The Diseased Imaginings of a Tainted Mind
The Wild Sea – For Dad.
Gone beyond the wild sea,
Where foam washes the shore,
Storm-grey waters reflect your eyes.
You stand on distant inaccessible land,
the end of all journey,
Look out to the stormy horizon,
And I will look back.
Beyond the storms, Beyond the calms,
Where fair breeze blows,
Ruddying your weathered face,
Wrinkles your now-eternal smile.
Stand awatch on that shore,
Watch the horizon, and watch for me.
Once my storm is over,
Together, we shall watch the sea.
~Phil Bettinson, 20/01/2014 – For Dad.
For those following the poetry on this blog, they will know that I’m trying to do more editing to my poetry. So, I thought I’d show a full working on a poem I’m currently working on. This is unfinished, and I’m not sure I’m happy with the result, but here they are.
Generation Right.19-June-2014 (ver 1.1)
They said on the radio, yesterday, that Generation Y,
Is generation right.
A generation so convinced of it’s own, individual superiority that they would rip up the welfare state,
That they would deny health-care and life to the addict,
To those not as fortunate as them,
because they deserve it.
Love Bade Me Stay.
Love bade me welcome, but my soul drew back,
I weary, tired, unwelcome, unwanted, sat unengaged.
Love bade me welcome, and the sun shone bright in my eyes,
And I, weary, tired, mumbled through liturgical haze.
Love Bade me welcome, but uninterested was I,
worn down by constant onslaught of fractured community,
Love Bade me welcome, and though I stood and sang,
My soul, and thoughts, were far away, a distant land.
The Walking Stick,
Abandoned, resting gently against white-washed stone,
perhaps forgotten in over-busy haste to leave the sacred space,
the walking stick, it’s warn wood moulded to a hand by constant use,
Once an aid in it’s owners lonely pilgrimage,
to a shrine of healing to ease their aches, their pains,
Has it been left in grateful gift, unneeded,
A humble offering for unhumble miracle.
Outside it’s grey-brick shelter, the calls of bird and insect,
Filling holy silence with endless music,
The ancient trees still in the spring sun, the life chorus swirling in fun and desire,
Does the stick long for former days?
Hand-clasped upon it, stiff weight held by it’s noble strength,
When it too walked in the holy spaces, use not ornament.
I had forgotten just how sweet it is,
To hold a tiny baby in my arms,
To feel the silken head resteing against my cheek,
The fragile fet pressing against my side,
Child of my own dear child, my thankful heart
Echoes the murmmuring lullaby I sing.
I see the blue eyes close, the lashes lie,
Like strands of gold upon the petal face.
I hear the gentle breath of sleep, and feel
It’s feather softness cool upon my skin.
As it is the first day of national poetry writing month, I am going to try to keep this blog updated with some of my offerings. I am mostly going through Steven Fry’s an ode less travelled, trying to expand both my appreciation of poetry and my skill. The man is a very good writer and makes some good points about poetry. His first section of on the most widely used form of poetry in history, or so he claims, iambic pentameter.
So here is my first attempt at writing one
The birds do scratch upon the snow-bond earth,
In search of food to sustain their tiny life,
So deep and quick did the snow fall and set,
That all life was frozen cold and still,
Bound in chains of purest white ice, and held,
Captives of the snow-queens chilling vengeance.
Held until the bright sun of giving spring,
Did shine upon the dark and freezing earth,
Bringing life to those that live upon her face,
Such sweet light that the sun does bring that birds sing
Their praises of their bright heavenly sun.
BX, 1 of April, 2013
There is a blank page,
Where there should be verse,
Empty space where there should be emotion,
The words refusing to obey the crafter.
There is a blank page,
Stared at, begging to be filled,
While hearts break, while emotions tumble,
Yet nothing fits the meter.
This too shall pass
They say that this too shall pass,
The pain and the grief,
The long sleepless nights.
They say that this too shall pass,
That the birds will sing again,
That there will be sunshine,
Cobwebs and Peace
Aged hands, gently weave, sat on hard-backed chair,
practised hands create cobwebbed beauty.
Scarfed tied firmly against the gentle cold,
Her bright-life filled eyes smile through olive-skinned face,
The lace her fingers create weave through her life,
A memory of peace-filled longing for a simpler time,
To simply be.
Carved wooden bobbins hold the fine cobweb in place,
The anchors of a life, thin and beautiful,
Searching for a pattern in maddened day to day,
That the fingers gently knit,
The divine beauty only truly visible,
When you are left to simply be.
I thought she was gone,
Out of my memories for ever,
And then I saw her reflection in the glass.
No, not her reflection, but someone very much like her,
And then it all came back,
The pain, the joy, the laughter,
The way that she used to smile, to stand,
No, this was not what I expected. We were over, she and I.
My Crime was Simply To be
We walked the earth with everyone else.
We spoke to them, We comforted them.
We told them of God’s Grace; of God’s Love.
We tried to show them the truth of what they already knew.
They were afraid. Afraid of change. Afraid of being lost.
And in that fear they became more lost.
They wandered in the desserts of their minds,
Far away from our Love.
Oh Wisdom, where art thou?
Where is your promised rest?
Upon You, and upon Your word I meditate,
I read, mark, learn and inwardly digest,
And my questions are answered by silence,
As though they are but dust and wind.
I take Your light into the world,
And bare witness to it,
Yet they question me, and call on me,
They demand that I call on You to light the Pyre,
But I have nothing, and mine enemies surround me,
My cloak will not part the waters for my escape.
And yet it is to your heart I run,
Into that which only it knows,
Where I can lay my questions at Your feet,
While I rest in that deeper Wisdom,
The trust of a child that Your lamp will guide my feet.
You will once again call me out,
To bare the burdens of deep questions,
But I will not seek Wisdom alone, and my burden will be light,
For You will carry it and me, as You have done before,
And this time perhaps I will sit at Your feet and learn,
With Wisdom as my companion.
She was there, I know, but I ignored it.
She walked by, but I didn’t look at her.
She glanced at me; and I at her,
She walked on by.
She was there, I know, but I looked the other way,
She walked by, like yesterday,
She smiled at me, and I at her,
I watched her walk on by.
She wasn’t there, I know, I looked for her.
I missed her walking on buy, like she had last month,
She was missing from my life, was I from hers,
I waited in case she walked by.
King Henry VIII is well known for his many wives, and for being the principal orchestrator of the Reformation in England*, some may not know that he was also a poet.
The eagle’s force subdues eache byrd that flyes—
What metal can resyst the, flaminge fyre?
Doth not the sunne dazle the cleareste eyes,
And melte the ice, and make the froste retyre?
The hardest stones are peircede thro’ wyth tools;
The wysest are, with princes, made but fools.
This poem was written by, apparently, by King Henry VIII upon falling in love with Anne Boylnne. I thought it was quite pretty.
Source( C. S. Lewis)
*The Reformation and King Henry VIII are a tricky subject. I will perhaps write more later.