Month: November 2017

ALL THE BLUE IN THE WORLD

 

At our front doorstep, we have a tiny flower, much
smaller than the other flowers around it, and yet it
is so blue, its blueness shines out and turns all the
 other lovely flowers into handmaidens. This flower
is called LITHODORA.

ALL THE BLUE IN THE WORLD

This tiny flower,
Smaller than a baby’s smallest finger,
is so blue,
The wonder is that any blueness
is left in the world,
Drenched and drowned in colour
as this little flower is.

There is passion here,
A deep, unfailing tenderness
In its tiny petalled perfection.
Nothing has been held back,
No scintilla of grace denied
To this small and lovely blossom.

This scrap of beauty,
Its clear blue flame
Shining down the damp and grassy darkness,
Lights the dark path in front of us,
Giving a sudden, startling glimpse
Of a blazing, generous love.
                                                  © GWEN GRANT

TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT

Sometimes, we see the reality of relationships
and sometimes, we don’t.

   TAKE IT OR LEAVE IT

If, carefully,
I made a blue Chinese junk
And put it at your feet
Very tenderly.
Would you take it into your hands
And keep it safe.
Or would you breathe upon it a small wind
To make it float away from you.

Or would you,
Very gently,
Maroon it on a waterlily
And let it rot.

          © GWEN GRANT

ANEMONES

Awake one night after a demanding day, I was thinking through
events and, at one point, deep in sadness and regret, I realised
I was forgetting all that gives comfort.  So that I could remember
those lovely things in future, I wrote this poem.

                     ANEMONES

Another scratchy night,
With the moon hiding and clouds
Covering the stars.
Bitter thoughts bringing bitter tears,
With memory offering no comfort
Or consolation.

Maybe there is a loving hand
To hold your hand,
And maybe not.
Maybe you will remember
Those who once loved you,
And maybe you will forget
How loved you once were.

But when memory fails,
When peace slides out of reach
And touch is never going to be the same again,
You will find strength
In the love that shows itself
In the tenderness of anemones,
Bunched in a small bowl,
Standing on a dark windowsill.

                                       ©GWEN GRANT

 

HOPSCOTCH

We all had our hopscotch stones, which we guarded with our lives. 
These were ordinary stones polished until they shone
and so, sped smoothly to the square we needed as if
they were on wheels.  But you had to judge how much impetus to
give to the stone and that was the secret!

When you’d worked that out, you had to hop to that square and
pick up your stone whilst still standing on one leg.  The first
one to triumphantly hit 9 and 10 and was able to hop to it without
putting a foot down through nerves or because you were being
heckled, exactly to that end, well, that was the one who won the
game.

There was another game we used to play – high-kelly, which
was doing a handstand against a wall.  You kept your head
up and stared at the red bricks until they were burnt onto your
eyes.  To do a high-kelly in the days when jeans were not an
option, meant tucking your skirt into the elasticated hems of
your knickers so that you were always ‘decent’!   As always,
with every endeavour, there was one little rebel who preferred
her skirt to hang down over head. Sometimes, you were the rebel,
sometimes it was someone else. But there was always room for
everyone – rebels and peace-makers both.

              HOPSCOTCH

Hopscotch isn’t a game,
It’s a science,
A mathematical challenge,
An exercise into just how far
Your stone will slide
Over those ten squares
Stretching into infinity.
Most important of all
Is the application of logic,
To determine if this
Is an exercise in futility
Or if you have at last learnt to hop,
And stand on one leg. 

                      © GWEN GRANT

 

NOW THIS HOUR

At this time in the UK, we have Armistice Day, which is the 11th day
of the 11th month, when we observe two minutes silence in love
and remembrance of all those who have died in war and other
conflicts.  I wrote this poem to remember all those who are no
longer with us.    

  NOW THIS HOUR

Now this hour has come
And he has gone.
Slipped the ties that moored him
To this, our common land.
And we, who have come
To salute him, have come late,
For he has already set his course
Into the morning sun.

He was valiant,
As are all who sail
These uncharted seas.
But we who have helped him 
Fashion his life barque
With faith and hope and love,
Together have made it strong.
Strong enough
To take him safely home.

Battalions go out to meet him,
To lead him
Into quiet harbour
On that sun-drenched shore
Where he waits for us.
But now, he turns and smiles,
And that most dear and valiant heart,
In his turn, salutes us.

                               ©GWEN GRANT