Tag: Poetry

WORDS AND THINGS

Ever since I can remember, I’ve always loved words. I was
never put off by long and strange words, always wanting to
understand them and know how they should be said. I wanted
to be a writer from the get-go but never thought it would be
possible. Then I realised I didn’t care if it were possible or not,
I was GOING to be a writer. Now I have an Italian speaker
in our family and I absolutely love the sound of the words,
love the way they are said, love what they mean. The Bible
was my favourite book – a thousand stories and millions of
words. Page after page after page!! All right there in front
of me.

 WORDS AND THINGS

Sometimes, I gather up all the words I love and watch
them playing together.
It doesn’t do to have favourites, I know that,
But who can resist words that sizzle on the page and dance.
Some so irresistible whole poems are built around them.

Colours are always delectable,
Weaving their way through every get-together.
Colour words do, of course, have to be dealt with extremely carefully,
As favouring lemon over green
Will attract very sharp looks from orange.

Full stops and commas, paragraphs, colons, semi-colons,
Little Latin phrases, ‘Et tu, Brutus,’ etcetera, etcetera,
And those little raindrop marks that attend every speech,
Must all be taken into account
But can be missed out altogether if careless of censure.
Recommended.

A word of advice.
Do not ever forget the numbers family,
For if they are ignored or forgotten they get quite vocal,
Even a little spiteful and unforgiving.

No!  Keep them in sight at all times,
Insisting they play nicely. 
One and one making two, for instance.
Otherwise, you can never bring them to order,
Even when put into really pleasant columns,
They remain difficult and wilful.

 But there we are, that’s words and things for you.

                                © GWEN GRANT

THE PALE ROAD

 I like to hear the sound of our clock in the night. It’s a great comfort when you can’t
sleep to hear the unconcerned ticking. There used to be a brilliant clock in Dundee
which had, I think, nursery rhyme characters that came out and performed on each
chime. We would go and watch it until the hours made us move on. I haven’t seen or
heard this particular clock in years but it was so colourful and friendly. We collected
clocks once and they still live all over the house, some still ticking, some chiming,
some cherished.

  THE PALE ROAD

The house is quiet, silent,
Except for the ticking of the big clock
At the bottom of the stairs,
Whose chimes keep company
With those who cannot sleep.

Just before dawn,
A thin moon slides in through the window
And in a moment those awake
Walk the pale road of remembrance,
Of longing, until the past
Becomes the pale road of prayer.

Let the clock chime again,
That the past may be left behind,
The moon soothe the restless heart,
The whispered words bring peace.

                      ©2021 Gwen Grant.  

Available on Amazon Kindle and Draft2Digital e-books.

LINCOLN ROSES

Lincoln Cathedral was D.H. Lawrence’s favourite
cathedral. Mine, too. Even standing in the doorway and
looking down the long grey reaches into the Cathedral
proper, you know instantly that this glorious building,
this hymn of praise to Love, is going to capture your |
heart, not just for now but for ever. Not so easy to get
to anymore but closing the eyes will do it.

          LINCOLN ROSES

That day in Lincoln Cathedral,
The scent of roses in the air so strong,
I thought there must be some pretty dame
With high heels and posh perfume around.
But there was no-one,
Only me and Love and the great circular window
Full of coloured glass, glinting down at us. 

It was all so stern, so forbidding,
So unbending with the grey stone,
The slabs of walls and hard stone benches,
The weary pavements where thousand year old
Shadows of monks still lapped
Remorselessly up and down. 

This house is grey, great slabs of greyness,
With great roofs pressing down
Even as they soared into emptiness,
Undercutting the power structure of witless men
Determined to impress Love,
Maybe, with a small nudge to eternity,
Secure a place on that heavenly panel. 

Here some warning hand has put an Imp,
But no number of Imps or poker-faced priests,
Or high-hatted, rich robed fleshy monuments to the past
Can distract us from the petal of a fallen flower
Lying scarlet on the stone cold floor,
Pulsing with a life far beyond us.  

Love steadies the candle flames
Of small lanterns shining through the hazy darkness
Of a great Cathedral.
Illuminating that which cannot be seen,
Giving glory to that which cannot be touched,
The unspoken harmony of prayer
Enfolding us and Love. 

                                               © 2019/2025 GWEN GRANT

If you would like to use my poem, please get in touch.

GOAT IN THE MOONLIGHT     

When there were goats in the paddock, the big one, and he was
really big, was very aggressive. He bashed down our fence and
stalked into the garden. When I tried to shoo him back onto the
grass, he lowered his head, then started to rattle his feet at me.
There was a lot more of him than of me so I backed carefully away.
While he was there with his little company of goats, he went
exactly where he pleased. I found him very scary. He’s the closest
to the Great God Pan I have ever seen. Now we have a flock of
sheep who follow anyone who comes to take a short cut.
But they are absolutely non-aggressive, for which I am truly thankful! 


         GOAT IN THE MOONLIGHT        

The big goat’s ghost is in the paddock,
He must have forgotten to take it with him,
For when I look out of the window at midnight,
I see him stomping down the grass,
Looking for trouble.

Smashing everything that stands in his way,
Rearing up against the apple tree,
Ripping the apples from the branches
With huge brown teeth.

Just as I think of banging on the glass
To scare him away, he sees me,
His wicked eyes glinting in the moonlight,
Full of hate, full of the desire to kill.
Starting towards me, his great body moving
As fast as a shadow blown in the wind.

I am deathly afraid.

Until the moonlight dissolves him,
Turning the night back to normal.
I wonder where he has gone,
Knowing there is no comfort for me
Until I know exactly
Where he has found a place to hide.

                        ©2021 Gwen Grant.

THE CORNFIELDS AT PRAYER


From my bedroom window, I can see stretches of corn fields and walking on the paths alongside these fields, I can always hear the corn fields whispering.  These whispers sound so private and yet because the sound fills the air, they also seem meant for everyone who is there to listen.

That particular night, which was cool and quiet, leaning on the windowsill, with the yellow moon picking up the gold of the corn, took me back to when I was a girl, helping with the harvest, remembering how those thin golden spears prickled when they came into contact with skin. There was an enchantment there then and it’s still there now.

As I stood there, I thought of cornfields and other fields of grain growing all over the world and it seemed to me that these fields with their precious harvests were as involved with the world as we are.  If that was the case, then, for the first time, I knew that the corn was whispering its love and hope and concern for the world, exactly as we do ourselves.

      THE CORNFIELDS AT PRAYER

So the long cool night begins
And through the quiet darkness
I thought I heard the corn stalks talk
Of all the whispered night-time prayers
Drifting over the fields,
Setting the corn to its own prayer whispering.

Then I heard the corn stalks talk
Of all the little living prayers.
The lovely hares leaping
And the small creatures seeking
The bread of life in the earth beneath them,
And quiet lovers walking the poppied grasses,
Breathing promises and prayers
Into the listening darkness.

I know I heard the corn stalks talk
Of the old traditions of hay-making and stooking,
Of sowing and reaping,
Of the laughter of bare armed innocents driven 
to distraction
By those thin shining spears prickling and stippling,
Until they almost longed to leave
The praying cornfields whispering.

I expect, though, that the corn stalks talk
Of different things
On the bleak plains of grief, for instance,
Or on the long shades of despair,
Taking for their own the bone bare prayer
Of the suffering heart bleeding into the suffering air.
All is loss and lamentation,
Until they sing of a strong and eternal love
That is forever sowing and forever reaping
Love at the beginning and love at the ending.
So the prayers of the world are heard
In the whispering cornfields prayer.

© 2018 Gwen Grant