Visiting Neil
Posted on Thursday 27th May 2010 2:12 am
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Visiting Neil
Hello old friend. I’m sorry that it’s been a while.
I can’t pretend that this cold place is easy on the mind.
But nonetheless you’re always there, somewhere,
underneath and in the darkness; thinking through philosophies,
searching out those sparks of why and wherefore
to eternity.
Who me? I’ve done OK, The usual, you know - job, house, car
- relationships; the ordinary stuff of life.
Though I always held a candle for you.
Your memory sometimes hides
- but never fades. You’re set in stone. And now and then
I call your name, and wonder if you hear. and know
that in my memory,
you’ll never really be alone.
What’s in the bag? Oh just some things I brought for you
I thought you might have missed – comforts, more for me than you
perhaps,
“Benedictus benedicat”:
a firmament of winter stars
a skylark’s hymn to spring-mown hay
a summer blush of giggling girls
a patch of bluebells fallen from the cloudless air of May
an autumn sunset, stained with ripened fruit
warm rain, lightning slashing at a charcoal sky,
a seastorm’s anger, three coins - a wish from Rome
plainsong heard across an Oxford lawn
a playground full of laughter,
a valley’s eiderdown of mist at dawn
a scented silver trail of woodsmoke, leading home.
Neruda’s words – (pour them gently in your ears)
Elgar’s melodies for English hills
a precious vial of unguent tears - scalded with rage
- and frozen by a mother’s loss
a moondust footprint from a giant’s leap
a nation’s roaring heart one afternoon in sixty-six
a pillow, dewed and warm with woman scent
a skyline waltz of starling wings
the molten kisses of love’s first fire -
as hot, and fierce, as hornet stings.
café chatter, jokes and bottles cracked with friends,
a generation’s theme tunes,
leaked from a letter box in Abbey Road,
church bells and confetti
strewn across a village green
two golden circles – interlocked
with nothing in between,
a child’s warm hand,
to flutter like a new-fledged bird in yours
strawberries, ice cream
melting in a July afternoon,
the Sunday scent of bacon
that tiptoes up a stair
a barefoot walk
in meadows wet with dew
a patient fathom
that waits beneath the dapple
of the parish yew
and love,
love enough to outlast every dying sun
and fading moon
wrapped in the words
of an agnostic’s faltering prayer.
I can’t take you home – that gift was never mine to give;
just your story, and the memory of you
to remind a world you too once laughed,
once loved,
once lived.
So goodbye old friend,
I’ll light that candle for you
for hope,
and remembrance
of a long-lost cause
we’ll meet again
one day
I’ll cross my darkness
where you wait
for me
in yours.
Author's note:
In general I believe that the explanation of a poem can detract from its sentiments and message, although I have often wished for one. In this case however, perhaps that rule is worth bending. Not because it adds anything to the poem, but that the story, in and of itself is one that should be told. In order not to further extend the length of this post those who are interested will find it here:
Isobel
Sat 10th Jul 2010 16:37
Thanks for your comment Anthony - it means a lot that you liked it. I was hoping for a slightly softer voice but put a microphone in front of me and I seem to get edgy. On reflection I think it might have been better in a lower key. Not sure myself how it works as a french poem - there is probably one cliche in it - life being compared to lightning - but it rhymed and I was working under additional constraints!
When are you posting another one?