I used to enjoy reading the English poets (Housman, Wordsworth, Kipling, Hardy) and some American ones (Auden, Frost, Stevens) back in the day when 'poetry' was something more than prose with weird line breaks (aka 'carriage returns'). I am a prose writer/essayist, but once in a great while I notice my mind composing something that looks and sounds like a poem. I throw most of those away. Here are some of the ones I've kept.
Marathon
Old shoes
cracked on space-flung roads
radial far from the start,
nearer the end.
Dust mortars the scars,
ruin masked by the ruined.
The world’s ways
leave their searching breath,
the perfume of life and death
intermingled
leaving non-existence in the
pawnshop window.
The Course
Our thoughts and actions stream out behind
to form a widening wake we call a life.
So strange to blindly thread this course
and yet produce so ordered and defined a past.
Really we follow on quite baffled on this sea
that rages in its season and yet at times
rests so mild as to beckon us to slip
beneath its tattered surface and grow there.
And yet before we sink secure and rooted
the next storm breaks our moorings and drives us on,
lost in the pounding rhythms of the moon
that gazes down so solemn on our vanity.
What note of calm derision takes its flight
from lunar plains and dusty ocean floors
to flutter softly in the orbit’s drafts
and find us as we try once more to stand?
The waves throw us from the rigging and the winds
fling us from those swaying arms to the deck,
and as we hit the woods we contemplate the call
of quickening seaweed and firmly crusting ooze.
But as we slip silent over the side
to mount the mermaid’s back between our thighs,
the sun climbs high amidst a shower of gulls
to which we can only set course again and ride.
Epiphany
The old man’s body lies here now
silent on the porcelain table
grey and parcel-like.
The surgeon’s knife coldly folds him back
to reveal beneath that lifeless blade
a quiet country road
wildflowers in evening sun
and a late summer haze
buzzing in the trees.
Insight
Confusion in droopy-eyed daze stumbles swearing,
brightly tattered hose and doublet wearing,
this fool in the court of reason dwelling,
all good counsel in his steady dullness repelling.
In obdurate stoniness he goes, never doubting
the wisdom of the well-minced garbage he is spouting,
denying force or motion, the chance of change
that casts in doubt the permanence of mountain range
or ocean, or immortality of the soul.
And then:
All certainty is called to question’s roll!
All stands no longer still in chilly frieze.
The rock peaks crumble, the raging seas
threaten the shore!
And more:
I seem to feel
the blaze of summer sun
on my cheeks burning,
standing on this hilltop
as softly
the world
goes
turning
Sunday
Row after row: the ladder once ascending
now fallen flat in the dust.
The rungs stretch away to the horizon
and lie bejeweled in stained-glassed neglect.
But on the seventh day they rest,
row after row of early morning risers
nodding wearily to out-of-this-world words
rising over their bowed heads to the bell tower
and beyond.
Industry
The village people buried the train today,
the engine and all the cars
with their sleepy cargo.
And under that huge mound
the steel carcass lay,
entertaining mad visions
of flaming towns
ground to splinters
beneath its wheels.
Hard & Soft
Stone and plant
Bone and flesh
Pit and fruit
Crag and moss
Bank and stream
Shell and clam
Ice and flow
Cage and bird
Crust and cake
Skull and brain
Plan and play
Catch and go
Yesterday and tomorrow
Still, Life
Definition repetition
Mutation experimentation
Execution persecution
Still, life.
Progression regression
Dancing prancing
Falling crawling
Still, life.
Elation deflation
Breathing seething
Being fleeing
Still, life.
Loving shoving
Holding scolding
Greeting beating
Still, life.
Sailing flailing
Playing fraying
Flying dying
Still, life.
Untitled
The sawdust ring lies trampled,
its ravaged surface bears a fallen feather.
Here a dust of rosin pales traced by toe
turning graceful bow to thunderous applause.
Curious: clown tears sink deep in the wooden sea
flowing motionless in a world of tawdry joy
and cotton-candy laughter
and a vending-machine heaven with angels crying
“Right here! Right here!”
Second Chance
In quiet slow of later life
I spy a second chance
To find the core amidst the strife
Of hammer, chain and lance.
Disruption of my early path
And parenting’s full claim
As well as toll of work that hath
More urgency than aim
All drift away in later life
Replaced by least and less
And leaving … what? … a sharpening knife
To cut, and bleed, and bless.
For each new day’s invention
Shorn of rote, routine and role
Demands my full intention
To reach the evening whole.
By delving now so wide awake
In past and current streams
I find the fertile chance to make
Both real life and dreams.
These are stunning, Baird. I especially loved "The Course" and "Second Chance".
So much truth in how we chart our lives while barely steering.
Hope you had a good weekend, friend.
Happy New Week.
Wonderful collection of poetry Baird. Brilliantly written. Second Chance was my favourite one.