A poem from Brian after moving to Wales

 

This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.

A windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.

Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Poems from students on National Poetry Day

 

https://youtu.be/D9Rh0F-JuNI

 am thine, thou art mine,

Of that be thou assured.

Thou art locked up within my heart

And lost is the little key.

ANON 

German, 11th century

This one I like because being busy with practical things helps me cope when times - like now - are a struggle:

Cheer up and don't despondent be

We've tasks we must fulfill;

Remember that behind the clouds

The Sun is shining still.

Ethel M Urry, 1921

This Dip Predilection

By Liz Folan 

Landlocked by Lockdown, my summer wings clipped, 

A mad Mersey mermaid enticed me to dip,

A pandemic paddle into sea foaming wild, 

Was ample temptation to rouse inner child.

To splash and to jump as the waves crashed to shore, 

That tidal tug making me crave just one more. 

Resplendent in floral swim hat, flimsy togs, 

I charged armed with tow float to howls of the dog, 

Who kept watchful eye on our Chilly Dip crew,

As we bobbed, shrieked and chatted in sea dazzling blue. 

A summer of magic and picnics and glee, 

Of kids building dune dens as mums sneak a wee, 

Of goose-fleshed giggling on misty dawn dips, 

Of dusk seas of fire and shivery blue lips,

Of ponchos and campfires and firm friendships forged,

Vegan bakes, Jackie’s cakes,  hot chocolate gorged. 

As Autumn draws in, there’s no fear of us dippers, 

We’ll always have dryrobes and sand in our knickers, 

And unbridled freedom despite shite restrictions, 

Because we’re all hooked on this dip predilection.

 

The 6th August Sitting here under the beech tree, listening to the quiet conversation of  neighbours and the rustle of leaves. The sun peeps out and scurries away  behind the clouds, but it is warm and soft  in the breeze that plays gently through the sway. Muffled motorbikes roar past and  planes drone overhead, the bees  and the flies buzz closer at hand  and I sit  and I listen and I feel. All the waves of grief and loss.  A wondering of what this day might have brought for us. I lit a candle to mark the day our baby should have come into the world and watched the wax melt and reform until the flame went out. I look down now at my beautiful  engagement ring. A promise. We crafted it as a branch of a tree and set a sparkling diamond with a heart of rainbows. It reflects the leaves of the beech tree above as I sit here and write. Hold Fast it says inside. It is a beautiful thing, to watch the glittering stone and the carpet of green grass beneath my feet. I can hear snippets of conversations nearby  as voices rise and fall and people pass by on the other side of the fence. High above me, a woman wearing purple lifts  a sash window and peers out.  It comes open with a mischievous squeak,  a sound far removed from all the others around.  and it makes me look up, drawing my attention.  She has beautiful white hair and as she  looks out upon the garden, I lean back slightly so that she will not notice me sitting here beneath the tree. I stay perfectly still, hoping that my own coat of green will provide camouflage and she draws her head back inside to continue her day. I look up one more time into the branches  of the beech and feel protected. It has wrapped its arms around me and sheltered me from pain. High above me, a woman wearing purple lifts  a sash window and peers out.  It comes open with a mischievous squeak,  a sound far removed from all the others around.  and it makes me look up, drawing my attention.  She has beautiful white hair and as she  looks out upon the garden, I lean back slightly so that she will not notice me sitting here beneath the tree. I stay perfectly still, hoping that my own coat of green will provide camouflage and she draws her head back inside to continue her day. I look up one more time into the branches  of the beech and feel protected. It has wrapped its arms around me and sheltered me from pain.

 

Prayer Carol Ann Duffy

Prayer Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer utters itself. So, a woman will lift her head from the sieve of her hands and stare at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift. Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth enters our hearts, that small familiar pain; then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth in the distant Latin chanting of a train. Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales console the lodger looking out across a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls a child's name as though they named their loss. Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer - Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre. Carol Ann Duffy The Times Saturday Review, 1992

April 7th poen from Shamballa

A meadow in which all flowers seek refuge,

one that no autumn touches, in which no rose drops its petals.

A tree green and graceful, in the middle of the desert,

if you sleep in its shade, you wake up drunk.

A firmament toward which all souls travel,

one where Saturn is not in strife with Venus.

A jewel from the mine of pure nonexistence,

to which the heart refers when eyes shed tears.

David's memories of our wedding ond our lives together

Hi Helen,
Well 30 years is such a long time for all of us.  I was 15 I guess, although when i look at the photos I look so much younger than that.  I look at myself then and I seem to be such a little boy, not sure of what is really going on but enjoying it none the less.
I remember buses, umbrellas, chips, ferries, buskers and lots of love.  I remember big imperial buildings and big empowering emotions.  It was a good time in my memory.
There are associations that I still try and define with dad and in later years with you and him together.  I can't quite put my finger on what I really remember or feel so I will try just putting down words and memories:  the oily crispy pizza in the Everyman restaurant years ago before they renovated it, the Chekov room before I knew who Chekov was, the Edinburgh festival when it was an idea of an apartment with artistic people and wine nothing more, the farm with cherry trees and haystacks, errant cows and fields of corn, a basement kitchen with candelabras and salads, assertiveness workshops, a first taste of acting, performance as something to be proud of, a guitar and amp from a Liverpool actor.
I know these might all seem like random thoughts but to me they are just a few memories that build up an picture of you and dad together, it is rich, complex and hard to define. It is though something that has lodged in my soul and it informs me everyday and guides me everyday as an artist and a manager.
You were always both an inspiration to me.  30 years on and still influencing those who love you.

The Dash

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​The Dash

by Linda Ellis copyright 1996

​I read of a man who stood to speak

at the funeral of a friend.

He referred to the dates on the tombstone

from the beginning…to the end.

He noted that first came the date of birth

and spoke the following date with tears,

but he said what mattered most of all

was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time

that they spent alive on earth.

And now only those who loved them

know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own,

the cars…the house…the cash.

What matters is how we live and love

and how we spend our dash.

So, think about this long and hard.

Are there things you’d like to change?

For you never know how much time is left

that can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough

to consider what’s true and real

and always try to understand

​the way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger

and show appreciation more

and love the people in our lives

like we’ve never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect

and more often wear a smile,

remembering that this special dash

might only last a little while.

​So, when your eulogy is being read,

with your life’s actions to rehash…

would you be proud of the things they say

about how you spent YOUR dash?

Yalom

Difficult decisions often have roots ;they reach into the bedrock of existential concerns and personal responsibility 

Yalom