Westminster People

Look, over there, it’s the Village people
bursting through doors of burning perceptions,
lost in the trappings of process and protest,
spinning in self-serving circles of wishes,
prowling, confusing and failing to listen
with convictions they want to believe in.

With convictions they want to believe in,
look, over there, it’s the Village people,
prowling, confusing and failing to listen,
bursting through doors of burning perceptions,
spinning in self-serving circles of wishes
lost in the trappings of process and protest.

Lost in the trappings of process and protest,
with convictions they want to believe in,
spinning in self-serving circles of wishes,
look, over there, it’s the Village people,
bursting through doors of burning perceptions,
prowling, confusing and failing to listen.

Prowling, confusing and failing to listen,
lost in the trappings of process and protest,
bursting through doors of burning perceptions,
with convictions they want to believe in,
look, over there, it’s the Village people,
spinning in self-serving circles of wishes.

Spinning in self-serving circles of wishes,
prowling, confusing and failing to listen,
look, over there, it’s the Village people,
lost in the trappings of process and protest,
with convictions they want to believe in,
bursting through doors of burning perceptions.

Bursting through doors of burning perceptions,
spinning in self-serving circles of wishes,
with convictions they want to believe in,
prowling, confusing and failing to listen,
lost in the trappings of process and protest,
Look, over there, it’s the Village people.

Listen to people in burning confusion,            
bursting, believing, protesting and trapped. 
Look at their wishes, their circles of want.

March 2019

Lichen

Beneath the lifting London mist,
I feel the weight of wintry heat
across my coated shoulders.

In the trees, on the walls and rooftiles,
sun-fed morning lichen
attends the change of season.

The End of Winter

All of a sudden, the bitterness is gone.

The air is still bare, the grasses grey,
the leaves sheathed,
and the blossoms’ eyelids closed

but there’s warmth in the pale afternoon
and for the first time since September
the light is surprising.

with apols to @hwallop @callummay @patrick_kidd

Alex de Piro O’Connell,
has siblings with names like Othello,
Ambrym and Minnie,
Labna and Bimbi,
and my fava-ful favourite, Falafel.

Silence falls on the sunlit square of turf
outside Dartford’s library. A soldier
with a rifle, all plinth and age-stained bronze,
looks on. Poppy people stand with closed-eye stares.
November colours shuffle in the trees.

The silence is the thing: the unfilled gap
between. I think of dugout silence,
the fire step, the Woodbines whiled away;
the rat-lice trench-foot days that screwed the minds
with silent screaming shells of wasted fear.

I think of letters written to and from;
the scareful hope of waiting for the post;
the silence in the reading of the words.

I think of silence in the unlived years;
the stories that cannot be forgotten
because they did not happen. I feel cold.

I walk back up the hill to where young George
is playing Sunday morning football. There is
no silence here. Teams of boyish men
criss-cross open fields, fighting foot-to-foot,
attacking and defending, launching volleys,
and firing shots on goal. Then, as a cloud
bursts, an arch of rain-refracted light
crowns the shouts of peace and freedom.

The lunatic, the lover, and the poet
are of imagination all compact.
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold—
that is the madman. The lover, all as frantic,
sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt.
The poet’s eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven.
And as imagination bodies forth
the forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
a local habitation and a name.
Such tricks hath strong imagination,
that if it would but apprehend some joy,
it comprehends some bringer of that joy.

William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Act Five Scene One. 

Peak Green

I see Young George in the kitchen window.
He’s playing keepie-uppie on the grass:
kicking and flicking and watching in stoccatoes
of concentration. He’s changed since last
time I saw him. Before, he was scoring
self-commentated goals and finessing
his celebration routine. Now, he’s grown
across the shoulders, in calf, chest and crown.

In June, the youthful year, warmed by soft rain
and dowsed in sunlight, comes of summer age.
The earth has nursed pale primroses, impish
bluebells and bright bloodwort; now come
dog rose pinks and bold shades of fern and sage:
confident adult greens that banish
winter browns and show no fear of autumn.

for Sarah C and John K, with many happy returns of the day

Lifejoy

Surprisingly, I hear wind in the eaves,
smell freshly cut grass, and feel morning rain
dropping on the paving slabs. Quietly,
I take small pleasures: sparkling puddle nights;
friendliness; remembered anniversaries;
and white flowers sprayed on late May hedges.

Normally, I’m full of anxieties –
or if not full, full enough. Routinely,
now, the London days are easy and free,
non-threatening, reassuring and calm;
and the trains, the petrol, the rope and heights
are covered by a rising tide of balm.
The waters will, of course, fall back again.
For now? I’ll savour lifejoy’s summonses.

Dungeness, May 2018