| Selected Poems
by Michael Graeme |
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Selected Poems by Michael Graeme Index ~ From This Old Cottage Window ~ The Singing Loch ~ Spirits ~ Hawkshead ~ The Muddy Moorland Way ~ ~ My Old Room ~ The Canal Bank ~ This Precious Land ~ Business Man ~ Warrington ~ ~ The Dark House ~ First Love ~ Our Forbidden Ways ~ On Spitler's Edge ~ Winding Down ~ ~ The Vision of the Golden Flower ~ The Old School Blues ~ The Ruins of Old Rachel's ~ ~ The Wheel of the Year ~ The Song of Scope End ~ These poems, and others, are also available as a printed volume or as a free e-book from Lulu.com You can get it by clicking here. From this old cottage window, A tall tree I can see, And beyond it in the distance, A mountain calls to me. . It called to me last night as well, In the evening afterglow. It held me with its darkening form, And would not let me go. . It pressed against the window pane, As I lay in my bed. In hushed sweet tones it spoke to me, Come up and see it said. . For would it not be very fine, To merge into my folds, And climb into this rocky seat, With all laid out below. . "Oh yes it would be very fine," I say and gaze in vain. "But now all your rugged beauty, Can only cause me pain." . No mountain, I will not climb you, No matter how you try. This weekend's for my lover. To her I give my time. . For she is worthier than you. She keeps me safe and warm. But you, you'd threaten danger, And try to do me harm. . But danger makes the pulse beat race, At least it's so with me. As worldly things are cast aside, It sets my spirit free. . How can my lover understand, Though she's to bear my name? I sometimes need to walk alone, To find myself again. . But mountain, you do not fool me, Though to my heart you're dear, For all your Alpine beauty, Up there you're sweat and fear. . For you are made of rock and scree, Piled high to make you whole. And from this old cottage window, You're a mirror for my soul. .............. Dolwyddellan - N. Wales May 1989 At last I hear you Singing Loch, Sing out your song I pray, And gather up the pilgrim, Who honours you this day. . You are the ageless anchorage, You are the universe, And if you die then so do I, And fools shall have the earth. . They say they own you Singing Loch, But how can that be so? For though they see you shining, Your song they'll never know. . Indeed they'd sooner pawn their souls, To drain your waters dry, And sell them off as Angel's tears, For people who can't cry. . So sing to me of lands set free, Where all mankind may range And death stalks not your children, To pay the landlord's wage. ............ July 1990 A host of spirits stalk this place, Their voices draw me so, Towards these hills, These misty moors, These trackless, timeless folds. I long to see that hidden face, The face that's seen me pass, Through childhood games, And teenage pain, To happiness at last. I crave the wisdom of its age, So I can see what's true, And spurn all dreams of foolish pride, Of wealth, of flesh, of youth. I search the moody, windswept stage, To find the shapeless door, That bars all progress to my thoughts, The way my thoughts should go. Or is there nothing here for real? Just something in my head. So what I seek is in my mind; This place is truly dead! And all these spirits that I feel, Are only parts of me. Parts that here, in quietude, Are finally set free. ................ July 1990 I hear the gentle sound of rain, So soft, so fine, against the pane, And I am in Hawkshead once more, Remembering the time before, When you and I first passed this way, One shy and clumsy Autumn day. First heartfelt kiss, first tender word, In growing shades of dusk I heard. A walk, a talk, from shackles free, Snug from the world, just you and me. It seems so long ago and yet, That moment I shall not forget. For here it was that I first knew, Without a doubt, that I loved you. ................ Hawkshead Autumn 1990 I'll go the muddy moorland way, And into those dark hills I'll stray. With trusty pack upon my back, I'll etch my boot-prints up that track, Until at last somewhere on high, I find a cleaner, broader sky. And then with flask of tea in hand, I'll take a stock of who I am; Of what I've done and where I've been, And ask if life is all it seems. I'll go the muddy moorland way, And though it takes the whole long day, I shall return a stronger man, Than when my journey first began. ....... February 1990 My old room looks so sad and empty now. The Paper on the walls is scratched and worn, And yet to me, it's really just the same somehow, The same as on the day that I was born. The furniture and colours have all changed, I know. But still familiar memories I can find. Memories of events that were so long ago. Like postcards from the byways of my mind. These four walls have been my study and my workshop. And through this window, the broody hills have called. While I've spent many fruitless hours at my desktop. Or fingered chords of love on my guitar. Here my innocence was moulded into manhood, And from my childhood toys I slowly grew apart. Imagination built my hasty towers of romance, Which crumbled in the storm of broken hearts. Many diaries once sat upon those bookshelves. In them, catalogues of joy and pain I wrote, Images and feelings that my thoughts once held, A restless sea of words on which to float. All the girls that I have loved come back to haunt me. It was here that I would come to hide the pain, When the game was lost and I was tired and lonely, And all the world was cold and cruel and grey. But now the golden fruits of life at last I've tasted, And of all that's gone before, I've no regrets. All the years I've worn in here I think weren't wasted. And this scrapbook of my life I shan't forget. ....... February 1991 Dirt inland waterway, Your silent waters weep, While fishermen your dark depths play, For little fish to keep. . Rats along the reedy banks, Rats down little holes. An old boat rotting where it sank, With nowhere else to go. . Buckets floating upside down, Condoms round the edge, Poor old pussy long since drowned, And beer cans in the hedge. . There's dog-dirt on the towpath, Mind where you put your feet. Pastoral wonder - that's a laugh. It's cleaner on the streets. ....... March 1991 I see your standards flying, Across this precious land, And the redbrick legions lying, Beneath your guiding hand. . Your spies are out - I see them. With their bright theodolite, To which we're all beholden, For tomorrow's building site. . No more the silent wild-wood. No more the ferny glen. All gone, all hid beneath death's hood, Ne'er to be seen again. .......... June 1991 What are you doing business man, So far away from home, With trouser legs all wrinkled, As you sit there on your own? . Customers in Newcastle? Board meeting in Slough? Then four hours traffic hotel bound. What are you doing now? . Fish and chips at Corley, On the M6 motorway, And a quick read of your paper, At the ending of the day? . And is your paper comforting? Somewhere to hide your eyes? To keep your thoughts from straying, From that corporate disguise? . Or are you really unconcerned, And merely passing through, Oblivious to the rest of us, Who barely notice you? . Your wife, your kids, forgotten, In some bland suburban place, Her parting kisses fading fast, Upon your weary face. . A 'phone call from the hotel, On the ten pence slot machine. "Hi Hun. I'll see you Friday." "Keep it hot - know what I mean?" . Or is it not like that at all? No solace from the roar? Just passion grabbed like Fast-food, With a wolf outside the door? . Meanwhile you sit there don't you? Indigestion on the run, A headache from the red tail lights, And the week barely begun. . Still four hours traffic hotel bound. A Nightmare in the rain. With just an Aspirin in your pocket, To soak away the pain. ...... October 1992 I heard it on the radio. Another bomb it said. There are people lying bleeding, And children lying dead. . But how can that be so, I thought, As I gunned the car for home. It's barely fifty miles away. How could I not have known? . How could I not have felt that pain, And heard those anguished cries, While I took my pleasure walking, Under stormy Lakeland skies? . Or was Helvellyn angry, With its rain and sleet and snow? Was its wild wind set a roaring, For a world they've ceased to know? . The motorway was gloomy, At the fading of the light, And the wagons slipped behind me, As I drove into the night. . And as I chased the static round, Again the radio spoke. Someone had lost their legs, it said, And all was black with smoke. . But innocence is no excuse. Was it ever in the past? Explosives in a rubbish bin. No warning of the blast! . A tanker truck roared past me, And gruffly forged its way. He had business to attend to, Not a moment to delay. . Perhaps he hadn't heard yet. For I don't see how he could, With his foot down on the throttle, And his eyes fixed on the road. . But if he had why should he care? It happens all the time! How can he weep for every soul, To be cut down in its prime? . My junction was ahead of me, So I eased out from the lane, And came up to the roundabout, Shuddering with pain. . For sadness is a greetings card, With hearts and crosses red, And a mother weeping emptiness, The sender lying dead. . I shan't forget you Warrington. Your grief was felt by me, This Saturday March the twentieth, Nineteen Ninety Three. ....... March 1993 Dark days in the summer sun, With a dark house leaning over me. I smell its breath, Stale, Like old bread. There is no peace here, Only dust and dirt, And insects, Like the darting silver fish, Who feel the empty air, With their fingers as they pass. And worms, Who suck their silent way, Through the beams above my head. And brown stag-headed beetles, In my underwear. These old rooms refuse to live, Though I've sweated hours with tiles, And warm paper. But my fresh patterns fade, Like flowers in a dry vase. There is no spirit, To sustain them. It sits atop this grassy bank, A pile of red and yellow brick, And paint-peeled wood. Every crevice a haven, For the web-mad spiders, Who spin and feast, Upon neglect. The conifers look on. An audience of shaggy, fat old men. Blank faces in the garden. Silent witness to the shin high grass, And the nettle, And the gaudy cellophane. Slow - so slow, Each room receives its gift, Of fragile breath, And the shadow of a pulse begins to beat, Through long forgotten veins, Still sluggish with the fat, Of endless, endless sleep. ........ October 1993 Summer days and the fresh-cut scent of grass turn back the fast accelerating years, as memories of hotbed days long past fill up the grooves of first-love's acid tears. Then images too stark, too real for words, return like it was only yesterday I gazed upon her fifth-form schoolgirl curves, and slowly fantasised my youth away. Down sun-bright corridors I'd watch her breeze with books and folders held against her breast, whilst I, that fateful moment tried to seize with fate's sharp knife plunged squarely in my chest. Those moments, all so futile and so vain. Those eyes so blind, she never saw my pain. ....... April 1994 Our moorland way lies undisturbed, The waters of our brook unheard, And bluebells in our woodland deep, All bow their heads alone and weep. . Our lakeside path, our forest ride, Our way down by the riverside, And all those sylvan haunts we've known, Forbidden now for us to roam. . The curlew's plaintive, piping cry, The rapture of the lark on high, And every beat of nature's heart, Are secrets kept while we're apart. . So let it be that when at last, This plague upon our land has passed, We'll walk again God's verdant ways, And cherish all that He displays. ...... September 2001 I was crossing Spitler's Edge, With the sun touching the sea, When a stranger on a dark horse, From the distance came to me. . So I took myself aside a-ways, To let the traveller pass, And leaning on my crook I paused, Amid a sea of grass. . From there I watched the sky ablaze, Above a darkening land, Until I felt a chill and spied, The stranger close at hand. . He stood upon the hillside, While his horse about him grazed, And with his eyes cast westwards, On that same sunset he gazed. . He wore a cloak of coarsest wool, Around his shoulder's broad, And, across his back was slung, I swear, a mighty sword. . But I did not fear the stranger, When at length his gaze met mine, For I knew we shared that hillside, Across a gulf of time. . I nodded my slow greeting, And he duly did the same, Then he climbed upon his patient steed, And ambled off again. . But turning back he caught my eye, Then slightly cocked his head, And smiled to me a kindly smile: "Fare thee well, pilgrim..." he said. ...... Croston April 2002 We don't cut metal any more, The lathes have gone, Their silenced roar, Resounds throughout the empty shed, Where once the hands and minds of men, From cold cast iron and brass's gleam, Built us a world of heat and steam. As expertly they turned away, And engineered to perfect form, Geometry of science born. A skill, a time, a world laid waste, Amid the echoes of this place, The hands and hearts and minds all gone, A time wound down, A world moved on. ...... October 2002 The Vision of the Golden Flower Be still, your heart, my true love said, Do not my favours seek, But through the stillness of your heart, Listen when I speak. . Strain not against the path of fate. Such fires you feel within. But all your anguished cries be lost, Like whispers in the wind. . That path shall turn your heart to stone, And stone shall render nought, Such are the storms inside yourself, The harder I be sought. . So bide in faith and think on this: Abandon all to fate. Then surely shall I come to you. And open up the gate. . And pressing through the garden shine Upon your weary eyes, A vision of such loveliness, Behind a veiled disguise. . For love, you shall not know me, Nor comprehending yet, The nature of our destiny, My face shall you forget. . And surely will I lead you then, Into the lady's bower, Where one more fair shall offer you, A sweetly scented flower. . But take you not this offering, The flower that she shows, Lest make her sensuality, A prison for your soul. . And locked inside that lonely place, There shall you long endure, Until the ending of your days, Deliver you once more. . How many times, my well beloved? How many times since then? Spellbound by such loveliness, You took her flower again? . A flower she holds, the sweetest rose, And you are on your knees, Believing such is all there is, When all you seek is me. . So offer up your sense of self, Be still, your beating heart, This lady's love you shall not have, And from her shall you part. . Then taking not her scented flower, Your journey might begin. When she reveals the hidden door, And bids you enter in. . There find a bower within the first, It walls adorned with jewels, Where the blazing light of noonday Casts shadows deep and cool. . And from those shadows shall emerge, One lovelier than the last. And trailing silks and finery, A golden flower she'll clasp. . From richness she reveals herself, And twirls the golden stalk. Scattering sunbeams in your eyes, Seducing you with talk. . How well you've done to come this far Into my secret bower, Why, none are more deserving than To have this golden flower. . And surely will she offer you, That golden flower to take, And all its riches due to you, Of this make no mistake. . How her lips, they will invite you, Her words they will entrance, But do not take the golden flower, If you seek to advance. . A choice of paths be then revealed. Two doorways will she show, One tall and grand, fit for a king, The other plain and low. . Take you my word, that kingly way, Shall bring you kingly fame, But no more breadth of vision, Than any might attain. . So take you then the other way, The way that leads within. That place is dark and null of form, The place we shall begin. . Think then of light, and light there be, Of worlds and be they born, Think then a guide to show the way, And from the void she'll form. . But choose her well for all you are, Shall in her then be told. Think well you then how much you trust, This image of your soul. . Trust well your self? Your truest self? To lead you through the void? For any darkness in your heart, The woman's heart destroys. . And instead be born a harpy, Inviting you to dance, Condemning to oblivion, Bedazzling with a trance. . Or think you of the joys of flesh, A harlot take the part, Who's endless tawdry games reflect, Her shallowness of heart. . And think not then of beauty lest, She fade into a crone, Nor think of love and loneliness, Or icy cold she'll grow. . So few have ever reached this pass, And fewer passed this test, Think then you pure and stout of heart? Think you better than the rest? . Beware such self aggrandisement, Or vain your guide shall grow. And crossing then that wilderness, The way she shall not know. . Thus round and round you'll circle, Till anger take your hearts, And both your selves raise demons, And tear both selves apart. . But pass this test and from this void, Shall step your truest guide, And face you then the wilderness, This woman by your side. . Let her lantern light the darkness, And trust in what she says, For only one of nature born, Can follow nature's ways. . One treads the paths of wisdom now, But such a gift comes dear, When clarity of vision, Reveals your greatest fear. . And you see the way before you, Leads to the setting sun, And your weariness reminds you, How many leagues you've come. . And falling down into the dust, Your spirit sinking low, How your heart shall feel the distance, The distance yet to go. . Think then perhaps a dwelling place, Wherein you both might lie, For a union of such virtue, Some paradise might buy. . And there amid the wilderness, A stately tree shall grow. Yet for all its wondrous beauty, My love you'll never know. . But think you strong then do not chance, That place in which to bide. But take the hand she offers you. And let her be your guide. . Then striking out upon that way, The way it was begun, Draw you deep upon her wisdom, And walk into the sun. . There shall you find my secret bower A bower of purest light, And there love shall we meet at last, And there shall we unite. . And there shall I reveal myself As all that's ever been, And there shall I reveal to you, What you've already seen. . Your modesty alone my love, Shall bring you to this bower, And then, yes, only then my love, Might you touch the Golden Flower. ...... January 2004 The old school's standing empty now, Its playground echoes thin. No more our sons and daughters, Shall brightly enter in. . A century of children's feet, Four generations gone. Loud rings the air with memories, Of their dance and play and song. . Of All Thing's Bright and Beautiful, And sums and ABC's, Of Vikings and of Romans, And England's Kings and Queen's. . And if we pause and listen, To the silence of that air, What images shall haunt us, From down the dusty years? . Of registers, how many filled, With names so crisply called? Now scattered through the decades, Like leaves tossed in a storm. . And windows tall like tombstones, So brightly filled with sky, Where children from their lessons, Would lift a homesick eye. . And urge the clock beat faster, To the ending of the day, When the cheery bell of home-time, Would send them on their way. . And then how many left those walls, Their young lives to begin, On paths that led to Flanders, And the forests of Ardennes? . All blood and bone and boredom, And teary childhood morn, Seeping decade after decade, Into the blackened stone. . And sepia prints of faces lost, As time moves swiftly on. Long may this place unite them all, Even when it's gone. ...... April 2004 Through stillness came the echoes of lost time, The scrape of clog and crump of boot on stone, When voices part the amber evening-tide, And claim once more these ruins as their home. . So many seasons gone since once this earth, With callused hand and back set to the plough, Saw furrows turned and land that shoed its worth, In golden bounty, lost to memory now. . For time does render all things unto nought, From blood and bone to dust before we know, Life's meaning lost the harder it is sought, Each harvest won that future seeds might grow. . Yet through the simple closing of my eyes, All once there passed here comes once more to life. ...... January 2005 Samhain Bloodshot and spent, October Sun, Slips low, while long do shadows run, Until by Dark Moon's crescent rise, The death of light be prophesied. . Then loud the Samhain fires shall roar, Marking the season to withdraw. A time when spirits gather in, To share once more the hearths of men. . When headlong tips the darkening year, As southward slips the sunlight's cheer, And shade of night's dread hand hold sway, Until the solstice of decay. ______ Imbolc And then once more the days we count, 'Till eve of February mount, And bright moon lights fair Brigid's way, That she might come and bless the flame. . And keep alive through frost crisp nights, The Imbolc prayer of hope and life, That lost sun mount once more the sky, And Brigid's goodness to him fly. . 'Till Springtime's moons of glowing grace, Doth soften the earth and yield a trace, Of nature's bounty pushing through, The miracle of life renewed. _______ Beltain Now Beltain fires mark turn of May, When Sun shall warm the earth again, And we shall kindle hearths anew, As light o'er dark again wins through. . When May Queen takes once more her King, That fruits of Summer shall they bring. And all who blessings then do seek, Shall through the fires of Beltain leap. . Thus Summer time at last is come, And days grow longer, one by one, Till solstice shall presage the time, When dark shall come and light shall die. _______ Lughnasadh But yet the eve of August come That fruits of mother earth be won, When Harvest Moon shall linger bright And scythes shall reap into he night. . And so Lughnasadh's feast begins, With nature's bounty gathered in, When dance and games and stories told, Enrich the lives of young and old. . And then shall quietly fall the night, As Dark Moon comes to steal the light, 'Till Samhain fires once more shall burn, And one more time the wheel be turned. . Another year but nothing lost, For though the grass be pale with frost, We trust in Nature's old refrain: "All that once was shall be again." ........ October 2005 Returning to what was my first true love, In whom once I'd spied the misty source of soul, Among black mountains and the poets' verdant vales, I climbed a pathway long and thence above, The vale from Scope End to far Dale Head did go, Seeking nothing there but to spend the day, In walking, Though not through walking seek to find my way. . Rather it was to live again those days, When I sought in me the muscle and the strength, Of that shy, angry youth within whose troubled mind, The fires of disconnectedness did blaze. And so thus it was, deep breathed, I came at length, Into that secret realm, and there did find, Rare silence, Of the manifest world left far behind. . Upon Dale Head that day the light was thin, For the verdant green lay pale beneath the mist, And solidity of all substance there had waned, As vagueness over certainty did win. And thus with all firm reality dismissed, And abstract notions coursing through my brain, I saw her, And there did feel the source of soul again. . So fair of face, the stranger sat apart, As she gazed out o'er the hidden vale below, And then divining inside me what moved in her, Her face did shine a light upon my heart, Raising up love's lonely bones from long ago, A hungry spirit then that fain would share, With me, Dark secrets sealed within a cryptic prayer. . Too much did prove this feeling in my veins, And in great surprise I moved myself along, Stern willed against how very much I longed to bide. While mists swarmed thickly covering up my shame, And I hoped my heart these thoughts would not prolong, So sinking me once more into my stride I walked on, And from this source of soul thus did I hide. . Too well this kind of love I thought I knew, So sudden and so searing in its touch, But in my youth I had not really known its face, From all the other loves I'd struggled through, Gleaning naught when I been hoping for so much. 'Twas wisdom then that led me from that place, Yet strangely, Thereafter all the while did my heart ache, . But strange ache this, and not for something lost, Nor for riches yet that I still hoped to claim. I yearned for something without substance, without form, A boundless love that comes without a cost, And such a one that does not need to bear a name, Yet from whose womb each one of us is born, Searching, and Wondering at the meaning of it all. . Nameless then this spirit in me was spun, Though quietly now as o'er Martcrag Moor I roamed, Gazing down upon Derwent's shock of cobalt blue, So that I thought my freedom had been won. But coming down at length then to the road, The source of soul revealed itself anew, Quite shocking, In the simple unfolding of a view. . Scope End, mid verdant vales, a shapely cone, With a narrow strip of lonely country road, Descending gently to the heart of woodland green, Late summer rich, with kiss of hazy sun, And still that shadow of a love not yet bestowed, Became at once a most mysterious key, Unlocking, A hidden door, within the heart of me. . At once I was not there but was dissolved, Within the fabric of all I gazed upon, While every atom of my being like stars became. And in a stroke was seemingly resolved, The cryptic prayer of two expressed as one. What dwells without and dwells within are both the same. And at my journey's end there did I find. A walking, We are but the reflections of one mind. . The source of soul bends naught to will I'm clear, And rather by its thoughts to being we're born, That as a fragment of this greater self we bide, Not long upon this sparkling thought-spun sphere, Bearing witness to a life lived quite alone, While soul sieves wisdom through the mesh of mind, And gleaning, All it can glean through these, its thought-spun eyes. ...... November 2006 Written in retrospect of an incident in the region of Little Town, Cumberland, around the year 2000. Copyright © M Graeme 1989-2006 |