Come with me and maybe we can sing together,
be perfectly in tune with the coming of the Spring?
So much easier when the song is grafted in our hearts
when we do not have to think
to tune the melody.
All birds migrate to some degree when green seems greener,
insects in more supply, water softer
or when warm, swift thermals lift us up without warning
to where we do not know.
See how birds and sky meet and merge
moving patterns, tracing tracks in wide, wild sky
poetry born in lines, curves, colours and wind sighs.
All birds migrate to some degree and so do we
until we find a home
again.
Written in Autumn 2006 – revised Autumn 2014
Inspired by one of the best writing courses I attended which involved workshops at each season of the year at Woodlands Farm in Lincolnshire. It was led by the poet Clare Best. PS In 2015 I have noticed the birds practising ….. or maybe even starting to migrate.
After Rain
The sky brightens slowly
sun breaking over calm grey sea
Boats float gently, still,
on soft flow currents.
Heart still crying
news full of woe
But the sea does soothe
the sun does warm
and the far cliffs beckon.
Ten, twenty, thirty, less?
In ten, twenty, thirty years or less
I will not exist, whether ‘written on the cards’
or ‘fated in the stars’, it just will surely be
for human beings are blessed with certain, final, mortality.
The earth will incorporate my dust
or cover my bones securely, as it must,
that’s how it is, whether meant or not to be
in ten, twenty, thirty years or less for me,
age ensures it.
In ten, twenty, thirty years or less
what will remain of thoughts, dreams and words,
imaginings now encased within my brain,
what stories will my friends remember, what love?
I hope no hate survives, too late
to resolve it.
My blood flows on within my son, my impact even longer
in all my children left behind, theirs and theirs,
on and on and yonder, in them and all the lives
I touched before I was torn asunder
in ten, twenty, thirty years or less
where will I be – where will you
I wonder?
Cancer Diagnosis
Tonight
I am remembering
how scared I felt when I was diagnosed
with cancer
how alone.
Soft tears fall again for both me
and my sister
now experiencing the same
fears and worries
as I did then
those many years ago, which seem so
so close today.
Tonight, I pray for us both together
because I am not with you there
requesting that
ten years from now, we will smile again in union
as we try to remember
just when it was
we were so afraid.
I wrote this poem in March 2013 when my sister who lives in Ireland was diagnosed with cancer – a dreaded word for an all too common disease. There is no such thing as a “good” cancer but we counted ourselves as lucky when we found out that it looks as if it is has been cought in time – just like mine – 10 years ago. Sadly not the same for everyone …. I wish it could be so. God bless all those working to achieve this.
The Colour Of Love?
What is the colour of love?
pale green when new – or a golden lightness
clear, bright and shining
translucent as drops from a fountain
or splashing weir
and as happy.
Then comes vibrant red passion, covered
with bright, bright jewels
multi-coloured ribbons
rich blues, aquamarines
purples shot though
with sunflower yellow
dancing in the sun.
In maturity, the colour of seas and trees
in sunshine and in storm
the differing dun yellows of sand, light greys of warm stones on mountains
heather clad hills, the darkness of forest glades
deep yellows of wind waving wheat
through many harvests, good and bad.
When aged, the warmth of an open fire
flames occasionally caressing embers, oranges, blues and whites
stirring grey ashes on cold winter nights
watching tranquil ponds surfaces skimmed
lightly, rippling in gentle breezes
or clean white snow falling deeply.
Love that has learned to weather storms more calmly.
And what of love which is lost?
The colour of space beyond the stars and universes
the matt deep grey of featureless darkness, black holes
the only shafts of light – pain
the only promise – death.
A new poem, inspired by thinking about what poems I could find that relate to colour. After writing this poem I found Emily Dickinson’s Poem 291. Sunsets such as those she described inspire at any age I think.
Mortality
Each one’s death
Reminds us of our own
Of what inevitably will be
For us
One day or one night.
Sit by the bedside and feel
Her silence
No longer suffering
No longer in pain.
Caress her cooling hand
With love and remembrance
Know again
Only two things in life are certain
Death and change
For richer and poorer
In sickness and in health
For better or worse
Till death or change
Do us part.
I wrote this poem in memory of Joyce Towse, who died in June 2007, a beloved, long term friend and former lover of my father. For all sorts of reasons they never married, although they could have done but they certainly loved each other very much indeed.
Calm, my soul, calm
why so angry still
why so bitter
this is not so important
no more than a passing chill
which will go when the sun returns
Think of the beauty of today
not the poor body lying on the tracks
nor those who bring you pain
think of the moon behind the houses of parliament at dusk
the ripples on the Thames
the child jumping in a puddle
and remember
the world
your world
is full of beauty
and you can choose
to think on these beautiful things
and be glad
such thoughts can warm the chills in your heart
if you will let them
the choice is yours.
YOURS.
Going home on the tube one evening, still quite angry and upset about my own problems in spite of a nice walk by The Thames, the train was delayed because of “a person on the line”. This poem resulted from that experience.
Not yet the last dance
My Dad
poured his courage
into his legs
and danced with me
on my birthday.
Eyes bright with love
feet timed by memories
of others loved
at other times
different dances in different seasons
of his life.
Were the people remembered
on the floor
with us?
I don’t know.
All that mattered was
the rhythm of the dance
right-patterning the steps with skill and pride
the surprise of another ‘togetherness’
between father and daughter
(rare these days)
All that mattered now was
the love in our hearts
each for the other
and in our memories
of all our dead loves
and theirs for us.
My Dad was a good dancer all his life. Not being able to dance was one of his biggest frustrations when age and failing health gradually stopped him from dancing. Sometimes he could not resist the temptation to try, even when in pain, especially when he wanted to show his love. This poem was written after a long gap between our dances, when I had given up all hope of ever dancing with him again. My dad died a few months after this poem was written but I still dance with him, sometimes, in my dreams, in my longings, in my imagination and in this poem. Thank you, Dad.
Lesley
I saw Lesley in the shop the other day
down from countrified Essex
looking good
looking sassy
life oozing brightly.
“Can’t believe I’m sixty-eight soon,”
she said
eyes bright and smiling
ruby red hair cut sharply
colours picked up
by bright bouncy beads draping her neck,
shaking large patterned earrings as she laughed
stylish, like a yacht.
Neither could I.
She put my age-worn feelings to shame
minimised my ennui
and made me smile.
Was this the woman who
a decade or more ago told me
she could never love again, too hurt
never be loved again, too late
that all the best men, all the good men
were happily married
or otherwise, with other people,
not her.
Words I had started to believe myself
mistaking illness for old age
temporary set-back as death of hope
ready to ‘give up’ instead of recognising
just another blip.
I hope I now know better now
after this chance meeting.
Tomorrow really is another day
Who knows, maybe, like Lesley,
I’ll meet a Peter too
when perhaps I least expect it.
I think this poem tells its own story!
Five a.m. – again!
No, despair,
I will not let you defeat me
not tonight.
I will not listen to your moans
your denial of my self-value
I will no longer travel
your thorny path bare footed
suicidal and self-denegrating.
So – my husband does not love me
So – my father denies my worth
So – my children have their troubles
and I am powerless to help.
So?
I remain – my self – even with a headache
which pills will relieve eventually
with the aid of sleep and time
Hope remains with me
and love
and beauty
I will grasp them to me again
before the dawn
when this night’s dark is over.
I nearly didn’t include this. I wrote it a long time ago and it sounded rather self-pitying at first – but then I realised it was in fact a reflection of healing taking place – I think.
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