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
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
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
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
For some years, I wrote a monthly poem for SOUTHWELL MINSTER magazine. (Southwell Minster was built 1108-1300 and is very beautiful). Amongst the other poems, I also wrote a series of ‘Miss McPherson and her class’ poems and really enjoyed writing them just as much, it seemed, as people enjoyed reading them. ‘Harry’ in the poem below, appears in quite a few of the Miss McPherson poems and became a character I was very fond of. But I was just as fond of the other children who appeared, always taking me by surprise with their very different natures. Burton Lomax was initially a bit of an enigma. Not so with Harry! He roared into life and stayed there.
LOVE ONE ANOTHER?!
Harry said, ‘Please, Miss,
You know what Jesus told us
About loving one another
Like, you know, a sister or a brother?’
Miss McPherson said, ‘I do.’
‘Well,’ Harry went on, ‘I think
The Bible got it wrong.
It should have said,
Only love one another as long
As it isn’t Burton Lomax.
Because,’ Harry was unsteady,
‘If I saw a lion, Miss McPherson,
I’d point to that Burton Lomax person
And say, ‘There, lion, your lunch is ready.’
Chad stood up and said
He’d thought this ‘love’ thing through.
‘What Jesus meant,’ Chad said,
‘Was love one another when it’s good old Chad,
But not to bother, Harry, when it’s you.’
‘No! No! No!’ Miss McPherson roared,
‘When Jesus said ‘Love one another as I love you,’
That, Chad, is exactly what He meant.
Even if that other person is not now,
Nor ever will be, Harry, anything like a friend.
For Jesus knew that if we love Him first
And love Him best,
To love one another, especially Burton Lomax,
Will be the one thing we really want to do.’
‘?!?’ Harry almost asked.
But, ‘?!?’ said Burton Lomax.
© GWEN GRANT
Poems by Gwen Grant 