Aldeburgh Tanka Scallop shell in steel Sensuous susurrus sounds Summer’s sunset sigh. The gull strewn shingle shore stills. Cobalt turns gunmetal stark.
Linked Haikus
Rust yellow remains. Sheds salt proof brown in autumn When surf tides threaten.
Shoreline trees wind bowed before winter’s blind tempest, Stand taller inland.
Pointless way-markers headed wayward. Autumnal harvest. Lone church spire.
Junk poetry dump. A posy like a trophy. Fly fools’ trash folly.
Storm ravished waves invade every headland. Marauders ruled, bold tyranny took hold. Armies’ brutal blades broke this fragile world. Temples rose, fell, ruined; another world- View spread terror and chains and strife inland. Brief futures, enslaved freedoms, lives on hold. People ploughed, planted, struggled to behold Days without graves to hasten the next world. Solace sought, on this sanctuary island, Hopeful, they land, their toe hold, their brave world.
Read more: https://daviddstephen.wordpress.com/poetry/
Photos and poem ©DavidDStephen
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A re-imagining
This is my fourth re-imagining – of a story, a myth, a tale or of historical characters. this link takes you to the other re-imaginings.
https://daviddstephen.wordpress.com/re-imaginings
Sisters Were I bold and modern, truly shameless I’d elope to Rome, a poet’s love to be, and live in lovers’ lodgings, flagrantly in sin, beyond convention’s loneliness. I would scandal all and write monstrous books, defying objections to sing my song (without my sister’s sweet seductive tones) to catch eligible men’s lustful looks. How she simpers and sighs, flutters dark eyes, she’s all wisdom and fashion’s curlicues! Those lips pout, painted, her mind manicured, kissed not, loved not. No matter how she tries. Were I bold like her, I’d not parody A chaste gaze nor pluck a gay melody But would daily in the tall meadow grass Lie with my poet reading his winsome verse. I have dreamt of dances by Spanish Steps, lovers’ trysts by moonlight where I proclaim fearless love aroused, quilled in quick quatrains, to ferment my desires without regrets. Let my sister satisfy convention: dull marriage and children and coy curtseys and stifled days of balls and drear soirees where averted gaze chides my defection. I, my mother’s child, my own invention, shall carry my dear poet’s posterity from funeral pyre to eternity. Would I vowed to live my bold intention.
poem ©DavidDStephen
A re-imagining.
This is my third re-imagining – of a story, a myth, a tale or of historical characters. this link takes you to the other re-imaginings.
https://daviddstephen.wordpress.com/re-imaginings/
The Ferryman, Cramond
The ferryman lives the other side. I ring and wait. Wondering if the tide is coming in or out. Ring and wait. He comes in his own time, the ferryman does, always has. The Romans set camp by the river: low walls cut like opened graves from the turf testify. Picts fled across the water or further. Who ferried them? In a boat the same shape? oars crudely fashioned? Or had they no time to wait? I wait by the bell hung simply, a rope with noose tied around, from a post, this side, to summon the ferryman. Some ring early, some impatiently. Some souls let others: They never have to wait or contemplate which way the tide flows. He never waves, nor wastes words but slips the skiff as silently as the sleek otters. The long single oar sculls him across effortlessly. I have waited so long his arrival is a shock. I want to change my plans use my coins to bus back to dense living Edinburgh to take a train south away from the stench of fetid mud banks as rank as any corpse away from the rasp final mocking cry of gulls from this gaunt figure who knew I’d rung the bell. A muted silver sun cowers behind the clouds, a chill cut of wind wrinkles the water. He waits now, his turn, the ferryman, oar in hand. Oily drops of river, like a late baptism, drip drip from the blade. Like funeral tears they flow effortlessly. Which way flows the tide? I ask. He answers wearily: Many have crossed before whatever the tide. I hesitate; he holds. Because I rang the bell. From the other bank, laughter echoes; a familiar song, of memories, of weddings, of lost friends, catches me. Distantly, another bell chimes and tolls.
Poetry and photos ©DavidDStephen
One of those Facebook things – one a day etc.. Here is what I think of the books I posted on Facebook!
Some early reads are definitely memorable and these tales of derring-do in the Lake district by children allowed to camp and sail and cook food over fires while having adventures in holidays were captivating. When you are brought up in cold windy Edinburgh in a tenement with effectively the road as the outdoor play area (thankfully cars were a rarity but grumpy neighbours proliferated), this type of adventure story was wild escapism. I was hugely disappointed when the BBC made a TV series on where every child became a tame public school educated plum accented shadow of themselves. Perhaps they were originally but I clung to my internal characterisations. Later I discovered the story behind the author: who would have thought the man who married Trotsky’s secretary (and crossing front lines between Finland and the young USSR in order to marry her) would write children’s stories of simple innocent days in the Lakes?
2. Emile and the Detectives by Erich Kastner
I think I was drawn by the cover in the first instance, to lift it off the shelf of the local public library. Stylised drawing about a foreign city where boys were as efficient or more so at being detectives than adults. Adventure, mystery, suspense and the allure of a foreign place. I remember devouring this book. I am sure there was another. It certainly gave me a taste for the wider opportunities that books from other countries offered. Much later I discovered that Kastner’s books were burned by the Nazis but not this one – it was too popular! Even if it ran foul of the Naiver ideology.
3. Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak
I admit I saw the film first – that grand David Lean production. I read the book twice in the space of a year as I was a teenager and did not get all the references, did not fully get the history or the significance. I learnt about Russian history, about Russian naming conventions, about sophistry, about characterisation and literary great works. This is a sweeping splendid portrayal of Russia from Czars to Stalin. At the centre is Lara, a woman who is never described in the book for she represents Russia and all people will draw her in their own imaginings. Zhivago is the the educated intellectual middle class doctor – the conscience of the time. the democrat, the liberal when the forces of autocracy, communism and foreign intervention threaten to destroy the soul of the land. This book was written in the 1950s – was banned by the authorities. It ranks amongst the great historical literary works, alongside Sholokhov and Solzhenitsyn. The film was good, of its time; this book is excellent and timeless.
Text and photo ©DavidDStephen
4. Ariel and The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath
Her brilliance was unbounded. Particularly in poetry but The Bell Jar is a superb novel, almost Autobiography. I read “You’re” from Ariel in 1970 and I immediately wanted to read more of her work. I find it can be read many times over as is true of all her work. Later I came across biographies and more of her poetry and The Bell Jar. I recommend reading all you can about her life and work.
The morning after was a dull affair Hangovers and arguments long down-played On unseen streets. An unknown cry: “New Year”, Half-hearted, half meant: the “Happy” implied. Last night; last year: that epic final crawl in bitter winds to pubs from stairs and wynds we sallied. The Tron Kirk beckoned; a maul rallied; bells tolled; our lives reckoned in chimes.
We embraced - all strangers friends - past, present. We skittled off surefooted, to party to pagan traditions exhumed yearly - the dram the dance the fresh first foot - fervent
For sure conviction, clear aspiration. We thrust headlong, a fearless direction, Through the freeze of a biting year newly Formed by faithful, youthful certainty.
Poetry ©DavidDStephen
Photos ©DavidDStephen
Sonnet on Rossetti’s painting of Jane Morris as Proserpina (or Persephone).
Image: Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s painting of Proserpine 1874. The original is in the Tate Britain. This image is in the public domain: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Dante_Gabriel_Rossetti_-Proserpine-_Google_Art_Project.jpg
Persephone of raven hair, red lips
and beauty redefined, has me spell bound.
I thought her plain, just Jane; a prosaic lapse
to kidnap her into our poetic crowd.
She clasps her life in one small fruit, red raw
and deadly. Six seeds enough her life to end:
A pomegranate? Why? A metaphor
to downplay what deceit we men defend.
Unbound, she’s free half-yearly. Hades held
her underground till mother’s, Demeter’s,
devotion broke our priapic princes’ hell.
By brush and oil her mortal mysteries,
concealed no more, give life to myth and muse:
the goddess we all painted to seduce.
Poetry ©DavidDStephen
For more information on the Greek myth: https://www.ancient.eu/persephone/
The Perseverance by Raymond Antrobus
#NJTBP#Antrobus#theperseverance#poetry#universityofyork
For several years now I have been attending every spring term the ever wonderful Not Just The Booker Prize course at the University of York led by the wisdom of Rob O’Connor. He selects prize winning books (including the Booker Prize winner(s!)) published in the year.
First prize winner in the reading list this year is Raymond Antrobus and the first time a poetry collection has featured. The Perseverance, winner of the Ted Hughes Poetry Award 2018. A moving collection with great emphasis on sounds, on structure and experiences of the author. It also reaches out powerfully to ask searching questions of the reader about identity, belonging, marginalisation an how we define ourselves and others as people. I was provoked, questioned, engaged and stimulated intellectually, emotionally and by the style of the poetry. Superb.
This unbalanced
isle of lee and bowed tree and
cruel wester wind.
Rocks and seals lie dark,
beached on bleached bone white
littorals, as one.
Modern pilgrims pray
by Columba’s cove where waves
in chorus declaim.
Razed. Ruined.
Risen anew, the Abbey
reigns over kingdoms.
A grave of crosses,
Celtic hewn, commands memories:
Slain and slaughtered.
Motionless night sky,
is starred eternally
to hold history.
Mermaid tears, sleek and marbled
green, lament this isle’s long rough grief.
Poetry ©DavidDStephen
Photos ©DavidDStephen
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