Rock
You are the rock
on which I build
my life.
You are the fairy castle
planned in paradise
where the sun always shines
and stress is distant.
How often have I mapped
your inner islands,
traveled your well-known ways,
always discovering
new sacred spots
where I can immerse myself
in your inner serenity?
You are the fortress
within whose walls
I can forget my past
and create my future.
What’s my favorite recipe?
I find it hard to talk about my favorite recipe at a time when so many people in this world of ours are desperately short of food. I get regular messages from the local food bank – can I help them out? And I try to do my best. Alas, my pittance is a drop in the ocean of want and need.
Our local supermarkets have food baskets that you can add to your food bill. These will then be handed over to those who distribute food to the needy. Then there are the checkouts where I am regularly asked if I will add $2 to my bill for the food bank. I usually give $5 or $10.
I see old men sitting at the entrances to stores, a coffee cup before them with some petty cash in it. I also see homeless, workless people at traffic lights with signs held up, asking for cash.
I don’t want to start on war zones, on the accidental-on-purpose starvation of people, on the targeted destruction of homes, animals, and crops. Nor do I want to contemplate the rising prices of what used to be staple groceries and are now becoming luxury items – olive oil, meat, coffee.
While I can still afford some, but not all, luxuries, far too many people can’t. And yet you ask me what is my favorite recipe? Well, here goes –
Take one pound of charity, stir in a pound of love, add a spoon full of humanity, mix with half a pint of the milk of human kindness, sprinkle the mix with a half cup of sugar – to take away some of life’s bitterness, pepper it with ground Good Samaritanism – to add some neighborly love, and complete it with essence of humanity – to remind us that we are still human. Then distribute it, free of charge, everywhere you possibly can but, above all, not just to the needy, but to those who are capable of changing the situation, but for some reason or other, refuse to do so.
Pax amorque.
Carved in Stone
Brief Introduction
“Poetry explains itself. If it doesn’t, it’s inexplicable.” Pedro Salinas.
I entered this collection of poems for the Alfred G. Bailey Awad (poetry manuscript), WFNB, 2025. Alas, it did not win an award, but the judge, Kathy Mac, made some excellent suggestions as to how I might improve the manuscript. I have followed her advice to the best of my ability.
Carved in Stone is the second dialog (Chronotopos II) in my Bakhtinian Dialogs with my time and my place. Clepsydra, Chronotopos I, won third place in the Bailey Award (2025) and has already been published. I have one, possibly two, more Dialogs planned.
Reception Theory – I write, you read. Any meaning that you extract from my poetry will depend on your own culture and background. Tolle, Lege – Take and read. Read slowly, and with care.
I am a poet, a dreamer, if you will. These are my dreams. When you enter my world, you mingle your dreams with mine. The result, I hope, will be an interesting intellectual blend of new creativity. Pax amorque.
1
Behold me here,
filled with a sort of shallow,
hollowed-out wisdom
accumulated over decades
while listening with my eyes
to the words and thoughts
of writers, long-dead.
Imprisoned in book pages,
do they bang their heads
against walls that bind,
or hammer with their fists
at the barred lines
of their printed cages?
These spirits long to break free,
but they choke on library dust
and pollen from verbal flowers
that bloom unseen.
Those old ones avoided
the traps of temporal power,
or, once trapped,
gnawed off a precious limb
to limp into freedom.
Comment:
The cover painting, painted for me by my friend Moo when he read the manuscript of this book, is called Coal Face. It refers to the young Welsh boys in the Rhondda coal fields, aged 8-12 years old, who went down the mines to work at the coal face. This happened when the coal seams grew thin and only small children had the ability to work at the coal face and carve and mine the coal. Here are the relevant verses (44 – 45).
44
The old man, withered,
last house on the left,
leaning on his garden wall,
coughing, spitting up
coal dust and blood.
He’s not old, when you get close,
just grown old, underground,
where emphysema
and pneumoconiosis
devour men and boys.
He spits on the side walk.
Mining souvenirs,
Max Boyce calls them,
and they appear
every time the young man,
turned suddenly old,
starts to cough.
He can’t walk far,
wearing carpet slippers,
soft and furry,
just leans on the wall.
He fell, or was pushed,
into the trap at an early age,
when the coal seams
had grown so thin,
that only a small boy
could kneel at the coal face
before the black altar
of the underground god.
There, with a pick and shovel
he learned to carve and shape
those seams.
45
No candles burned at that altar.
A single match, let alone
a candle flame,
would spell the end,
if gas leaked from the seam.
Only the canaries,
confined in their cages,
sang songs.
Doomed,
like the blind pit ponies,
never to see the light of day,
they lived out their lives
down there.
So many died underground,
unable to get out,
buried alive,
before they were even dead.
Clepsydra
WFNB 2025 BAILEY PRIZE: 3rd Place
Citation
Clepsydra relates a process of identity loss, as time’s passing removes the people closest to the eroding narrator. Its consistent form – the manuscript is one long poem made up of 48 sections of varying length, each of which begins and ends with an ellipsis – provides a framework in which the narrator strives to describe how their sense of self drains away, drop by drop, the way the liquid in a clepsydra (a water clock) marks the passing of time. Amazingly, the poems convey existential dread through remarkably vivid and grounded images of things like “seals basking in sunshine, / knowing themselves, being themselves, / thinking themselves safe, / kings and queens of their seal-dom, / never questioning” (19) and “…an osprey, sudden, the swoop, / turned into a stoop, water shattered, total immersion, then emerging, / lusty thrust of wings, claws clasping, / prey imprisoned” (20). Sense slides in and around the sounds of the words as well as in their dictionary meanings. In Clepsydra the author rigorously plumbs a difficult subject: the loss of subjectivity.
Exhortation
Thank you for the privilege of reading your poetry manuscript, Clepsydra. I was quite taken with all of its virtues: a meaningful concept, carried out in an impressive form which is followed both rigorously and nimbly in each section.
Introduction
The National Museum of Wales, in Cardiff, had a working Clepsydra that fascinated me. School children could enter free, and every week day, during the school holidays, I would visit the museum and also the Clepsydra.
I have built the structure of the Clepsydra into the verses of this book. The words flow down, from left to right, just like the waters of the Clepsydra. Sometimes they overflow the line, and sometimes they hold back, just a little. This visual construction fortifies the idea of the ebb and flow of time, water, and memories.
I first met the poetic image of the Clepsydra in the poetry of Antonio Machado – No temas. Tú no verás caer la última gota que en la clepsidra tiembla. / Never fear. You will not see the fall of the last waterdrop that trembles in the clepsydra. I have, for better or for worse, repeated this theme throughout the poetic dialog.
I would like to thank the judge, the poet Kathy Mac, for her comments and her excellent suggestions. I have followed most of them in this revision of the original manuscript. My thanks go to all who have read Clepsydra at one time or another.
Clepsydra
1
… time, and my own place
not this dry museum
filled with dust
its ghosts, running rampant,
raging silent
over ancient artefacts
the clepsydra dreaming
time like its liquid
slipping
through clay fingers
runnels of water
ebbing flowing
continually running down
earthen-throated
its hour glass structure
each terracotta bowl
lower than the one before
a mini-cataract
a constant waterfall
second by second
time dwindling away…
Nightmares
The jaws that bite,
the claws that snatch,
the hands grasping you
through the railings
as you scuttle upstairs.
Those same hands descending,
beating, shaking you,
back and forth, a rag doll,
then thrusting you into
that cold, dark cupboard
beneath the stairs, no story,
your childhood reality.
And now, those dreams come back
and you lie awake watching
as the grey revenants return
and the nightmares repeat
themselves, again and again.
And return they will, until
that final curtain call,
when the stage turns black,
and you’ll never be taunted,
haunted, and hunted ever again.
Comment:
On Thursday night we discussed the difference between poetry of play and poetry that expresses the authenticity of being. Into which category does this poem fall. Intertextuality – the idea of texts talking to texts. How many different texts can you count, talking to each other in this poem that may even be a Jackpine Sonnet?
Poppy Day
Remembrance Day
11 November 2024
I wasn’t there
I never saw the gas clouds
rolling over our positions
never felt the barbed wire’s bite
nor the bayonet’s jab
I never hung out my washing
on the Siegfreid Line
(“Have you any dirty washing, mother dear?”)
never broke out of barracks
never did spud bashing
nor feasted on bread and water
nor heard the rifle’s rapid rattle
I wasn’t there
to see them carried away in carts
coughing spluttering vomiting
or bandages over their eyes
walking slowly to triage a hand on
the shoulder of the man ahead
the sighted leading the blind
I wasn’t there
but both my grandfathers were
both decorated
one mentioned in dispatches
signed by Winston Churchill
that one uninjured
the other one gassed
coughing up his lungs
bit by bit for forty years
I am here now
to remember
and to honor them
though so much
has been lost
Comment:
My friend, the painter known as Moo, painted this poppy today. My generation, unless they served voluntarily, as many have done, was never conscripted. As a result, the horrors and tragedies of combat were never known to us, except as seen through they eyes of other people. I think of Wilfred Owen and his magnificent, heart-rending poems from WWI.
Today, I pay tribute to those members of my family who served in the armed forces by land, sea, and air. I also pay tribute to the veterans who survived, and to those who gave their lives in the defense of our country.
Solitary 1 & 2
1
They drove me there,
passed through the gates,
unpacked my trunk,
chatted with the head,
shook my hand,
then drove away.
The metallic clang
of the closing gates
still lives with me.
How old was I?
Six? Seven?
I no longer know
and there’s nobody
left alive to tell me.
I remember so well
the woodgrain on the desk,
the carved initials,
the loneliness that bit,
the barred windows
of that empty classroom.
2
An only child,
taken away,
left among strangers?
Why, why, why?
Doubt’s pinball
bounces round
my empty skull.
What am I?
Who am I?
Why am I?
How did I become
whatever it is
that I became?
mea culpa
mea culpa
mea maxima culpa
Was I the one to blame?
Comment:
I prefer it as two poems, rather than a poem and a commentary. It may even be better written in the third person. I’ll have to think about that! It’s always a good way to work. Thank you to all who commented, by email or otherwise! Your comments always help me think, and re-think.
Solitary
They drove me there,
passed through the gates,
unpacked my trunk,
chatted with the head,
shook my hand,
then drove away.
The metallic clang
of the closing gates
still lives with me.
How old was I?
Six? Seven?
I no longer know
and there’s nobody
left alive to tell me.
I remember so well
the woodgrain on the desk,
the carved initials,
the loneliness that bit,
the barred windows
of that empty classroom.
Comment:
Looking back, I wonder just how and why I ended up in a series of boarding schools, starting when I was only six years old. What does that abandonment do to an only child, taken away, and left among strangers? I still have nightmares and wake up screaming, from time to time.
Why, why, why? The pinball of doubt bounces round the interior of my head as I struggle to plot different paths, different ways, how life could have, might have, been so different.
I guess that schooling, force fed, made me what I am. But then the pin ball starts again – what am I? Who am I? Why am I? And how did I become whatever it is that I became? Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa – was I then the one to blame?
Then There’s The Nights … KTJ
As a child my days were good.
Full of wonder and being misunderstood.
Growing and learning without knowing love.
But always guided by the Lord up above.
The days were filled with hope in my sights.
Then there’s the nights.
Trying to make sense of my life in a bed I did not own.
Fighting demons no child should ever fight alone.
Dreams of monsters under the bed.
Thoughts of not belonging filling my head.
Longing for a normal Mom and Dad.
Crying myself to sleep and feeling sad.
At 14, I thought I was grown.
Stealing my food and living alone.
Leaving behind a brief life with my dad.
Street life was hard, but it was all that I had.
The days seemed to pass by all right.
Then there’s the nights.
Fear of passing by where the dead lay to rest.
I’d stand with my thumb out and hope for the best.
I was told it was the living I should fear.
But my mind was confused
and my thoughts were unclear.
Sleeping in ditches and dreaming of a home.
No one to care for me, I was alone.
Years passed by as if in slow motion.
People came and went, playing on my emotions.
More than one marriage, with hopes of a happy home.
Each time I was sure I was done being alone.
I kept telling myself life was sunny and bright.
Then there’s the nights.
Sleeping once again in a bed I didn’t own.
Waiting for a husband who does not come home.
Anger and confusion running through my head
Wondering if he was sleeping in another woman’s bed.
I wanted to scream and demand he be true.
But you don’t have that option if someone’s abusing you.
I’ve finally made it to the last quarter of my life.
I no longer desire to be anyone’s wife.
I have my independence and a loving heart.
I want love, but I also need time apart.
To grow and learn and miss the ones I love.
I have been truly blessed by God above.
Then there’s the nights
Sometimes sleeping in a bed, I don’t care if I own.
Nights full of contentment for me and me alone.
I’ve let go of the dream of two hearts and souls
intertwined as one.
Finally, my worries and grief are done.
The rest of my journey will be full of peace and love.
Once again, I thank the good Lord above.
Comments
Yesterday, I posted a painting that KTJ associated with one of her poems, Addiction. Last night, my friend, Moo, painted this painting which accords with one of KTJ’s poems entitled And then there’s the nights. This is the lead poem in her first poetry collection, I am my tattoos. This linking of the verbal (poetry) with the visual (a painting) has been a technique I have used before. The movement between visual and verbal often generating a shifting pattern of colors and images in the reader’s / viewer’s mind. These collaborations between artists are very productive. Long may they continue.
NB If you, dear reader, would be interested in writing for one of Moo’s paintings, just drop me a line, or leave a note in the comments section.
Scour the news for an entirely uninteresting story. Consider how it connects to your life. Write about that.
Scour the news – what on earth does that mean? Let’s begin with scour – If you scour something such as a place or a book, you make a thorough search of it to try to find what you are looking for. Rescue crews had scoured an area of 30 square miles. Synonyms: search, hunt, comb, ransack. Search, hunt, scour, ransack – well? Which one are you after? And how long have I got? Question: what am I looking for? Answer: an entirely uninteresting story. What a tremendous waste of my time. And, when you get to my age, time is precious.
As for the news, well, what on earth do you mean by that? I speak several languages fluently. Am I looking for an entirely uninteresting piece of news in all of them? As one of the Two Ronnies used to say “You’re having me on, aren’t you? You’re having me on.” Let’s just stick to one language – English. Then let us ponder for a moment the meaning of the news. How many newspapers do you wish me to purchase and peruse? I am not a millionaire, you know. Or do you want me to listen to the news on the radio or the television? If so, how many channels? How about sending me online? I love the thought of that. There are thousands of websites out there filled with all kinds of news, good bad, indifferent, fake, artificial? And you want me to scour them all in search of, and I quote “an entirely uninteresting story”! Pull the other one, as the old comedians used to say, ‘”it’s got bells on”.
I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll scour your prompt, that’s what I’ll do. Having given it a brief analysis, I declare it entirely uninteresting. Next I’ll consider how it links to my life. Well, sorry, it doesn’t. If I were to follow it through, I’d be sitting here for hours, wearing my fingers out on the keyboard. So, what’s the link between your prompt and my life? A total waste of time, that’s what. Sorry, I have better things to do with my life. Like reading Shakespeare – “Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and prompt readers, lend me your shovels. I come to bury this prompt, not to praise it.”
Here endeth the lesson and the prompt.
rogermoorepoet 