James Lancaster

Biography

I like to write poems, blogs and short stories. I like short poems. I think there has to be good reason for a poem to be long.

Samples

Observation We used to dream of bigger things. Remember the space-age look-out booth we hoisted up that needle tower, to see what starlings praised in flight? The view up there was cycloramic across the Downs, across the Channel along the coast to Littlehampton. The future, though, remained unsighted Parcelled up and sold on trust; so when it came it shook the world, disturbed the stones beneath our feet and brought us down to slighted earth. Now the numbers seem so sad. One-hundred and fifty metres high Sixty tonnes of glass and steel - trapped In our imagination. Like an interrupted dream. Come then and mock the folly of plans. Roll up and jeer at the screwball gall, the brazen, pie-in-the-sky nerve of it all. That panoramic pod. If that's what helps. Tensions We walked down to the water's edge where you took off your dress and threw me the blue towel, 'Hold that' you said. The sea was black and warm and the sky was grey and warm and both the sea and the sky were flat. You dived in, breaking the water's viscous skin. I stood on the wet sand holding your towel watching you, striking out for something elemental. Buying time Groping for change at the meter, I find with a frisson of fear, the right amount - to the penny - amongst the fluff; detect, in the clever clunk of coins, something final. You, outside the surgeon's room, prone in a paper-thin gown; me, wondering where I stashed my ticket, thinking about buying time.... The guilt of leisure To make the most of brief repose I seek out paths of ancient lows, (which cut through dyke and waxy wood) And bluff a way through blue meadows... But empty downs where dew ponds sit, conjure up an old flint pit, whose lines of harsh endeavour sting My idle thoughts to toil and grit. And as I turn for hidden ghyll I hear a skylark's strident trill instructing me to move along And question how, with time to fill, I find myself with hours to spend on aimless walks with no clear end? So, dogged with guilt I lose the will, And head back home to make amends.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Blog entries by James Lancaster

The Secret Garden (05/10/2010)

Portrait (28/09/2010)

buying time (22/09/2010)

Blog link: https://www.writeoutloud.net/blogs/jameslancaster