Today something a little different - a poem from the Caribbean.

Read it through (aloud please!) and then refer to my note at the end.

.

HORSE UNDER WATER

jigharzi an me stand in de water
warm an friendly
for de world smell like snails
snoozing on hot charcoal

an jigharzi step wary
as tiger fish skip between his legs
an he makes like he hate de coral
forever

an I slip from his back de knife in me hand
forget de electric blue an glitter of de
rainbow
an wait for shark to come over de reef
as tide liff de water over

an soon de fin come
quiver when it see me but it come
shark he thick between the ears if he
had them I say

an jigharzi he snorting and heading for
land
cos dis fellow mean business
an he say why you wan kill him anyway
an I say is sport man as well as supper
an impress de tourists good an good
mean money

an I say trus me jigharzi
an de fin go out like a light as de brute
turn over
anjigharzi say man dis fellow bes
swimmer in de sea
an de rush of water push me sideways
an de teeth glitter in sunshine that
come through de water
hundreds of teeth iiiichin to bite me
dead
an I liff de knife but move it slow
for everything cep dis killer move slow in de water
but fear drive my hand
an I slash him in de stomach
an de monster done falter ffffalter
in de water
but he turn roun anyways
and come again kinda slow now
an I slash him in de stomach in de same place
de same place
til his womb come out an his gut
for it not a he but a lady
with babies in a bag all ready to do business
but jigharzi he long gone for shore
for de water full of blood
clouds of blood
clouds of froth clouds of gore
but not clouds of joy cos it is lady

Well, did you enjoy that?

That vivid memory stayed with her, and fifty years later, inspired her poem.

Lemn Sissay is a 38 year old Mancunian poet, well known for his public performances - reading poetry with passion and enthusiasm.

Anyway, I like it very much. Read it aloud and tell me what you think.

INVISIBLE KISSES

If there was ever one
Whom when you were sleeping
Would wipe your tears
When in dreams you were weeping;
Who would offer you time
When others demand;
Whose love lay more infinite
Than grains of sand.

If there was ever one
To whom you could cry;
Who would gather each tear
And blow it dry;
Who would offer help
On the mountains of time;
Who would stop to let each sunset
Soothe the jaded mind.

If there was ever one
To whom when you run
Will push back the clouds
So you are bathed in sun;
Who would open arms
If you would fall;
Who would show you everything
If you lost it all.

If there was ever one
Who when you achieve
Was there before the dream
And even then believed;
Who would clear the air
When it's full of loss;
Who would count love
Before the cost.

If there was ever one
Who when you are cold
Will summon warm air
For your hands to hold;
Who would make peace
In pouring pain,
Make laughter fall
In falling rain.

If there was ever one
Who can offer you this and more;
Who in keyless rooms
Can open doors;
Who in open doors
Can see open fields
And in open fields
See harvests yield.

Then see only my face
In the reflection of these tides
Through the clear water
Beyond the river side.
All I can send is love
In all that this is
A poem and a necklace
Of invisible kisses.

She sat there in the middle of the plate, shiny dark brown, almost black and, with her little frilled paper skirt, very sexy.

I say sexy now but, at seven years old, I don’t think I realised that chocolate had a reputation for being an aphrodisiac. But Madam Cupcake knew and she was trying to seduce me.

All around her were her friends: the lemon fancy, the raspberry tart (she was too obvious) and the almond slice. But I knew where my heart lie and I desired her.

My hand reached out to seize her and my tongue awaited the moment when I would take her into my mouth and savour the luscious delight of her rich dark body.

But suddenly my hand drew back. I had been taught not to choose the object I most wanted, when there were others still to make a choice.

The plate moved slowly around the table. One by one, the lemon fancy, the raspberry tart and the almond slice were all devoured.

She was before me!

Gently I took her and, before the consummation of my desire, I tenderly and passionately kissed her dark and shiny skin.

My lips closed around her moist seductive body but, in that moment, my caring turned to lust. I viciously bit her with almost cannibalistic fervour and my tongue directed a chunk of her delicate flesh between my teeth.

I stopped momentarily, in guilt and regret – the mutilated remains of her beauty lying helplessly in my hand. But I knew that there was now no going back.

I had to possess her completely and, as the rest of her loveliness entered my mouth and my jaws began to move, I experienced for the first time the pleasure of self-gratification.

And life would never be the same again.

kendrive ©

Today a poem by Lord Byron (1788-1824).

You will find it worth the effort.

DARKNESS

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire--but hour by hour
They fell and faded--and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash--and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd,
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless--they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again;--a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought--and that was death,
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails--men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devoured,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answered not with a caress--he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they raked up,
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects--saw, and shriek'd, and died--
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful--was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless--
A lump of death--a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirred within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge--
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon their mistress had expir'd before;
The winds were withered in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them--She was the Universe.

To finish, here is an extract from a biography of Lord Byron - published in 1920:

THE SEASHORE

The green water
That creeps over the sand
Takes my hand.
Lying in sunshine,
Partially covered
With the tide
Partially resting
On tiny pieces
Of shell,
I feel the tug..
Of eons. …….
I am owned
By the shore,
But taken with the sea,
By the sea.
On the median that marks
The love of two mothers
Fighting for their lonely son;
Neither am I
Heir of their riches,
Nor able to breathe in their arms.
I am of the sea,
And the land.
But I am not as naturally born
As this one simple shard
Of white and pink abalone.
I feel alone and alien,
On the line between two spaces,
That belong eternally.

A WORLD AWAY

A world away, two lives a world apart.
But none is closer to my longing heart.
To give my love to thee upon a breeze;
My heart, my soul, my mind I grant to thee.
Take with these gifts my body ne’er return,
In hope from thee these things that I might earn.
If truth be known and truth be what is said:
Take all of me and hold me in your stead.
For in thy arms I'd cast my spirit free,
Becoming one with you surrendering.
And if by chance the gods keep us apart
Again I send upon a breeze my heart.
My dream to send to thee is only this--
Not words, nor promise, but my loving kiss.

Donald ©

Well, I rather like this. It is by William Morris, the English designer of textiles and decorative arts, who lived from 1834 to 1896. He was also a painter and wrote poetry and prose.

It is entitled "A Garden By the Sea" and describes the thoughts of an old man, wandering in a "secret" garden and sadly reminiscing about his lost love, who used to walk with him there.

A GARDEN BY THE SEA.

I know a little garden-close,
Set thick with lily and red rose,
Where I would wander if I might
From dewy morn to dewy night,
And have one with me wandering.
And though within it no birds sing,
And though no pillared house is there,
And though the apple-boughs are bare
Of fruit and blossom, would to God
Her feet upon the green grass trod,
And I beheld them as before.
There comes a murmur from the shore,
And in the close two fair-streams are,
Drawn from the purple hills afar,
Drawn down unto the restless sea:
Dark hills whose heath-bloom feeds no bee,
Dark shore no ship has ever seen,
Tormented by the billows green
Whose murmur comes unceasingly
Unto the place for which I cry.
For which I cry both day and night,
For which I let slip all delight,
Whereby I grow both deaf and blind,
Careless to win, unskilled to find,
And quick to lose what all men seek.
Yet tottering as I am and weak,
Still have I left a little breath
To seek within the jaws of death
An entrance to that happy place,
To seek the unforgotten face,
Once seen, once kissed, once reft from me
Anigh the murmuring of the sea

Another Shakespeare 'Translation'!

SONNET XXX

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.

And my version:

While dreaming idly all alone,
My mind drifts back into the past
And rues the things I've failed to do -
The wasted best years of my life.
I start to cry, regretting errors made,
The many chances all passed by,
Those special friends who've gone,
The countless loves I've lost.
Torment myself by dwelling on my woes
And suffer as I never have before.
But when I think of you
The sadness disappears,
My soul is lifted up and I rejoice again.
I think of you.

The sun has burst the sky
Because I love you
And the river its banks.

The sea laps the great rocks
Because I love you
And takes no heed of the moon dragging it away
And saying coldly 'Constancy is not for you'.
The blackbird fills the air
Because I love you
With spring and lawns and shadows falling on lawns.

The people walk in the street and laugh
I love you
And far down the river ships sound their hooters
Crazy with joy because I love you.

Jenny Joseph

WARNING

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandles, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Jenny Joseph

Old age gives us the freedom to behave as we wish.

Tomorrow, another poem by Jenny Joseph - "The Sun Has Burst The Sky!". (One of my favourites)

This poem was written by a friend of mine in the United States.

It appeared earlier in the year in my other blog "Somewhere Along The Way", but I thought it worth presenting to a new audience here.

THE THESPIAN SOUL

First light
Is not very different
From the last light of the evening.
They both become the stage
For the thespian soul.
A set for the mind to flow over.

Words turn into emotions
And the last light beckons it so.
Drifting across
Each lurking ray of darkness
Lilting here and there--
One sees the life in retrospect.

A missed avenue, where love awaited
A joyful laugh passed over by hatred.
A warm embrace never fulfilled
And thousands of kisses
That never met the lips--
That now hurt for the longing...

It is not too late--we tell ourselves
But then, we decide maybe it is.
What strange play has taken us in
Under the light of darkness--
Upon my bed, as I drift deeper
Across the unwritten words of my mind.

I sleep; falling, falling only into myself
I dream only the life in retrospect.
A pillow for my weary head--
And the light of dark night as my stage.
I lie, unknown, even to myself now.
The opaque stage light uncovers me.

These are my lines--
These are my fears.
This is what desire sounds like,
Feels like.
But the thespian soul cannot die
And survives at every night’s curtain call.

Applause, applause--
That is what morning does.
A new stage and challenge has been laid
Another day has come to draw you in.
It asks of you only what you want,
It says: write your unwritten words.

It says: speak up!
We cannot hear you in the stalls.
The light is true, and the stage
Is yours. You have a chance now -
Not unlike every day...
So, write your unwritten words
And speak up...

Donald ©

Following my 'translation' of a Shakespeare sonnet, I have tried to write some song lyrics based on Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "How Do I Love Thee?"

Here is what she wrote:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

And this is my version:

REALLY LOVE YOU

How do I love you, really love you?
Just listen and I'll count the ways.
How do I love you really love you?
I'll tell you how you fill my days.

I love you, love you
Really love you.

I love you from the depth my soul can fathom
I love you from the height my heart can sing.
I love you with the tears and smiles of longing
I love you, love you just with everything.

I love you, love you
Really love you.

I love you freely and with no reserve
I love you purely, free of past
I love you without faltering -
Fixed firm and fast,

I love you, love you
Really love you.

I love you in the quiet of misty morning
I love you when the sun sets in the west
I love you drifting in my slumbers
I love you when my soul's at rest.

I love you, love you
Really love you.

I love you with the fiery passion
That filled my childhood's wildest dreams.
I love you with a love that long had left me -
But now has flooded back, or so it seems.

I love you, love you
Really love you.
Love you, love you
Really love you
Love you ....
Love you ....

I have also recorded it as a sound file, set to music - with me singing! However, you will be happy to know that I can't include that here. I am not the world's best singer!

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

Edgar Allen Poe

I have always enjoyed the plays and sonnets of Shakespeare - The Master.

First, the original:

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,

To thee I send this written embassage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

And here is my re-draft:

I HIDE FROM EVERYONE

Master of my emotions,
To whom I am bound
By all your many virtues,
I send you written greeting -
Not to boast my intellect,
Which is exposed as lacking,
But hopefully to sponsor in your heart
Kind thoughts of me -
Which sent, will help me find the words
To fairly honour you
So that I may show true justice
To your warm regard
And tell the world I love you.
Until then, I hide from everyone
Yes, even you.

I have changed the sense in places, missed bits out - and added thoughts of my own.

In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy,
And the roof-lamp's oily flame
Played down on his listless form and face,
Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going,
Or whence he came.

In the band of his hat the journeying boy
Had a ticket stuck; and a string
Around his neck bore the key of his box,
That twinkled gleams of the lamp's sad beams
Like a living thing.

What past can be yours, O journeying boy
Towards a world uknown,
Who calmly, as if incurious quite
On all at stake, can undertake
This plunge alone?

Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,
Our rude realms far above,
Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete
This region of sin that you find you in,
But are not of?

Thomas Hardy

Some years ago, after a long period of unproductivity, I started writing again - both poetry and prose.

Here is how I felt when, at last, all my words burst forth:

WORDS

The dam is beached
The reservoir of mind
Releases torrents
Through the widening crack.

Words, held back too long
Burst forth in freedom,
Searching fertile ground.

Laughing, crying
Parting, joining
They jostle for attention,
Tumbling down.

But long-unpractised skills
Cannot control the pattern
Of their new-found life
And gradually they sink
Into the dust ...
And turn to mud.

kendrive ©

I shall be starting a new blog here soon.

It will be works that I have read and loved - and some written by me.

There will be a melange of old and new, classical and contemporary.

I hope you will find something that you can enjoy.

kendrive