Category: creativity

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

UNESCO WORLD POETRY DAY

Today is UNESCO WORLD POETRY DAY so here is my poem. It has been up before
but you can never have too many poems!

I just got so exasperated with the poem I was planning to write.  I could see
it in my mind’s eye. I could even hear it but I just could not write it. We
were planning a trip to Scotland at the time and I thought maybe that
was where my poem had gone, on the train before ours.  So the poem
that got away was probably perfect! Leaving me with this one.

    THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

The last time I saw that poem
It was getting on a train
For the far north.
It likes it up there,
Crunching about in the ice and snow,
Climbing up small mountains,
Picking up the odd abandoned word
Or lovely phrase
Lying amongst the grey stones and heather.

By nightfall, it’ll be in its room, changing,
Emptying its pockets onto the bed,
Choosing a word to sparkle here,
A phrase to quietly glow there,
Getting set for a night of changing partners.
Until all scrubbed up, brushed down
And wildly excited,
It’s finally ready to dance.

Any time now,
I expect that poem to come home.

                                             © 2019 Gwen Grant

MR ESPALIER

This poem came to be written because I’d been thinking about a
music teacher we had at school.  He was a very diffident man who
had to try and teach some elements of music to a crowd of children
for whom, by and large, music was a closed book.  He stuck in my
mind because I liked him and liked what he was endeavouring to
do.  Of course, a couple of years later came rock and roll, the
whole world of music opened up to us and then we were all
music, music, music!

       MR ESPALIER

Mr. Espalier, our music teacher,
Took himself very seriously,
So we had to take him seriously, too.
He would sit at the piano, strike a key,
Muse, ‘Top C’, do you see?’
Then launch into a melody so beyond us,
Only every now and again would a phrase catch our attention,
Stopping the tapping of pencils on teeth,
Lulling us into a silence that made us stop and listen.

But Mr. Espalier was full of surprises,
One day swinging into music that followed us home,
Curling all around the council houses,
Weaving in and out of the pink ‘Peace’ roses
Flowering in almost every garden,
Dogging our heels, scaring the unwary,
Banging on front doors and demanding entry.

We flung the doors wide enough, of course,
For every note to march straight in.
Until, like Mr. Espalier, this friendly, beaming stranger,
Demanded our full concentration before it would begin,
Almost carelessly, to give us its family name.

It was Dave Brubeck and Fats Waller,
Moody blues man, Muddy Waters.
Chopin and his mazurkas,
Ravel and Woody Guthrie.
Honky-tonk, rock’n’roll and Gospel Mahalia.
Sibelius, with the drowning beauty of his ‘Finlandia.’
‘Ophelia!  Oh, Ophelia!’
Silky Peggy Lee and lovely ice-cool Ella.
Stravinsky in the Spring and Arnold Schoenberg
Whose every chord sent a flurry
Of exclamation marks flying through the air,
Filling every child there full of astounded questions.
Then, ‘Stand to attention, you lot at the back,’
For here comes Elgar,
As this glorious new family member
Claimed our hearts once for always and for ever.

It was probably then that Mr. Espalier’s class
Of soul-hungry children,
Whose family name had always been, ‘Rejection,’
Decided to grow roses when we got older
To honour him.
                                         ©2012 Gwen Grant

TREE IN WINTER

TREE IN WINTER

The winter tree is full of birds,
Each snootily ignoring the others.
Concentrating on disappearing
Into small bundles of feathers.
Fierce little eyes threatening
Anything that attempts to shift them
From their bit of branch,
From their tiny hiding place
In amongst the twiggy darkness.

At least until the seagulls come
With strong bodies and hungry winter eyes.
Always on the look-out for a sustaining snack.

Then they’ll have to think again,
Have to hutch up until they entirely vanish
Into crooked black lines bleak drawn on the sky.

For they all know it’s only
When those hard beaks have moved on,
That the seagulls will go hungry.

                                       ©2024 Gwen Grant.

PURELY EDUCATIONAL

PURELY EDUCATIONAL

The expert talked at tremendous length
About history,
About sculpture,
About ecstatic revelation
Through painting
And surprisingly, about knitting.
Or, maybe, it could have been weaving.
She’d lost consciousness for a moment there,
Lulled into sleep by his steady voice.

Of course! Weaving!
Well, whatever it was,
That scrap of gold cloth
Was ancient and beautiful
And should be languishing in a museum.
Exactly where it was now.

Without pausing for the expert
To catch his breath,
The little group found they had moved on
Into the room full of Roman heads.
Meeting all sort of ears and mouths.
‘And this!’ the expert gently intoned.
A finger hesitating over a perfect marble nose,
Then sliding down the air.

Not touching the lovely curving lips
That disturbed the smooth and shining face.
‘With, look!’ the expert breathed,
‘Look at this tiny indentation of the chin.
This,’ he went on, ‘is why I love them.
‘Love them,’ he repeated huskily.
For these heads are the most beautiful
That have ever been.’

She woke up then.
He loved them? He did!
She could see the tears in his eyes,
Feel his passion for that unsmiling marble face
She was hungrily gazing at,
As it caught her in its eyes.

In the end, it was love at first sight.
Ignoring the yelp of the expert
She cradled that cool face between her warm hands,
Leaned in for a kiss
From those curving, sensuous, waiting lips,
That she swore, kissed her back.

They had to make her let it go.

 ©  2024 Gwen Grant

                 

WORDS RISING

Going through a difficult time, thoughts of all those we loved
helping us back to a much needed balance, brought this poem.
They bring with them prayers, some spoken out loud, some
spoken in the heart. All we love, cherished.

WORDS RISING

Hope,
Tough as old boots,
Flowering
In the hardest places.

Stem,
Leaf and colour
Defeating
Time.
Demolishing
Distance.
Bringing Love.

Making it new
All over again.

                   © 2024 Gwen Grant