Thursday, 10 August 2017

Robin and Leaf

Seen at 8.30 am on Monday 5 May 2014.

A day of rocking wind
   Beneath a May-blue sky;
A loud-voiced robin dinned
   The copse, haughtily high
On a maple’s green crown,
Its song, droplets thrown down.

Flung like a cork on seas
   The robin frankly shrilled,
The tree without surcease
   Quivered and the leaves thrilled
In shivers, flashing pale
Like flags thrashed in a gale.

At once, a leaf, wind-thrown,
   Enfurled that flame-chest rowd;
Unfussed it hurled its moan
   Like a corpse in a shroud
Stubborn to have its shout
Against the grave’s long drought.

Ah redbreast, shrilly brave,
   Would that your hothead song,
Warming the air’s cold nave
   Summer and autumn long,
Might soften winter snow
That the aconite glow.

© May 2014

A Tree Stump

Four little poems which simply record what I saw.



A lime tree felled, its three-foot stump
For days continued drawing sap
From blind-eyed roots which like a pump
Spread liquor on the stump’s blond lap.

Fermenting in the sun’s May heat
It bulked with sawdust like a gruel,
For sipping ants and spiders, meat,
Though flashing like a prism’d jewel.

Such doggedness and will to live!
May I, now dropping hair and teeth,
When lopped by time no less contrive
To dazzle with my final breath!

May 2014

ii. A Tree Stump (Afterthought)

Now weeks have passed that stump has set
Into a shelf of leather brown
Hardened by summer’s grin or frown
And the day’s whim, now parched, now wet.

The grain is glossy, crosscut by
A pattern from the chainsaw’s blades;
All’s polished into hard-gleam shades
As by the weather’s husbandry.

Tanned and toughened like a dried corse,
Aglint in noonday’s heavy sun,
Senseless it sleeps as the weeks run
Dumb to memory or remorse.

June 2014

iii. A Tree Stump (Again)

Two months later, passing that way
In the chill morn of a damp day,
Bemused I saw the stump had sprung
A whorl of leaves, all freshly slung:

Dew-dropped and dimpled as a hand,
Through the grey-walled bark, rough like sand,
Sea-water green they squeezed to life,
Toothsome as vegetables for the knife.

Truly, from the first Big Bang leap
A force in nature does not sleep;
So these frail leaves in the bark’s grist
Struggle to life and will not desist.

August 2014

iv. A Tree Stump (Final)

But in one month the tale was done,
The stump was grubbed; a shallow hole
Of dowdy chippings, shrunk in sun,
Is all that’s left, where cats now roll.

September 2014

© May-September 2014


Tuesday, 18 July 2017

The Paper Seller

This poem is self-evident and based on observation. It is interesting to compare it to a much earlier poem, "Going for the Paper," written during my Marxist phase in the 1970s and posted here on 23 November 2013. Here is a link. The earlier poem is grittier but more syllabic than iambic. It was published in "Tribune," the socialist weekly, as I recall.


   For years he kept a paper stall
   From dawn to noon, in heat and cold;
   The out-town station, rush hour-thronged,
   Knew him as stork-like, thin and tall.
   A decade gone, now bent and old,
He wanders lanes whey-faced, intense, untongued.

   In dirty T-shirt, flapping coat – 
   Bright sun, wet snow, it makes no odds -
   He rifles bins and, poignantly, 
   Retrieves old papers, then to tote
   Them homewards in thick soggy wads
Where window-piled they moulder yellowly.

   Unkempt of hair, with sockless shoes,
   Rifling gutters for mis-dropped cash,
   His neighbours keep a chill restraint;
   His house is dark, like a puce bruise,
   With shattered brick and crumbling sash
And wet rot bubbling under flaking paint.

   But once he bantered, doling change,
   Knowing a hundred folk by sight,
   His papers crisp in winter’s air;
   The station lights must now seem strange
   As, shunned, he shuffles day and night
Clutching pennies to pay his final fare.

© May 2014

Tuesday, 4 July 2017

Villanelle: Rejection

This started out as a poem about a failed love, many years ago now, but transmuted into one about the devil - who exists and suffers (regardless of what the foolish recently-appointed Superior General of the Jesuits might say). However, perhaps there is something of the rejected human lover still lurking under the surface.


Rejection is a grief the devil knows,
Undone by slighting of his self-sure love,
Heart-hate devours like canker in the rose.

Thrown from high ramparts where he’d thunder prose,
Baffled by mildness of the lyric dove,
Rejection is a grief the devil knows.

Freezing in hell-ice, each untruthful pose
Grinds jealous teeth at what’s been left above,
Heart-hate devours like canker in the rose.

Regret is helpless; that he rashly chose
Allows no backstep, like a gaoler’s shove,
Rejection is a grief the devil knows.

Ah, smile of gladness in a face which glows!
Instead, crabbed torment in a too-tight glove,
Heart-hate devours like canker in the rose.

No more to bluster in his fairground shows,
Self-sure but undone by his slighting love,
Rejection is a grief the devil knows,
Heart-hate devours like canker in the rose.

© April 2014

Thursday, 8 June 2017

April Heavy Days

These April heavy days of thunderous warmth
Drape palls of fustian in the young-leafed trees;
Robins and blackbirds, vocal in their stealth,
Stalk verge and hedgerow in the heat-full breeze.

Like iodine swabs the thunderheads cohere,
The crows go silent in their startled strut,
Hushed heat throws blankets on the rattling weir
And big-eyed raindrops pox a mud-hard rut.

With a crack, like the blood welt from a whip,
Black-quarelled rain gallons the frothing earth,
The thick-fogged clouds, opaque as mine dust, rip
Thunder through the fir trees where jays take berth:

The down-swamp done, a lop-tongued iris lurches
Tall, and day’s heat steams in the world-fresh birches.

© April 2014


Wednesday, 7 June 2017


The earliest of these fourteen epigrams was written in March 2014 and the latest in May 2015. Regarding the second of the epigrams on Pope Francis (not my favourite person), Mr Justin Welby, who calls himself archbishop, on visiting the Pope in June 2014, and with the whole wealth of Christian art and symbol to choose from, presented him with a potted plant. And as regards the third, the Pope invited the Israeli and Palestinian presidents to the Vatican gardens in June 2014 to plant olive trees for peace; by July Israel and Hamas were at war.


   How odd
That we who daily defecate,
With airs and graces imprecate
   Our God.


   That such as I,
Coiled through with crabbish spite,
A latheman’s lacklust son,
Should prism the pure light
Of words, glossing each one,
   Splitting the sky!

World-eyed Agamemnon slept
Tomb-enwrapped in dust-deep years;
Hellene logos, Christian light
Chest-protuding warfare kept;
Muslim trumpets’ brawling jeers
Struck Byzantium’s ramparts down,
Danube’s wheatlands in their sight;
Waking, Homer’s gods made frown,
Mourning shrines and polis sacked:
Agamemnon’s death mask cracked.

   Moses, Buddha, Christ, Confucius,
Proclaim their teachings, firm as fact,
   Revelation’s not in doubting,
Salvation is to know and act.

   Sui generis their claims
Though not the myths of busy fools,
   Natural law, “thou shalt” and “not”,
Fruitfully nestles in their rules.

   Hence, unproven though some say,
Religion should be lived “as if”
   Things divine were true and not
“Because”, cannily liege and lief.


His going out is from the end of heaven, and his circuit even to the end thereof.” Psalm 18.

The universe is infinite
   Say some,
Expanding from a big bang point
   Say more,
So where’s the centre? Where are you?
   That’s where.

Where consciousness is self-aware
   Say some,
The universe itself is conscious
   Say more,
And self-awareness is the centre
   That’s where.


Though all exceptionalisms I believed,
Such as the American, were for the dogs,
In fact I grandly believed in personal
Exceptionalism but illness cured me.


Why strive to crowd your cave
With young, a girl, a son?
The grave takes all we have;
The young die, Death goes on.


Monday, 8 May 2017

A Mosquito Bite

Note: The first stanza and the final line of the last stanza are adapted from Longfellow’s translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy.


Three quarters through the journey of my life
I found myself within a forest dark,
The straight path lost like an abandoned knife.

Dislodging creepers, prodding crumbled bark,
I pondered fecund August’s many hordes
Of stiff-legged insects blatant at their work:

Some like the beetle, cuirassed and with swords,
Some like the spider with its hard-jawed bite,
Others like larvae dangling on their cords,

Mucously-deporting in the pool-bright
Sumps of sun. Querying the dusty gloom
I failed to notice a mosquito’s flight:

It settled slyly like a flake of loam
On my hand’s back and, slung between its legs,
Innocuously squatted down to groom.

Distracted by the pigeons’ cooing brags,
Moments later a needle-crafty sting
Alerted me the gnat was drilling dregs

From my itchy skin. I slapped – it tried to cling – 
I swept it off and wandered on. Next day
That bite had swollen to a hot red grin;

By day’s end it had wrapped a purple-grey
Wadding of throbbing flesh from nail to wrist,
Immobilising fingers as they lay

Enfeebled in my lap. Three days that fist, 
A heat-stuffed bladder gone obesely fat,
Was useless till the venom flushed and I could twist 

My joints once more. I thought: no insect that 
So suffered would survive: ichneumon wasps
Which paralyse their fated prey so that

Their larvae, hatched, may eat the living hosts
Are emblematic of the natural world,
Its blank-eyed deafness to the screams and gasps

Of plundered creatures. When compassion’s furled 
Like dandelions on a glooming day
And lions do not nestle down with curled

Wet lambs, where is the love which wipes away
All tears and fashions ploughshares out of swords?
That ground of being which insists this clay

Maintain existence like unnumbered gourds
Toppling helplessly on a barren slope,
Described but not explained by blindfold words –

Is it brute necessity devoid of hope, 
A surd, an aimless dream within a dream,
Or is it meaning’s meaning, truth not trope?

Monday, 24 April 2017

The Triumph of Islam

“That England that was wont to conquer others
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.”
                                        (Richard II, 2:1, 65-6)

Sorrowful tramp of boots on sanded streets:
In winter’s grey, sad companies of men
Manhandle Churchill’s coffin with dull beats
Of drum and growling brass. Grown men and children
Sag heads and make their peace, and St Pauls greets
The last of England, mourned in fen and glen:
The state he served, those thin wan faces tell,
Has hollowed like the booming, death-march bell.

Mere thirty years from Pericles’ repose
Refulgent Athens died in Sparta’s fist.
In Ludgate Hill foxish lawyers at their windows
Watched Churchill pass and since have ticked their list
Of state-upturning statutes which in prose
Have sundered epic: mealy “one-world” grist
Which Albion’s beaches ramped with unjust laws
Bringing the millioned umma to these shores.

That stocky soldiery, those weeping folk,
That stark January day, in thirty years
Fast shrivelled to an untamed tribe bespoke
On sink estates of pierced lips and ears,
Their pride as great-strength oxen at the yoke
Neutered by those lawyers’ brats whose fears   
Of nation-love have brewed with other spawn
A curdled rainbow in a sullen dawn.

On Sundays Finsbury Park is loud with trade,
Hijab and djellaba command the scene,
A church where once the liturgy was prayed
Disgorges carpets of a Turkish sheen,
The mosques are brimming, that which kept the shade
Tide-like swamps suburbs with the muezzin’s keen;
Soon, time-old villages, deep-valleyed towns,
Will startle as that cold wave slaps and drowns.

The crop-rich fields and gorse-bedazzled moors
Enfold two thousand years of Christ-men’s cells,
Those chapels, caves, where what’s eternal pours
Through being, fruitful as baptismal shells:
All lost; a rotted people slamming doors
Against its past must pander to the yells
Of ghazis who in church and manor halls
Gouge mihrabs in those age-encrusted walls.

April 2014


Umma – the worldwide Muslim ‘community’.
Baptismal shells – there is a long history in the Church of the use of shells as scoops during baptism.
Ghazi – a Muslim warrior particularly one who fights against non-Muslims.
Mihrab – a prayer niche indicating the direction of Mecca.

© April 2014


Tuesday, 21 March 2017

Thomas Hobbes Anniversary on 5 April 2017

Thomas Hobbes, that mighty and rugged political philosopher, was born on 5 April 1588 and was 91 when he died - an astonishing age for his era. Surprisingly, given the toughness of his thought, he had an aversion to the idea of death; his reported last words just before he died were, "A great leap in the dark." In June 1980 I wrote a poem in memory of him and posted it on this blogsite on 9 August 2012. Here are the first three stanzas of this six stanza poem together with a link to the rest.



Hobbes thought of death with something like disgust
And argued fiercely with that strict “you must”;
   The long debate from day to day
   Wound slowly on its pointless way
Though now the consequences are but dust.

I think of him struck speechless late at night
As every nerve and limb rebelled in fright;
   His brooding on the charnel worm,
   As active as a common germ,
Was like a tooth which hurt him at each bite.

But worse was fury at the blank unbeing
Which stalked his spirit on the point of fleeing:
   How could the creature muse upon
   The moment when it was undone,
When all the world would turn without his seeing?

(Read the rest of the poem here)

Friday, 17 February 2017

W. H. Auden Anniversary on 21 February 2017

W. H. Auden, one of my early poetic heroes, was born on 21 February 1907. I wrote a homage to him in February 1981; the poem was published in ‘Agenda’ magazine as I recall. I posted the poem on this blogsite on 22 February 2012. Here are the first four stanzas of this eleven stanza poem together with a link to the rest. (Regarding the reference to Poland in the sixth stanza: the late 1970s/early 80s were, of course, the years of the Russian invasion of Afghanistan and the latest confrontation between the Poles and their Russian overlords.)


(W. H. Auden: born 21 February 1907; died 29 September 1973)

Today a late descent of snow
Has taught a grievous lesson to
The gaudy paper crocuses.
A thrush with nowhere safe to go
Beats vainly at an empty shell
Whilst clouds which have a purple hue
Prepare their freezing viper’s kiss.
Dear Master of the singing line
Your birth-month in a fierce pell-mell
Knows nothing of the Muses Nine.

I who am the essence of
The down-at-heel South London type,
Who never walked the chilly Dales
Nor thought of rusting cams with love,
But rather from a T.V. screen
Imbibed a sort of mongrel hype
(There were, though, holidays in Wales)
Give greetings to your memory –
A sort of learned, boozy Dean –
And offer you humility.

Your poems and your measured prose
To one whose schooling was perverse
Were like a sortie to a vault
Where books were stored in endless rows
And where the stacks of classic lines
Like golden guineas in a purse
Brought me to a sudden halt.
Horace, Dryden, Goethe, Swift,
In every chamber of those mines
Were treasures like a proffered gift.

Horace and his worldly art,
Dryden on the polity,
Goethe saving Faust from hell,
Swift about to break his heart,
All sought to be absurdly true
To visions of maturity;
And you with your preceptor’s bell,
Investigating moral norms,
Passed on the gift received by you –
A marvellous deftness with the forms.

(The rest of the poem can be read here )


Wednesday, 8 February 2017

Chill Days

This poem uses half-rhymes in the second and fourth lines of each stanza.


Equator-crossed the sun grows fat,
Pricking shoots to white-legs growth,
Though midden-mist and boot-wet frost
Rattle the cowman’s morning cough –
   These chill days.

Christmas days thieved autumn’s warmth,
Though ’piphany days were ice-chunk hard;
Now March and April’s cuckoo hours
With fox-grey cloud and hail make laud –
   These chill days.

The loose-lipped gaffer, dry of sap,
Unsteady stands on shrunken legs;
Not so the chestnut, fat for leaf
With treacled buds like big-thumbed figs –
   These chill days.

Wind-busied sleet begins to fall,
Bobbling among bare-fingered trees;
Buttermilk sunshine grins and sets
The yellow aconite ablaze –
   These chill days.

© March 2014

Friday, 20 January 2017

"Come." (Revised)

On 24 November 2015 I posted my long blank verse poem, "Come," which discussed how cultures can be destroyed by internal rot and mass immigration. Like several of the poems I wrote around that time I came to feel the verse was too rugged for its own good. I therefore revised the poem in September/October 2016 but have only got round to posting the revision now. I still can't say I'm completely happy with the poem but it is probably better than it was. The revised version has been posted in situ and can be read here

Thursday, 12 January 2017

On Death

For the reference to Ezechias see Isaias 38 and 4 Kings 20 (Douay-Rheims).


Death, you are everywhere; you have claimed me.
Your long-toothed mortician is always strolling
The busy streets, thrusting a hand of friendship
To such-a-one and such-a-one who by
The time they hobble to their lodging know
Too well the crusty leprous wart upon
Their wrist portends the whispered midnight meeting,
When the veiled clinician with his piercing eyes
Will cast a pall across their withered faces
And barely-pleading lips, and with a lurch
Unmanning all the stubborn struts of place
They’ll hurtle horrified into a soot-black
Otherness where neither span nor compass
Provides a measure to define their state.
Their bodies heaped upon a flustered bed
Or slumped like thrown-off clothes upon the floor,
They’ve gone into a glade where none who tread
The path’s unctuous mud can follow – yet.

Oh why then, why, should Ezechias beg
The Lord that, sick to death, He drag him back
From midnight’s poising to depart? The tock
Of fifteen years was granted, sweated with
Anguish that summer’s drowsy, fly-pocked stream
At depth was flushing by in dailiness,
Until once more, his face pressed to the wall,
A hand would seize his elbow and require
He turn his eyes to parley with the doom
Prevarication had trumped up in terror.
How blessed are those whom death took cleanly young!

Therefore young friend, spared now, one day you’ll know
On waking that unwelcomely besieged
By these pains and those pains you’re fit to die,
That ill-health’s ashy skin, ebb energy
And slacken-mouth despair are preludes to
The pitiless denouement of extinction.
Be it dog, absconded ram or palsied man
Fallen in briars, those carcases will rot
To stenching muddy molecules; and if
There’s any glorious rassemblement,
It’s only after Physics’ glossy strings
Cut by the weaver have snapped back to allow
Your plummet like a splay-limbed infant slipped
From the goodwife’s hands. Oh friend, sundered in
Extremis, pinioned against death’s gate,
Sorrow’s quittance beckons; go through, why wait?

© March 2014

February Rain Storm

Painful as a knotted flail
   Beating on skin,
The punch-whistling wind
   Numbs your chin.

The spume-spinning rain,
   Glittering like glass,
Hiss-dances on roofs,
   Noxious as gas.

The bare-masted sycamore
   Wallows ungainly,
Flinging off finches
   Like souls in the sea.

The dirt-dark clouds
   Like heavy sponges
Daub across fields;
   Lightning lunges.

© February 2014