Doors to Ancient Poetical Echoes:Journeys through the Door

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Cars float out to sea on torrential roads. Desire stirs. He knows these waters well,. He cannot be held responsible for. Mind bent double like palms. The limits of desire hypnotise. When demand seems spent. The screen goes black. He sobs for her disdain as she puts down. Michelle Carter. Helen Chambers. Refugee Intake Quota I visit with Lily.

Tethered breasts drop at table level. Her olive skin. Lily talks of Algiers,. You don't know me she says. I've been like an animal. Dougie Herd. The first black man in Scotland. What boys we were. Too young. And so we sheltered. A man as black as ebony. Young with tight, black hair. Obsidian eyes in pools of white. And yellow palms. His voice like velvet. We watched in awe,. And as my father thanked. And weeping,. And we were mystified. But only this truth struck us. We said, that man was black. I remember the winter land,.

My scarf and coat were warm,. A bird is singing somewhere, it sounds forlorn,. Mary Rose. The Colours of Love. Love is like a pretty rainbow,. Or lovely flowers in the meadow,. For it comes in many colours,. Orange, violet, indigo,. Blue, green, red and yellow.

Love is blue,. When I am not with you,. When I cause you pain,. And heartaches too. Love is yellow,. When I shine and glow. For whatever I do or wherever I go,. Your love for me will surely follow. Love is green,. In summer, fall, winter or spring,. For the smile you give me each morning,. Fills my day with joy till evening. Love is red, deep and strong. It keeps no record of things that went wrong,. Can forgive, though the list of hurts is long,. Will even turn faults into a wonderful song. Love is violet, indigo or orange,.

Colours that may seem strange,. But one sure thing that will not change,. After the massage. Another screams. A daughter. Cuts ties. And the face of. The smell of boiled mutton. Clamorous brush strokes. Sunshine prances hair. Rubbish tins spill their guts,. Children loiter in dobs of colour. Sticks and stones. Sheds made from kerosene tins. My tongue wants to skid across vibrant oils. A collage preserved in a thicket of bedlam. Grace Hawes. A stripling,. He sings. His voice is joyful. The old ballads come to life,.

But that was yesterday. The years pass, we go our ways. Today I saw his death notice. Loving husband-. All this is foreign to me. Pauline Haynes. Sky covered by clouds of dark grey. Hiding the sun away. Come with me. Down to the sea. The wind stirs the water high. Rolling in Rolling in. Churning the salt to foam.

Frothing depositing on the sands. Bringing the ocean spoils. To deposit on the beach. Ocean trying hard to clean herself. Of seaweed by the tonne. Glistening bustamite mineral sands. A crab claw or two. All pretty and blue. Broken moorings. The wind blows stronger. Moving dark clouds. Ever forward. Time to run. Too late. Pelt down. Jana Hlavica. The flat grey ribbon. The flat grey ribbon daunts. Black diamond man. I am under skies so violent. Joan Cahill. The concept is abandoned,. His car is large and embracing.

The landscape is rich,. I doze,. This time the cliche grabs me. The known but not expected,. If you visit my room. I shall have to drive you home. I shall have to pull over. I should have made you walk. David Gilbey. This transit of Venus is barely visible. As if actually experiencing it in person. The arrogant illusion. Trepidation of the spheres, wrote Donne. And yet some things were yoked.

He uses every stroke on the keyboard to forge poems of great dexterity and inventiveness. Artist in the round. Sitting in that old fashioned. Max's psychedelic dream. Romance under nature. Seated comfy in an aeroplane. Hawaiian flower. Looks like. And the ants down there, i know they can't see. This bird is dreaming. Born from the bleeding wounded. Larissa Davisson Farrell. I feel cold inside. Cold and dead. Cold as deep space, zero kelvin. Dead like the dark side of the moon.

Something may have dwelt there once,. A void yawns where fire danced. Frozen, stony,. I miss the spark in me that gave me light. I walk with hooded eyes. So very cold. Mare Tranquillitatis. Nobody notices,. Rosalie Fishman. On Hold. Write, words. Images of aching faces. Frayed nerves. Feeble pleading tones. How are you? I rang to see how you are …. And then the other. The unnamed protector. Dependency an irksome, wearying bond. And still more. Images - an enema up the bun. Inserted by white snapped hospital gloves. And we laugh,. The ache in that not so great.

So go home dear love. Tomorrow I may well want to run. But for now dear love. Images, hurried steps. Down nurse lined corridor floors. The officious palm raised chest high. Silencing the scream that never came. I was meant to kiss him goodbye. Sat in the car. Cried behind outwardly nonplussed eyes. Asking what now?

Sweet smiled. No one need ever know. The little deaths faced. By the one who waits. Pam Scoble. Pacing dismal corridors. Cringing, contractions. Squatting gripping bed posts, coming up slowly. Warm water embraces, relaxing cramping pains. Back on the birthing bed crouching in doggie fashion. A baby's head emerges. Welcome Zachary. Julie Waugh. Les Wicks collated the work following workshops in Thanks go to:.

Anna Buck. A fox went through the vineyard at dusk. Almonds shells scrunched underfoot. Curse grew upside down. The cry roused mourners listening to. The cat would rather wait for you. Jennifer Dickerson. Some people are up already. Noise, a garbage truck is munching its way into. Repetitious the sparrow trapped on one note. Grass confettied thick with dew. Bees foraging in clover heads. The day's soft early Umbrian dawn. Beyond the wall the reaching vines.

Distant I hear the Sunday bells. Allan Gibson. Why is he so angry? What have I done? I feel surrounded. What have you done! Is he going to punish me? What did I do wrong? Dad, normally quiet and calm —. The horse and he. Me — bewildered. Is he going to hit me? That afternoon is still alive,. My sense of excitement, pride:. Susan McCreery. Monday, keep fit class pick you up at ten Tuesday, keep fit class.

Monique Watt. Mary Whitby. Irene Wilkie. Kate Bannatyne. The Destination Board. You knew the poetry. You knew the majesty. You knew the drama. And you knew the stories. Where shall we go today? Sue Castrique. At the Reef. This business of preparing for dark. They shriek along horizon's chalk. They have names like Bimbadene or. The Spires. They are elderly,. Professional couples go there to get away.

Cars crunch to towards reception. The furniture in the lounge is. Heavily impressive. After doing the antique shops. One sits here. Lamps snap on, throwing a jaundiced glare. The men expertly shuffle the pages of broadsheets. A time of murmurs, and clearing of throats. Some subtle eyeing of others over and around pages. A fire has been lit, and flutters nervously. A big man forgets himself,. And laughs aloud at something he has read. In unison, like a herd of antelope,.

Others raise their heads in mild disapproval. At dinner, things glitter. Amid the clink and scrape of conversation and cutlery. Someone drops a knife. A restrained and tentative esprit de corps has developed. The semaphore of white cloth napkins. The more reserved escape upstairs. Snatches of this, of careful laughter. The bedrooms are high-ceilinged. Water pipes creak. One can hear the tone,. The beds creak. The globe in the reading lamp. The long, narrow corridors are red-carpeted. And worn in places. Many doors lead off them. There is a bleary yellow light. Always at the other end. Stars crackle.

A dog barks. Yobbos yell and chuck a bottle. It breaks. Lamborghinis and red Maseratis. Then came the Girl. With those brown saucer eyes. When she's twenty one. Will she recall the nights. In her room with the door open. He visits for Sunday night lasagna. I know it. People say so. To such an extent. I shrug. And a good wife? Well yes. A lot of work. At breakfast he says. I am having an affair. It happens in TV soaps or in America.

Not in a brick house with a frangipani tree. Not on a Tuesday. He spreads marmalade on his toast. The house is a mess. This is hard. And not clear. She meets us. She greets us with weary eyes,. I tell you the story -. The Khmer Rouge came at night;. Babies thrown up high;. Others beaten against trees. Her words catch in my throat,. I lift the lid from my water bottle,. We follow our guide. We come to a wooden frame. The soldiers tied their ankles. They lifted the prisoners. We walk inside. On the wall a photograph. His clothes are in a Perspex case.

No grave. All family is either. Through to another room,. Beating our fans back and forth,. Some of our group hangs back. We stare at scared eyes. The same age as my daughter! Only a boy. How could this happen? We, the visitors, walk on. At the end of our tour. Our guide motions for us to buy. It is an awkward departure and. I take nothing. White snowflakes covering the night sky Red poppies in the green meadow Bright pink waterlilies floating in the blue lake Orange wilted leaves scattered on the edges of a gravel road. Words of the wind A phantom life Did he ever actually exist?

I cannot recall his face His passing is engraved in my memory though. One sad Wednesday Of a certain year. The World in My Head. I used to dream in the world in my head, let my imagination take flight as the buildings went by. I could dream up wild elephants from Africa, or starships from space. No longer a kid. Mirrors and Galaxies Are the Same. Mirrors, They reflect. They reflect on the natural appearance of being human, being real, Of being alive, of being loved.

Here I am. Kyss Mig. Prisoner of the brain. We soar through the heavenly fields with no barrier between us, no men with shiny pedestals, or people with devilish horns You know not of my intentions but I know what lie. If they left, they were never with you 44 you was my friend you was their friend too well, that's what I thought and now you're dead only 16 never got the chance to live out your dream. A Faint Light. Faint light shines, So pure yet so dim, Calling from within.

Smoke and mirrors, A facade for my true self, Still so small and preoccupied, With the minutia of daily life. I am a Survivor. I am a survivor At least I am for now The fear of being consumed By that wretched death For a second time Makes my hands tremble. Citheronia Regalis.

Paul Revere’s Ride

It was him who found me. The giant with the calloused palms I was simply a form Clumsy in my gargantuan new body Horns piercing from my back;. Over the hills and through the trees. The feelings I feel to finally be free. Through the swamp and the creek. It feels as if I've fallen asleep. Growing Pains. Broken Pieces. Dear Itzmir, We started out as friends, then we became more than what we started out as. Our relationship was texts that went on all night, we would be on the phone for.

Reflecting Darkness. Of all the people I tried to understand the most. The man in the mirror was the hardest to read. Although, I know it is me, but it isn't who I see. He's making the same movements, thinking the same thoughts So to say, your words clatter like thunderSpellbound, my thoughts cannot gatherSwept up in the cresting tideDisplaced by another of likemind. Bus People. And all. Knife carving into the soft squishy flesh; blood dribbling off the plate. Letting out a faint subtle sigh, admiring his handiwork. The Old Guitarist. The cold whirled into the room, The breeze freezing the poor mans toes.

A sigh rattles in his chest, His fingers strum the strings of his guitar. Star Dust. I watched the light fade from her eyes. She left this world as but a whisper in the wind; being forgotten in an instant. The cosmos opened up to her and welcomed her home,. Everyone told me to work. Everyone told me to work hard. So I did. The past blended into the present into the future. It was once rough to the touch, like a potato sack. Now it's faded, a green-gray expanse of old sunbeams and bitter stains.

Change The World Little Girl. It's Snowing In The Forest. Change is Good. Waking up on Saturday mornings for the sole purpose of hearing Elmo squeak about something new on Sesame Street, has long been overruled by new responsibilities. Things I Hate. Training Wheels. I was willing to risk it all, Yet you left me to fall Into the abyss of doubt and wonder,.

Spaced Out. In a sea of stars, My head was a constellation of chaos And mindless insecurity. In my universe, There was no lack of striking entities. You were so down to earth, I was up in the sky. Near Existing. Even after years of salvation, I am stained with chains and marks of a past life full of time well served.

Even after sufficient treatment, I can still feel the burns. Societal Sky. I grew up seeing the world as something beautiful The crystal blue sky And the warm bright yellow sun.

Yellow Acrobat. When I was 6, I was told to wear my scariest costume for Halloween day at school And for once, my parents wanted to spoil me, So while everyone at school became witches or skeletons or furries. Today is frozen in blue and white we live to stall upon a blank page This picture, now a photograph In black and white. When I Returned Beer, Sweat, and Weed. How to get through the bad year. We sat togetherfingers intertwinedlegs swinging overthe ledge,the edge of abyss of bliss? Culture Told in Halves.

Meeting Eye to Eye. They sit by the window watching the snowflakes land on the large pile which was once luscious, green grass. The Monarch Butterfly. Blinded by the darkness of my own cocoon, the shades of immaturity and impulsiveness cloud my mind. Unable to see past the shell of adolescent struggles,. Status: Now Hating Candy. Let me tell you of the week I grew up.

No, not physically but mentally and emotionally. The physical age does not matter; what matters is that the week before I loved candy. The lip. See the wetty lips that run dry amidst the drought yearning for the sporadic drips craving for the incessant draught that washes all the loneliness held wanting and acheness that makes her lost. I wanted to say…That not all paintings are simple.

When I look at you,I see stars for eyes,Flower petals for skinAnd faults and flaws all at once. But I see perfection in those flaws. School to Summer and Back to School. School during day, sports at night. The village is always non-stop. When blue skies show, campus gets loud.

Waking Up. Growing up. Bullies and bruises Grades going down the drain One day it will be okay. Beauty in an inadequate mind with an courageous heart. The mind is such a simple depiction of what reality imposes the heart and soul. Giving your heart a reason beat while still wondering about the advantages and stepping stones of life. Weep not at my grave.

Weep not at my grave when I am dead, Sing me not the dirge of cold nights, Sing instead the rhymes of the Willows, Chant all day the lullabies of the pixies. Here we flutter, soar, and fly Abuzz, for all to see, an iridescent sky Our pride, with which we manage, Asserting our presence, flags raised high,.

My Confessions. I am a nonconformist. I open my eyes and see food, so much food. Carnes, postres, y mariscos. Pasteles, helado, galletas. Broken Glass. My Best Abusive Relationship. Growing with Fear. With words that burn and bite and sting, they creep up on your mind and ring until you no longer sleep at night. There are sounds and smells that remind you of days passed,.

The world never saw him Or so he thought But this is how he felt Black and white in a world of color Overlooked and unimportant. Fear of losing peace. Big Red. Bold, large, and beautiful red hot air balloon the twisted art of twig underneath my feet silver string attaches my wicker basket and I am high enough to touch a cloud. Into the Rabbit Hole, Alice. Fear, is hungry. No one warned me about the struggles of life Life doesn't get harder, it just shows its true self once we get to know it What's something that so many cherish and adore?

I'm Scared.

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I stand on the edge of a cliff the roar of the waves beneath me and stare into the night sky it is raining now I scream into the void all of the pain of the past I give it up to the ocean and sky. Not Enough. What is fear? The feeling of being simply not enough. You've put everything on the table. Left it all out on the field. Put your heart and soul into it. I'm Ready. My heart beats faster and faster My legs shake and burn more with every running step How long have I been running?

I can't remember. Its been so long,. Silent danger. Whispered words not to be heard, A secret pact between you and yourself, Your thoughts hardly heard or understood as they slip into the darkness of the night. Doubt creeps. Victory or defeat matters not but doubt creeps in and two opponents emerge. Peanut Butter Night. Some of you may say I'm a nutter My tongue is smothered with peanut butter Like a newly-shined shoe, no area is left untouched However, this coating should have stayed in my lunch.

Kill Switch. SUB Q. No more looking back. An Untold Future. These fears swarm me Causing me anxiety I cannot fight them But oh, how I want to be special I want to grow! OCD and Me. My mind is weak Like a lost sailor I can do nothing, nothing as the waves of anxiety swirl through my head Get up, time for school I cannot go for I am a fool. A Unborn Child. I was used to falling and burning over and over again but nothing quite prepared me for the fire you spread over my soul. Left Behind. I had it all, never thought it could crumble apart Crumble apart, crumble away as if my life became equivilant to stale bread.

Who could have known he could have been dead. Fight the Fear. Reach the surface.

Doors to Ancient Poetical Echoes, Journeys Through the Door by George E | | Booktopia

How Dare You Darkness? The creature inside her cage. The creature inside her cage So small Suspended in the deep end She flutters Cage half glass half metal Frozen Her limbs are frozen Sunlight Cold sunlight. In the Dark. The Border. Never cease to prepare yourself; Get up early so you know who won the day. Flame, Dear Flame Your flame-seared name It burns Life is a funny thing.

The wait. Fearless Heart Club. Questioning every move and the sentence I make. But this art piece wants to show its creation. These detailed words that can fill a. Ode to Alex - Fear of Abusive Relationships. Funny that he goes by love, because he has none His long hair is a whip I pull His face changes as I slowly slip away His mind freaks as I tell his story.

He is narcissist himself. My Grandmother's House. The news blares bright and gaudy. Full of fear and sound. I like you Scholarship Slam Poem. Fear, anxiety, speech. Nothing can be said to someone without words, seems easy for those who speak and love to. But those of us are not always as lucky with your ability to speak. Speak our ideas, our dreams, and our hopes. Sticks and stones. Our Meadow of Some Days. Some days our meadow is on fire; Burning the grass with such passion No one else could ever know.

The Void. The darkness swallowed me whole I was drowning, struggling to breathe I reached out trying to grasp onto something, anything But my hand simply went through the empty void I opened my mouth to call out. After Their March. Vanquishing My Fear. The Grass browns and the flowers fade The trees leaves wither and the winds blow colder.


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Chocolate covered deceit. The princesses stare at me with looks of innocence Each tempting as pieces of candy One cherry flavored taffy The others blue raspberry gummies I stared back with apathy and anxiety. There are some days when sometimes is too often. Where the tethers of my mind restrain me from ever making progress. Where I feel trapped in my own mental illness.

Wonder Haiku. Stars shine in moonlight Disappearing in your eyes Night reflects wonder. Sunny Honey. You were my fighter and protector. When I grew you became my best friend. I always felt I could count on you. Then my first day of school came. I started to notice things. My Car. My car is my escape Where I can play my music loud Where I can recline back and think My car is my escape With a turn of the key and I am on my way With a tank of gas and I can go anywhere.

The courage to accept. The mirror speaks, You see a weak young girl, And the mirror sees a conqueror, With beautiful vines climbing up your delicate temple marking peace and health. You see insecurities,. Paradise in the Ruins. Kids on the street, suffering from pain. The only thing to ease their mind is to join a gang. No more playing tag or hide-and-seek, only inside, playing games on T. Not a lot of smiles of happiness, just sadness and loneliness.

Thin Ice. The ice is thin around here. My new friend. Beep Beep. I found out my new friend can talk to me! Dont tell me. For the Country that Never Fought for Me. Don't Look Down. Standing up there too scared to look down I can feel all the stares my legs impared, i'm a shakey mess Longing for something to grab on to so my wrists i tend to bound. Natural Disasters. Lungs, ached with pain. Self Portrait as The Weeping Willow. The fear, I feel. From My head to my toes. Mom always worked, leaving me in care of a grandmother. In that Roller Coaster.

An Angel. Fear has to go. It takes hold of us one by one With comfort and complacency by its side It never stops hunting to find innocent pray To smash dreams and take the awe and wonder away To trap longing hearts in the home of used to. Lies that I Lie With. Midnight Lights. One day, One day at a time. Well, that's what my mom used to say. Midnight we go, Midnight we came. All we saw was lights. Light from cars, lights from the sky. Heard music, heard crying. Over the Sea, Under the Clouds.

Among this setting we're heading to Armegeddon Unless we start pressin' and getting answers to all these questions Stressin' the truth within the message Blessin' and recollectin' the days to the seconds. Be daring and BOLD. Let your unique story be TOLD. Fight the Fear of Chan. It's hard to feel alone in the world A piece of you missing but no one knows No one sees inside you to that terrible hole The hole in a space by your heart The one that screams out for a hand.

Decision Monster. It gnarls its jagged teeth towards me "Dare you step this way?! Pride is not simply hubris Yet it still can make us shudder Pride is not the weight of an incubus Which lies on the chest of another. Glass Half Full. Bitter and dangerous, But still on these streets. The empty arena is pitch black. I step into the ring, As I tighten the straps on my boxing gloves. I lean back into the ropes, Sweat stings my eyes,. Shadows Become Clear. Color Frequency. The world is full of a wide spectrum of color frequencies I am the yellow sun, the blue sky, the green grass, the orange to yo kool-aid, and the gold beads from Mardi Gras.

Storm Tempered. In Eden or Gethsemane. We will have peace, Whether we are in Eden, Or Gethsemane. For we will rise with the sun, And we will eat sweet fruit, From His vineyards. We will go to the water,. My Words Came Out Unremarkable. And yet when I think of souls fit together as one,. Ash and Rubble. What does it look like? How does it feel to never be afraid. Why am I so blind? Fear is Not to Be Run From.

A tight emptiness in my throat A quick consideration of options but endlessly told to say nothing Youth does not hide the terror in trying or the knife swallowed as i do nothing. The Music Plays. I hear the music play: A loud chorus, a strong voice. Funnily enough, I am the chorus;But I am the strong voice too? September 8, The day was ordinary. The sun shone upon me no brighter or darker than it does on a regular day. The wind caressed my face and pushed at my back no more gently or rough than it normally does.

I was walking forward, reflecting back. Pay attention to the sunlight, the sunlight is the most warm, visible radiation of all. Down, down into the darkness it goes- the hot, the tender, the close. Wind talking. The rain is begun, drippity droppity ploppity… The wind blows through our windows like a zephyr that knows the way… I speak your name and send it on the wind to you… My voice echoes across the distance between us…. Broken Mirror. My Favorite Dream.

She Fell For You. She fell for you Like how a leaf falls when the wind blows, and all the colors turn grey And she fell for you Maybe too soon and unknowingly fast, never asking why. Swallow Me. Fear of Society's Sink.

By Walt Whitman

Because one little tablet, something so small, it could fall down the drain Fear of the unknown. Oh, ice cream on a sunny day you keep me cool Like jumping in the swimming pool You drip on the sidewalk And even on my flip flop. Percs and molly in my casket so I can roll in heavenGet a bad bitch up out of Magic, need a ho in heavenI need me a TEC and I need me a stick, have a shootout with the devil.

All That is Living. O Here rises the morning sun! The grass sprouts for the sunrise;The trees dance as the wind howls;Primroses and Cowslips bloom with joy. Do you believe in miracles? Why Fight. Looking at you sideways. All I see is rage. The burning affection you once felt for me slowly fading away with the mist. I look at the doorway in which the only light in the apartment pierces the abyssal hallway. I look at the tattered shower curtain that lay on the white tile. Womanhood n. The waves are thick with seaweed, soft and baubled with thread-like strands.

The waves are green and glassy, tipped with bubbles of smooth white foam. The waves are roaring against the shore, powerful, pulling in and pulling back. Holy adj. A missionary trembles in the pulpit, exhorting you with tales of the fire of God, of kings and coals, of a man who had seen angels and thought they omened his death.

How Not To Be Hopeless. Old habits die hard, Robert Frost and dying stars, Those are the things that made me. Cherry blossoms now in bloom begin wilting on the stem. At the Edge of Darkness. I mourn the fading light That overcame man's tragic fate That floods upon the victor's gate Of which the night knew no respite. The Kraken. Through the Looking-Glass. The Glass reflects upon who i am. Thoughts and opinions cram into my soul as i look up at the Cold brown orbs that stare back at me in Pain. Smile, stand up straight, this. The Road to Somewhere. Where a choice must be made,.

Saving the Children. Without Light. I am here standing in the darkness. It is pitch black and cannot see a thing.

Christina Rossetti

I stretch my hands feeling for something, anything. I hear a blood-curdling scream that sounds like a high pitched whistle. Feet dragging, limbs hanging, eyes distant in their sacks. When old women's families send them here there is no looking back. They heap their sorrows, pray for tommorows, The halls are dark and dumb. Suddenly, motivation strikes,. O Lord, Make Me a Seed. I was born Of a European Yew. Its mighty bough had grown Twisted and encrusted With moss In the garden of my great-great grandfather.

As he left his house for the final time. Clear your throat and step aboard, And drop the window tall, But do not sleep with the soldiers here For fear of missing more. It was, in its way, a kind of Adlestrop: the silence, the stillness, an emphatic motionlessness after the busy pace of the flight;. Final approach, waiting for the usual signals, jolt of landing gear, reverse thrust and final touchdown smooth as a whisper. And no one to come by,. Yes, I remember Apeldoorn, the grounds I stole upon, the park surround, and lone museum building as if set aside, set back.

All were taken. I mounted stairs to a small room with bare two-tier iron cots and a barred window. Did I sense a rush of people? What I saw. Ghosts of Germans floated down, swans with wings outstretched. The fallen-down factories like tripped-over Lego houses, and the flooded modern fields I see as water meadows,. The terrace where we sat looking At a man below painting a gate In the midday sun and you explaining The Theory of Relativity as we ate.

I shall,. I promised and also Chateau Fort The woman with the limp, the man below, The midday sun and you explaining And me saying I told you so. Snugly rolled in a magic carpet and rushed through the night while a plosive fricative voiceless rhythm hushed and lulled waxed and waned whispered and hammered against the grain of the rails the name of the butcher once glimpsed on a shop in a small town in Hampshire and chanted by wheels again and again and again and again and again. Yes, I remember Aldershot — the name, because one afternoon of heat the Heathrow coach stopped there unexpectedly.

It was inopportune. In the bare bus station, what I saw was a departure board with Aldershot on top. A man with goggles and a petrol strimmer was taking out the worst of them. And for that minute a seagull squawked close by and then, like some round trip, further and further, all the gulls from town centre, way out to the council tip. I go there without thinking. My life is full of Adlestrop, full of me walking past a child, lost in a screen.

Buttons click clack and he is deaf to his name. Back-bending, rock-breaking work in the deep dark. Part of the lode will remain undisturbed. If picked, though, then, like the rocks, some men are sent to the surface. There, a hundred hammers pound with the noise of artillery, pieces that do not break are sent back to the front and sludge is washed down the kicking tables.

Heavy ore caught on ridges is taken to the settling pit, the top layer goes back to the tables, the bottom, unbearably weighty, is beaten in barrels.


  • BOOK I. INSCRIPTIONS.
  • Yes I remember Adelstrop… the poems – The Poetry Society;
  • Our Vampires, Ourselves;
  • Audacity of Poetry.

Blue-black cassiterite is collected in small hessian bags that take two men to lift and sent for smelting. In the valley below old miners still believe they can find value in their lives and build hundreds of rag frames to collect microscopic particles in the rough grain of their boards. Our bus pauses in a station yard Simply for us to stretch our legs At a hot, dusty stop in central Sicily.

The lines run beneath inert signals Across a dun waste, converging at infinity Both east and west, as though Forgotten in some wilderness, Sparsely populated and echoless. I cannot look at silent rails Without seeing the grey image Of Auschwitz, its livid bricks, Flat fields and weed-grown tracks, And hearing vibrations gathered, Long dead, from a continent. Geraniums bloom unattended On the empty platform and I fill The vacant time idly deadheading. No whisper from the steel and No-one came and no-one went. I live near Adlestrop, remember Its green trough so different, Familiar, full of song.

We come back now and find your sign detached from when that afternoon a train stopped and a blackbird sang — and all your journeys in between. We hear your voice, pure as a thrush, live in the wind, in wet, in bright, stayed in your calm attentiveness. Your air is word as on the road we too encounter those you meet and learn the seasons of your mood. The long echo of a shell fades in these fields. We are held up on stopping by this platform bench once somewhere else. Rowan and poplar hid nondescript buildings, grew tall and strong from the ash, a green girdle cinching absence.

It is the cough that gives the wild flowered silence its peace before the annual red flood sweeps away those innocent blooms. It is the cough that prefaces the wrecking hells we know will demonstrate whatever god chose how things must be is no true Englishman: no great respecter of the ancient lines that unite and divide. The certainties of king and country have been shelled to smithereens and the six foot craters they have left cover all the sleepless shires of the world. A name that unravels on the tongue The way fishing line unspools And hooks plop on entering water;. That holds the wing-whirr of blackbirds Darting between hedgerows Rife with comfrey, nettle, dock;.

Edward Thomas killed by shell blast. Yes, I will remember Adlestrop- that name, for the slipping time left today. The blackbird singing, as it did then, a fluting chime,. One day halting in June heat, willow-herb adorning,. Here the sky puffs in loud smoke, haycocks mound from stricken earth. Oh, Gloucestershire, oh, Oxfordshire, rejoice in the sound.

If we had one afternoon of heat, No others but that straight, long afternoon Suspending words — only your name Drawn out slowly like the passing clouds, I would not be a coward. If we had one afternoon of unwonted heat, In that moment a blackbird singing closely by, Catching on the drift of song a communion Of years where truth and longing meet. There would be nothing to say. There would be nothing left But the bones of our love licked clean by the sun. It rounded the bend on the far hill, Braking against the gradient of its curve, A whirl of black, pumping steam.

The whisper turned to roar Against the screech of metal on metal, wheels to rails, Nearer and nearer it came, Groaning under the weight of its own monstrous invention. No driver, no passengers were seen, Just row upon row of windows from empty carriages, catching the light, A solstice sun bouncing off their glass, Reflecting back a distortion of trees and fields of blobby sheep. A smudge, a pause, a trick of the light? Another slipped moment in the expected sequencing of time? The chimera dissolves, The interrupted moment rushing back to plug the gaps, Enveloping me with the immediacy of the present, The familiarity of its sights and sounds, The summer smells of crops As they move to the prompts of unseen breezes, Teasing waves from the order of their military lines.

Thrive Worship - Praise the Name Ancient Doors

I stand alone by the grassed over tracks Whose rusted rails have long since gone, Watching playful rabbits. Take pity, for a lone old man marooned in the stultifying summer heat of his car behind a school coach stilled by heavy junction traffic. Unbidden, a girl miraculously appears: a framed vision: window bewitcher or airy nymph with fiery-blonde smiles and posings; casting off pubescent awkwardness, flaunting for sexual attention, splashing those teenage charms within his view, testing her adolescent temptation to the maximum.

Then, a gap in the traffic sends the coach speeding off in a foggy puff of grey exhaust smoke leaving a flummoxed old man alone again with reveries and memories of hazy times in youth — but blessed with the echo of a siren smile and hand-blown kiss to enchant his journey home. From Wadebridge through to Grogley Halt, Nanstallon Halt, Boscarne, sweet places of my childhood buried in primrosed lanes, with violets, bluebells, campion, greens tumbling through the shade how the hills got steeper and the lanes more narrow its peace growing in my years away.

How mad would they need to be to be dispatched? How mad to enlist? My brother gagged. Dad cleared his throat. I breathed it in as mum did too — Imagining those lands the spice Ingredients would travel through. Finished proof-reading for a minute and am sitting on the sofa to eat an apple, a prelude to lunch which has been on my mind for a while.

A dog at my feet who is watching the apple with such longing in his amber eyes I wonder should I give him some? What did Adlestrop blackbird see from his willow? The Oxford- Worcester express train halted, invading his air by the empty platform, a man stared through a carriage window as though wanting to escape, mired in a poem. What did the blackbird hear? Nothing else. What did the blackbird smell? Meadowsweet and hay, afternoon haze, smoke screen for a fugitive minute. What I saw Was Adlestrop — only the name And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

Adlestrop Revisited by Marc Woodward A soldier walked through the Adlestrop lanes, wild flowers sprang where he planted his feet. Timing by Kathleen Bartholomew Even now in the hush of the aftermath I hear his voice Gently sigh Not condemning Relentlessly forgiving Every minute At the sign Of voices unkind and lashing Like the much wanted rains on the days Of waterless graves They were crying dry tears Mourning the beauty Of the black night skies In June when the honey-moon Wanes and leaves us Still relentlessly Wrong, but getting better, When he died.

The blackbirds come by Kim Rooney The blackbirds come to tell me you are gone. Chastleton by Richard Carpenter One remaining cat, curled, content upon the ancient, faded seat, enjoys the soft, well kneaded wool that built the house; ignores the feet that pause beside the ancient cloth.

This Is Carriage D. There is no connection, once the trains had windows you could open, for the wind, the changing landscape, and the rush of speed. Litha by Helen Wilson For S. And inside my sprawling brain I know that this too is my Adlestrop. But for a chance in a million or so of fusing with that elusive egg I was prepared to be fiendishly competitive — for the prize was coming out of town doubly alive. Adlestrop by Denise Bennett Adlestrop was the place you stopped, the station where the blackbird sang, where you waited in the heat of June expectantly — let the time hang.

Blackbird by Sue Spiers i. Remembering Adlestrop, poem by the late Edward Thomas with prequel and sequel from Alun Robert As far as I remember Boarded the lunchtime express-train Out from my Oxford with sweating spires. Here comes the station by Mark Carson Here comes the station the station you desire. Domodossala by Diana Hirst Yes. A Russian man had flown in space. Addlestone by Shareen Rouvray Now I remember Addlestone, Railway tracks snake on their own, Hawthorn bushes in New Haw, The house is gone and is no more, Milkthistle, dandelion and May, Celebrated the path that day, Standing when the gates came down, The train threw waste upon my frown.

Muchelney by Janet Lancaster Yes. Pettah by Usha Kishore I remember Pettah a station, where trains stopped briefly in faraway summers. In the platform of long ago, crowded with thoughts, I see the name — Pettah, the entrance to home, covered in grass, dandelions and the occasional tree, with memory chirping, swinging on its tail.

Moments knitted in distant bird song, bearing me farther and farther away. Buckfastleigh by Doreen Hinchliffe Steam rises hot in his nostrils. He hugs his case, fingers the label on his gabardine presses his face to the grime of carriage glass and peers across the platform through a fog that shrouds a mass of faces, anxious, sad.

He waits his turn, then steps out on the station, its name inscribed on the sign he walks towards in perfect stark italics — Buckfastleigh. A few hours in that baked place and then the train moved on. Edward Thomas at Adlestrop by Barry Tempest The day the express train drew up there unwontedly, two ways diverged: flight through ripples of birdsong, or steel rails shining in the June sun, unrelenting to infinity. In that old French kitchen where we broke baguettes On a stout wooden table sat on a stone floor; The whole house still musty from pungent wild mushrooms Brought in from the woods then put back out the door, His voice caught as he read to us.

Leaving Adlestrop by Richard Davies Maybe someone did get off the train that hot June afternoon and the poet, drowsy after lunch, missed the slamming of a door and did not see a dark haired girl use the brief unscheduled stop to leave a man she did not love and slip away to find another life. June and he starts before dawn, 3am in the dark, loud and joyous, out over the trees, our house, to the park, beyond, and then some, all day long I hear him, calling out, telling me and anyone else who cares to stop and listen that from where he stands this all belongs to him.

The crowd left soon And soon, we were left quite alone, No one else, and no one came On the bare platform. The Train Paused by Merlynda LK Robinson Fleeting is the breeze that pats the face she studies closely Accustomed to those sights that stain her eyes and strap her throat Her bottled, ambushed anger now alerted to their pleas That train of pleas still plays upon her sleepless shift, tonight.

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