(a particularly dreary day following Christmas 2008. The day seemed worn out and not bothered).
Like a blot set in a subdued grainy haze,
the afternoon’s later sullen moonlight
deems to throw a silver burnish on the remnants
of a day of disappointing gloom.
Through the grimy weather-beaten windowpane.
distant winks from house lights shimmer
in pulsating snowflake shapes.
Higher still, the day’s last cackle of cantankerous rooks,
mute on stamped and trampled leafless, bony roosts.
Below the swirling palls of matted, long dead autumn leaves,
skit from shrub to shrub, as if to hide and seek,
within brittle, lifeless twigs.
A broken terracotta pot lolls to and forth alone,
a seesaw ride, arcing the riven path.
Inside the warming hearth’s aglow,
with breathy, licking flames that fight,
a canon of booming gusts, thrown down the flue,
hissing dissent, within their arsenal of sappy logs.
Tilted, forlorn, undressed, a ravaged yuletide tree,
shivers, discarded and hastily forgotten,
but yet, bathed serenely in this night’s argent beams,
and quiet, presents its own sublime epiphany.
© Graham Sherwood 12/2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Eleven Eleven
(My stimulation here was the juxtaposition of the relevance of the poppies in today's conflict with that of the past).
Once again we break our men,
those youthful, reckless braveheart souls
who go to war on whose behalf,
surely yours not mine.
Whilst we religious sport poppies
of an altogether different seed
to those beneath our young boys’ tread.
A different flower, a different foe
who do not stand to face our shores
or seek to change our parliament,
but as they fall as petals do
and quietly come home to rest,
another crop kiss mums goodbye
and march away with springing steps.
© Graham Sherwood 11/2009
Once again we break our men,
those youthful, reckless braveheart souls
who go to war on whose behalf,
surely yours not mine.
Whilst we religious sport poppies
of an altogether different seed
to those beneath our young boys’ tread.
A different flower, a different foe
who do not stand to face our shores
or seek to change our parliament,
but as they fall as petals do
and quietly come home to rest,
another crop kiss mums goodbye
and march away with springing steps.
© Graham Sherwood 11/2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Departure
(Astonishingly, I composed this a week before my mother died. She had a look of being ready to go somewhere and was exhausted by the preparations for the journey).
So you’ve left me then,
as I knew you would, at night
whilst I was sleeping.
Of course I tried to stay awake,
to wave you off, squeeze your hand,
tell you it would be alright to go.
But I let you down, for the first time
and now it’s too late to make amends.
So,
with just a morbid party to arrange,
that I for one surely do not need,
and they, all thinking that they’ve come
to say goodbye.
But I know you’ve already gone,
even though I missed the final kiss,
and a whispered last farewell.
© Graham Sherwood 10/2009
So you’ve left me then,
as I knew you would, at night
whilst I was sleeping.
Of course I tried to stay awake,
to wave you off, squeeze your hand,
tell you it would be alright to go.
But I let you down, for the first time
and now it’s too late to make amends.
So,
with just a morbid party to arrange,
that I for one surely do not need,
and they, all thinking that they’ve come
to say goodbye.
But I know you’ve already gone,
even though I missed the final kiss,
and a whispered last farewell.
© Graham Sherwood 10/2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Forgotten Words
(Looking through some old memorabilia, this fanciful idea took hold).
A creamy, jaundiced, dog-eared envelope
just appeared there, in the bottom of a drawer,
its corners bashed like wrinkled fingers,
the flap unstuck, ajar and begging for an audience.
Words unseen for thirty-seven years,
caught beneath the perfumed liner,
now sadly parched and mottled brown,
but saved, awaiting life’s breath awakening.
The velum crisp and delicate as a baby’s skin,
a whispered crackle sound as tentative fingers,
tease the neatly folded leaf into the light,
succinct, your words in my ear,
I will.
© Graham Sherwood 9/2009
A creamy, jaundiced, dog-eared envelope
just appeared there, in the bottom of a drawer,
its corners bashed like wrinkled fingers,
the flap unstuck, ajar and begging for an audience.
Words unseen for thirty-seven years,
caught beneath the perfumed liner,
now sadly parched and mottled brown,
but saved, awaiting life’s breath awakening.
The velum crisp and delicate as a baby’s skin,
a whispered crackle sound as tentative fingers,
tease the neatly folded leaf into the light,
succinct, your words in my ear,
I will.
© Graham Sherwood 9/2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
The Burdock Coat
(Difficult to describe, but this was a surprise greeting to some American visitors. Best to look up The Burry Man and all will be revealed).
In Midlothian where hearts run high
amidst uncertain August warmth,
they travel soon from far and wide
to laugh and blot their copybooks.
It’s time to change the kegs for sure
and light a welcome flame here,
come Jennifer and Joseph’s brood
the cloaked man draws nigh.
With burdock wrap and floral stave
hark to this ferry fair,
he seeks your evils to collect,
your ale to quench a thirst.
Whilst children hide their countenance
none heed his blackened gaze,
for every year the burrs do tear
cut deep in sacrifice.
So draw your nibs across the page
and write of happy mirth some,
in coloured inks scratch hurriedly
and do the bloody work.
© Graham Sherwood 8/2009
In Midlothian where hearts run high
amidst uncertain August warmth,
they travel soon from far and wide
to laugh and blot their copybooks.
It’s time to change the kegs for sure
and light a welcome flame here,
come Jennifer and Joseph’s brood
the cloaked man draws nigh.
With burdock wrap and floral stave
hark to this ferry fair,
he seeks your evils to collect,
your ale to quench a thirst.
Whilst children hide their countenance
none heed his blackened gaze,
for every year the burrs do tear
cut deep in sacrifice.
So draw your nibs across the page
and write of happy mirth some,
in coloured inks scratch hurriedly
and do the bloody work.
© Graham Sherwood 8/2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Yates
(Just pure admiration for a master of his craft).
The familiar stench of mudded reeds
and dew-fresh, herb sweet grass,
a most unlikely blend
with freshly brewing tea and dampening clothes.
Gun-metal blues and greys of a threatening sky
lay heavy, weighted on his bowstring slender back,
arched, stoic, sturdy as ancient cane
Slim fingers nurse the line’s deft pulse.
Sparse grizzled chin frames the candour of a wistful smile
and takes a somewhat tacit stroke,
as prizes dwell unseen beneath broad platter leaves
and forthright bulrush spears.
The timid crimson sergeants mill about unseen,
his patient eyes keep watch into the watery world,
as wicker creaks, once more the rod’s tip points
in knowing accusation as the master strikes.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
The familiar stench of mudded reeds
and dew-fresh, herb sweet grass,
a most unlikely blend
with freshly brewing tea and dampening clothes.
Gun-metal blues and greys of a threatening sky
lay heavy, weighted on his bowstring slender back,
arched, stoic, sturdy as ancient cane
Slim fingers nurse the line’s deft pulse.
Sparse grizzled chin frames the candour of a wistful smile
and takes a somewhat tacit stroke,
as prizes dwell unseen beneath broad platter leaves
and forthright bulrush spears.
The timid crimson sergeants mill about unseen,
his patient eyes keep watch into the watery world,
as wicker creaks, once more the rod’s tip points
in knowing accusation as the master strikes.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Love and Theft
It may have been the look, that I took, at the book
carefully hidden
amongst your clothes,
or the note, that he wrote, left in your coat
that you’d forgotten to throw away
I suppose.
Then I knew, that the clue, meant that you
held a secret
that both of us swore we’d never keep,
so I cried, tried to hide, fought the tide
of emotions that swamped me
so incredibly deep.
Since you’ve left, I’m bereft from the theft
of our love
wrestled from me without any warning,
In this mask where I bask, when friends ask
about you I say
I just didn’t see it coming
© Graham Sherwood 7/2009
carefully hidden
amongst your clothes,
or the note, that he wrote, left in your coat
that you’d forgotten to throw away
I suppose.
Then I knew, that the clue, meant that you
held a secret
that both of us swore we’d never keep,
so I cried, tried to hide, fought the tide
of emotions that swamped me
so incredibly deep.
Since you’ve left, I’m bereft from the theft
of our love
wrestled from me without any warning,
In this mask where I bask, when friends ask
about you I say
I just didn’t see it coming
© Graham Sherwood 7/2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Dawn at St Emilion
Quietude sits on these light baked blocks
of carefully hewn and riven stone,
where swallows dart and martins soar
about their dormant alley’s course,
cheered on by trilling morning birds
that sing above our sandals’ clack.
Underneath the overlapping biscuit tiles
of steeply huddled rooftops, squat
tight as armoured links,
the coffee brews and croissants prove
and this frail spell is ushered forth,
to shamble into morning’s mood.
The convent ghosts repose once more
amongst the golden riches of Bacchus trove,
beauteous vines that feed their flock
and keep their secrets loyally.
© Graham Sherwood 6/2009
of carefully hewn and riven stone,
where swallows dart and martins soar
about their dormant alley’s course,
cheered on by trilling morning birds
that sing above our sandals’ clack.
Underneath the overlapping biscuit tiles
of steeply huddled rooftops, squat
tight as armoured links,
the coffee brews and croissants prove
and this frail spell is ushered forth,
to shamble into morning’s mood.
The convent ghosts repose once more
amongst the golden riches of Bacchus trove,
beauteous vines that feed their flock
and keep their secrets loyally.
© Graham Sherwood 6/2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
La Tuilliere
Below us, early fodder in black plastic coats
shines wet like stepping-stones amidst the wavering stream of new seasons’ grass,
a languorous “brish” through healthy leaves
from quill-shaped poplars that bow and nod in breathy sighs to the south.
Unseen crows distantly squabble behind a copse,
as newly washed denims damply walk to nowhere on the sagging line.
Little fingers chase butterflies that skate like kites across the clover grass
haphazard to no clear destination,
all watched by suspicious frogs amongst the duckweed carpet of the pond.
Young fathers tease their boys with footballs
just as men have always done, and will,
in dark green shadow a lonely hammock rocks like flotsam near the ivy wall.
Red chequered tablecloths idly billow as the afternoon begins to warm,
left alone the pendulous rope-swing stops the hours
until the next excited child appears,
the timeless henge of olive-amber stones around the cooling barbecue.
© Graham Sherwood 6/2009
shines wet like stepping-stones amidst the wavering stream of new seasons’ grass,
a languorous “brish” through healthy leaves
from quill-shaped poplars that bow and nod in breathy sighs to the south.
Unseen crows distantly squabble behind a copse,
as newly washed denims damply walk to nowhere on the sagging line.
Little fingers chase butterflies that skate like kites across the clover grass
haphazard to no clear destination,
all watched by suspicious frogs amongst the duckweed carpet of the pond.
Young fathers tease their boys with footballs
just as men have always done, and will,
in dark green shadow a lonely hammock rocks like flotsam near the ivy wall.
Red chequered tablecloths idly billow as the afternoon begins to warm,
left alone the pendulous rope-swing stops the hours
until the next excited child appears,
the timeless henge of olive-amber stones around the cooling barbecue.
© Graham Sherwood 6/2009
Friday, May 29, 2009
Otherwhere
Will I know when I get there?
It could be a thousand miles from here,
or I may get there in a blink, and back again.
It’s a warm, small, dimly lit place, safe,
a place I think I like to be, or perhaps can’t help being.
I may go whilst on a train, or reading a book, in a queue, walking,
to simply become a chameleon, after all
why be one’s self?
Of course there’s no standing room,
beds are compulsory there,
I can muse with Socrates,
writhe with Juliet,
fight with heroes,
converse with ghosts,
when I’m otherwhere.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
It could be a thousand miles from here,
or I may get there in a blink, and back again.
It’s a warm, small, dimly lit place, safe,
a place I think I like to be, or perhaps can’t help being.
I may go whilst on a train, or reading a book, in a queue, walking,
to simply become a chameleon, after all
why be one’s self?
Of course there’s no standing room,
beds are compulsory there,
I can muse with Socrates,
writhe with Juliet,
fight with heroes,
converse with ghosts,
when I’m otherwhere.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
The dust of life
Scatter my ashes at the shoe factory gate,
where the smell of new leather
sat light on warm weather,
racks of shoes with no uppers rolled by un-regaled
as I stood idly about
for my dad to clock out,
we bought cod, chips and peas for our tea.
Dash my ashes to the wind on Harowden Bridge
where great steam goliaths
thundered clanking below us
Scots, Jubes and Britannia’s spat steam in our faces
as we squashed on the line,
farthings two at a time
before Constable Moody appeared.
Place my ashes gently on the penalty spot
where for life’s briefest second
immortality beckoned
my dad dropped his fag and trod on his flask
as my late cup match winner,
made me late for mum’s dinner
I got drunk with my team in the Swallow
Sprinkle my ashes behind the bowls club pavilion
where I was first blessed
to hold my first teenage breast,
her tongue in my mouth and her hand in my lap
that parade-day night
when our futures burned bright
until Janet copped off with a soldier.
Cast the last of my ashes to the flow of the Nene
Where I first fished for bream
Amongst long bulrushes unseen
Impatiently awaiting the bob of my float
The smell of boiled wheat
In an Oxo tin at my feet
Immersed in the symphony of silence.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
where the smell of new leather
sat light on warm weather,
racks of shoes with no uppers rolled by un-regaled
as I stood idly about
for my dad to clock out,
we bought cod, chips and peas for our tea.
Dash my ashes to the wind on Harowden Bridge
where great steam goliaths
thundered clanking below us
Scots, Jubes and Britannia’s spat steam in our faces
as we squashed on the line,
farthings two at a time
before Constable Moody appeared.
Place my ashes gently on the penalty spot
where for life’s briefest second
immortality beckoned
my dad dropped his fag and trod on his flask
as my late cup match winner,
made me late for mum’s dinner
I got drunk with my team in the Swallow
Sprinkle my ashes behind the bowls club pavilion
where I was first blessed
to hold my first teenage breast,
her tongue in my mouth and her hand in my lap
that parade-day night
when our futures burned bright
until Janet copped off with a soldier.
Cast the last of my ashes to the flow of the Nene
Where I first fished for bream
Amongst long bulrushes unseen
Impatiently awaiting the bob of my float
The smell of boiled wheat
In an Oxo tin at my feet
Immersed in the symphony of silence.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Losing you
Your paper boat of a life embarks,
setting sail into the captive sea
of forgetful mist.
As you wave from the creaking rail,
those frown-crowned ripples of recognition,
blink ever more slowly as I stand to leave.
The signal horn of yet another year blasts,
as you slide away from anchorage
beneath a feeble bony wave.
I’ll linger on this bereft lonely quay,
and peer into your enveloping gloom
call out my name, it’s me, still here.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
setting sail into the captive sea
of forgetful mist.
As you wave from the creaking rail,
those frown-crowned ripples of recognition,
blink ever more slowly as I stand to leave.
The signal horn of yet another year blasts,
as you slide away from anchorage
beneath a feeble bony wave.
I’ll linger on this bereft lonely quay,
and peer into your enveloping gloom
call out my name, it’s me, still here.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
Atheist's nightmare
Sorry did I wake you?
Oh! It’s you, but you’re……the accident,
Dead, yes I know, I’m sorry.
Sorry, what for?
That I won’t be around to look after you any more.
I hear you but I can’t see you properly.
I know, it’s just the way it is there,
I’m neither one thing nor the other for the minute,
everything is white, no shade, no form,
a sort of filled-in outline with no features.
Is it heaven then or the other place?
I don’t know yet, I haven’t been allowed inside,
it’s the system,
I just have time to make things right here,
Before I go, so to speak.
Can I touch you one last time then?
Well, only in the way that you can touch a light shower say,
or feel a breath on your neck.
How long can you stay for? Long?
No not really, only long enough to say
I love you, but you knew that,
more importantly
never forget me.
I’m sorry I’ve got to go
time’s up the bell is ringing.
Are you OK?
Yes of course, why?
You were ranting rarely last night,
and you slept right up to the alarm.
You kept saying I love you, I love you
and never to forget.
I hope you were dreaming about me
©Graham Sherwood 2009
Oh! It’s you, but you’re……the accident,
Dead, yes I know, I’m sorry.
Sorry, what for?
That I won’t be around to look after you any more.
I hear you but I can’t see you properly.
I know, it’s just the way it is there,
I’m neither one thing nor the other for the minute,
everything is white, no shade, no form,
a sort of filled-in outline with no features.
Is it heaven then or the other place?
I don’t know yet, I haven’t been allowed inside,
it’s the system,
I just have time to make things right here,
Before I go, so to speak.
Can I touch you one last time then?
Well, only in the way that you can touch a light shower say,
or feel a breath on your neck.
How long can you stay for? Long?
No not really, only long enough to say
I love you, but you knew that,
more importantly
never forget me.
I’m sorry I’ve got to go
time’s up the bell is ringing.
Are you OK?
Yes of course, why?
You were ranting rarely last night,
and you slept right up to the alarm.
You kept saying I love you, I love you
and never to forget.
I hope you were dreaming about me
©Graham Sherwood 2009
Loose lines
Memories and un-forgiven promises
are graffiti drawn like abandoned conclusions
clinging to and leering from the shiny bricks
of yesterday’s youth.
As I spill my feelings like cold tea
into your clean sink
I feel sorrow for the mess
but don’t think to cleanse it.
We could have both died young
together, beautiful, exciting
with much love still to make.
Did you think me special, as I you?
I wonder.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
are graffiti drawn like abandoned conclusions
clinging to and leering from the shiny bricks
of yesterday’s youth.
As I spill my feelings like cold tea
into your clean sink
I feel sorrow for the mess
but don’t think to cleanse it.
We could have both died young
together, beautiful, exciting
with much love still to make.
Did you think me special, as I you?
I wonder.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
Mi-tunes are emotional
Bob Dylan makes me angry
Santana makes me sigh
Neil Young’s songs inspire me
Puccini makes me cry
Cohen’s words are magical
Vaughan Williams’s lark a gem
Nina Simone tugged my heartstrings
The Bonzo’s remember them?
America’s Sister Goldenhair
Mike Oldfield’s Ommadawn
The Moodies flew me into space
Donovan as you were born
Van the Man when he was young
Satchmo getting mellow
Be Good Tanyas heavenly
Springsteen that raucous fellow
The Four Tops when I met you
Miserere when my father died
Free for wailing guitar riffs
Arlo when I lied
So mi-tunes are emotional
Each one a fractured track
I could have lived another life
Without ever looking back
© Graham Sherwood 2009
Santana makes me sigh
Neil Young’s songs inspire me
Puccini makes me cry
Cohen’s words are magical
Vaughan Williams’s lark a gem
Nina Simone tugged my heartstrings
The Bonzo’s remember them?
America’s Sister Goldenhair
Mike Oldfield’s Ommadawn
The Moodies flew me into space
Donovan as you were born
Van the Man when he was young
Satchmo getting mellow
Be Good Tanyas heavenly
Springsteen that raucous fellow
The Four Tops when I met you
Miserere when my father died
Free for wailing guitar riffs
Arlo when I lied
So mi-tunes are emotional
Each one a fractured track
I could have lived another life
Without ever looking back
© Graham Sherwood 2009
Arab in my carpet
There’s an Arab in my carpet,
that no one else appears to see,
I catch his fearsome countenance,
when I sit down to pee.
This Taliban of the toilet,
robes of flowing powder blue
is hidden in the Wilton weave,
as I contemplate the view.
It’s fair to say he’s not always there,
perhaps he’s hiding in the Kush,
underneath the bog roll holder,
if I’m ever I’m in a rush.
I’ve been really rather worried,
and I know it’s not the norm,
to have visitors in the boogaloo,
when I start my desert storm.
However I know his days are numbered,
no matter what his evil wiles,
my last gasp push will flush him out,
I’m going to lay some tiles.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
that no one else appears to see,
I catch his fearsome countenance,
when I sit down to pee.
This Taliban of the toilet,
robes of flowing powder blue
is hidden in the Wilton weave,
as I contemplate the view.
It’s fair to say he’s not always there,
perhaps he’s hiding in the Kush,
underneath the bog roll holder,
if I’m ever I’m in a rush.
I’ve been really rather worried,
and I know it’s not the norm,
to have visitors in the boogaloo,
when I start my desert storm.
However I know his days are numbered,
no matter what his evil wiles,
my last gasp push will flush him out,
I’m going to lay some tiles.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Looking out at nothing
When your firstborn leaves home
it leaves a large hole
for your heart to tumble right into,
the care of your hands, your eyes and your tongue
is too weak from the distance between you,
left unused and with nothing to cling to,
I’m useless.
When your firstborn leaves home
it makes you feel proud
and you can’t talk about him enough,
what he is, where he lives, what he’s earning and why
helps to hide that you’re feeling so rough,
just not touching him really is tough,
I’m speechless.
When your firstborn leaves home
is there ever a minute
when he wonders what you must be thinking,
or is he too busy, too tied up, too driven
like you were to stop everything sinking,
just one view without ever blinking,
I was foolish.
© Graham Sherwood 2006
it leaves a large hole
for your heart to tumble right into,
the care of your hands, your eyes and your tongue
is too weak from the distance between you,
left unused and with nothing to cling to,
I’m useless.
When your firstborn leaves home
it makes you feel proud
and you can’t talk about him enough,
what he is, where he lives, what he’s earning and why
helps to hide that you’re feeling so rough,
just not touching him really is tough,
I’m speechless.
When your firstborn leaves home
is there ever a minute
when he wonders what you must be thinking,
or is he too busy, too tied up, too driven
like you were to stop everything sinking,
just one view without ever blinking,
I was foolish.
© Graham Sherwood 2006
Lullaby
My large strong hands can easily cradle you,
close to my vision, just an inch away.
I kiss your mouth, your forehead, eyes
and savour the just bathed smell of your neck,
Ample child-skin is not yet taught,
to mould the man, your father’s son,
so for long then I’ll watch you sleep,
hear you come and see you go.
until I lose you,
in the distance of a curving road.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
close to my vision, just an inch away.
I kiss your mouth, your forehead, eyes
and savour the just bathed smell of your neck,
Ample child-skin is not yet taught,
to mould the man, your father’s son,
so for long then I’ll watch you sleep,
hear you come and see you go.
until I lose you,
in the distance of a curving road.
© Graham Sherwood 2009
Tate Modern
I walk into the large white box.
Some young people look cool,
others just take the piss,
some students appear informed, anguished even, intelligent,
others merely shake their heads.
I study Wine Crucifix, Arnulf Rainer.
Some old ladies stand there straight and tilt their heads,
others lean in closer, in wistful passivity.
A large group of children are lead to Jackson Pollock, Summertime 9a.
Some are expressionless, dismissive and uncomfortable,
others speak of images I cannot recognise, only one gets it.
A well-dressed man, American perhaps, is ambivalent,
a half-dressed girl is beautiful, and knows it,
others are imprisoned in their ugliness.
Cy Twombly’s Quattro Stagione beguiles me completely,
like Mucha posters in the rain.
Some tourists read the captions, inquisitive and scratch their chins,
others, Japanese, leave reverentially but return for yet another look.
La femme et son Poisson, Man Ray shimmers,
both lithe, both swim, both dream.
A small group do not look, but look at each other,
some are tired, blow out their cheeks, vacant,
others sympathetically recoil, feel conned.
I puzzle at Brague and fall in love with Metzinger’s
La femme a la Cafetiere, sensual, ovoid, warm.
Some schoolgirls look like schoolgirls, are schoolgirls
others wish not to be at school,
some clutch books for authenticity, I should be here,
others leave hurriedly, reluctant to stay.
Everyone notices the crack across the floor.
© Graham Sherwood 2008
Some young people look cool,
others just take the piss,
some students appear informed, anguished even, intelligent,
others merely shake their heads.
I study Wine Crucifix, Arnulf Rainer.
Some old ladies stand there straight and tilt their heads,
others lean in closer, in wistful passivity.
A large group of children are lead to Jackson Pollock, Summertime 9a.
Some are expressionless, dismissive and uncomfortable,
others speak of images I cannot recognise, only one gets it.
A well-dressed man, American perhaps, is ambivalent,
a half-dressed girl is beautiful, and knows it,
others are imprisoned in their ugliness.
Cy Twombly’s Quattro Stagione beguiles me completely,
like Mucha posters in the rain.
Some tourists read the captions, inquisitive and scratch their chins,
others, Japanese, leave reverentially but return for yet another look.
La femme et son Poisson, Man Ray shimmers,
both lithe, both swim, both dream.
A small group do not look, but look at each other,
some are tired, blow out their cheeks, vacant,
others sympathetically recoil, feel conned.
I puzzle at Brague and fall in love with Metzinger’s
La femme a la Cafetiere, sensual, ovoid, warm.
Some schoolgirls look like schoolgirls, are schoolgirls
others wish not to be at school,
some clutch books for authenticity, I should be here,
others leave hurriedly, reluctant to stay.
Everyone notices the crack across the floor.
© Graham Sherwood 2008
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Church Pece
A somewhat lean and mossy spire stands here,
with sombre face to toll long hours,
abroad and down a verdant bank,
it peers at proud church pece.
A frontier field of kindred fighting men,
a squabbling patch where true men died,
long, long forgotten under sod,
where wheeling kites patrol.
Now, old souls bend their broken weary backs,
strange weapons prod the ochre soil,
rod, pole and perch, they proudly tend
the graves of yester men.
So any warm idyllic sun drowsed eve,
the clink of hoe, the jag of rake,
rekindles, in the bonfire’s smoke,
a ghostly garrison.
Thin breezes whistle amidst bent rusting wires,
crow-scare flags stream from battle tents,
laid-up to rest are Cromwell’s men,
the skirmish dawn awaits
© Graham Sherwood 2008
with sombre face to toll long hours,
abroad and down a verdant bank,
it peers at proud church pece.
A frontier field of kindred fighting men,
a squabbling patch where true men died,
long, long forgotten under sod,
where wheeling kites patrol.
Now, old souls bend their broken weary backs,
strange weapons prod the ochre soil,
rod, pole and perch, they proudly tend
the graves of yester men.
So any warm idyllic sun drowsed eve,
the clink of hoe, the jag of rake,
rekindles, in the bonfire’s smoke,
a ghostly garrison.
Thin breezes whistle amidst bent rusting wires,
crow-scare flags stream from battle tents,
laid-up to rest are Cromwell’s men,
the skirmish dawn awaits
© Graham Sherwood 2008
Festival
Old friends meet loudly, hug and call each other “man”
their heads on other days would turn to Dave or James or Tim
rich suburbanites who freely mix with New Age scruffs
safe in the folds of music, smoke and pricey beer.
They lie on an acre’s nest of tiny dome-shaped multi-coloured tents,
that glimmer like torch-lit tics and smell of sweat and muddy grass
all dressed in tie-dyed, old, damp, outrageous clothes
until Monday comes once more, the suit, the tie, the tube.
In feathery drizzle, they stretch last nights’ stiff necks, backs and legs
and aimless, stroll with skinny dogs who sniff for discarded burger scraps
before the music calls, the thudding bass, screeching riffs and angry drawl
the Eloi turn and amble to this hypnotic churning noise.
Then demure young girls sensually writhe and show their breasts
And hope they won’t appear on someone’s MySpace page
Some henge-like stare, some sway, some jig with arms aloft
It’s festival man, you have to be here, come one come all
© Graham Sherwood 2008
their heads on other days would turn to Dave or James or Tim
rich suburbanites who freely mix with New Age scruffs
safe in the folds of music, smoke and pricey beer.
They lie on an acre’s nest of tiny dome-shaped multi-coloured tents,
that glimmer like torch-lit tics and smell of sweat and muddy grass
all dressed in tie-dyed, old, damp, outrageous clothes
until Monday comes once more, the suit, the tie, the tube.
In feathery drizzle, they stretch last nights’ stiff necks, backs and legs
and aimless, stroll with skinny dogs who sniff for discarded burger scraps
before the music calls, the thudding bass, screeching riffs and angry drawl
the Eloi turn and amble to this hypnotic churning noise.
Then demure young girls sensually writhe and show their breasts
And hope they won’t appear on someone’s MySpace page
Some henge-like stare, some sway, some jig with arms aloft
It’s festival man, you have to be here, come one come all
© Graham Sherwood 2008
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Brainkissing
A sweet young child has taught me how,
to store kisses in my brain.
It seems, he collects his from his mum,
until she needs them back again.
On hearing this, a thought occurred,
of opportunities much-missed.
If I’d have had his common sense,
more lips I would have kissed.
© Graham Sherwood 2007
to store kisses in my brain.
It seems, he collects his from his mum,
until she needs them back again.
On hearing this, a thought occurred,
of opportunities much-missed.
If I’d have had his common sense,
more lips I would have kissed.
© Graham Sherwood 2007
Friday, January 30, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Creation at Taronga, (Australia)
Almost unseen, as vaporous portent
the creator comes
to draw his milky orange, dusk cloak down.
The slowly changing scene departs
behind stark black fingers in the glow
as muses gather,
the blinking lights and twinkling expectant eyes
look up.
In momentous incandescence
the sky erupts and spills electric rain
above our tears and beckoning call.
Warm hands clasp
and easy kisses bid goodbye another year.
© Graham Sherwood Australia 2009
the creator comes
to draw his milky orange, dusk cloak down.
The slowly changing scene departs
behind stark black fingers in the glow
as muses gather,
the blinking lights and twinkling expectant eyes
look up.
In momentous incandescence
the sky erupts and spills electric rain
above our tears and beckoning call.
Warm hands clasp
and easy kisses bid goodbye another year.
© Graham Sherwood Australia 2009
The conversation of trees, (Australia)
Words and sounds are passed through slim spear leaves
an arboreal breath that flits from bough to branch
well well well.
First to hear are lofted sage-like gums
that lean aside to listen in slow and studious bend.
Are you really really sure?
ask curious haughty ferns having bristled to return a bow
they shake their tangled fronds in considered revelation
what? what?
the laden Banksia breathes and topples nibbled combs
the crumbs of which vibrate and spin more news.
Yes yes yes affirm the tumbling Wattle twigs
and so the story passes on.
Amidst, the raucous Keets and naughty Too’s
dash in an out to claim their place
like urchins under dappled washday sheets
which crackle as the next words come.
© Graham Sherwood 2008 Australia
an arboreal breath that flits from bough to branch
well well well.
First to hear are lofted sage-like gums
that lean aside to listen in slow and studious bend.
Are you really really sure?
ask curious haughty ferns having bristled to return a bow
they shake their tangled fronds in considered revelation
what? what?
the laden Banksia breathes and topples nibbled combs
the crumbs of which vibrate and spin more news.
Yes yes yes affirm the tumbling Wattle twigs
and so the story passes on.
Amidst, the raucous Keets and naughty Too’s
dash in an out to claim their place
like urchins under dappled washday sheets
which crackle as the next words come.
© Graham Sherwood 2008 Australia
Cape Leeuwin, (Australia)
Before me they unfold
from upturned pencil palms and ironstones,
through khaki tussocked drinking-straw grasses,
both flaunting coyly with timeless eyes,
rolled out as if some ancient mariner’s charts
were left amongst the pristine sand and ivory surf,
a panoramic palette of navy, royal and soft grey blues
to silver-brilliant steel and turquoise marine,
the basking rendezvous where
both oceans kiss and lose their names,
beneath man’s brilliant pulse
they shun the pole
another lifetime’s world from here.
© Graham Sherwood Australia 2008
from upturned pencil palms and ironstones,
through khaki tussocked drinking-straw grasses,
both flaunting coyly with timeless eyes,
rolled out as if some ancient mariner’s charts
were left amongst the pristine sand and ivory surf,
a panoramic palette of navy, royal and soft grey blues
to silver-brilliant steel and turquoise marine,
the basking rendezvous where
both oceans kiss and lose their names,
beneath man’s brilliant pulse
they shun the pole
another lifetime’s world from here.
© Graham Sherwood Australia 2008
Local Man, (Australia)
I sense you slowly flit from gum to gum
in elegant balletic stance on leather toes,
ethereal,
I feel the inquisitive stroke of your furrowed stare
and smell your body’s heady resin paint
of dotted lines in fluid daub,
immersed within euphoric spying trees,
darting lizards, strange rainbow birds.
I hear your rhythmic guttural hum.
Do I frighten you, or you me?
Perhaps it’s better to stay there, safely hidden
don’t make a trade; this is still your land
and I hear its song,
as kangaroos bound across the sky.
© Graham Sherwood Australia 2008
in elegant balletic stance on leather toes,
ethereal,
I feel the inquisitive stroke of your furrowed stare
and smell your body’s heady resin paint
of dotted lines in fluid daub,
immersed within euphoric spying trees,
darting lizards, strange rainbow birds.
I hear your rhythmic guttural hum.
Do I frighten you, or you me?
Perhaps it’s better to stay there, safely hidden
don’t make a trade; this is still your land
and I hear its song,
as kangaroos bound across the sky.
© Graham Sherwood Australia 2008
Wake-up Call, (Australia)
Four birds
They have new visitors,
yes and I’ve seen them
wwwwooooooowwwwww!
ploink!
You sound like a dripping tap,
we all think this too but for differing reasons
and by 8 o’clock we are no longer news.
It’s Sunday, cedar fresh like last night’s welcome pinot noir
as bright sun ambles through to clean up the storm.
The fallen jackoranda blossom needs a brush
kookaburra and cockatoo natter and squabble
the day is here, the rest is gone
© Graham Sherwood Australia 2008
They have new visitors,
yes and I’ve seen them
wwwwooooooowwwwww!
ploink!
You sound like a dripping tap,
we all think this too but for differing reasons
and by 8 o’clock we are no longer news.
It’s Sunday, cedar fresh like last night’s welcome pinot noir
as bright sun ambles through to clean up the storm.
The fallen jackoranda blossom needs a brush
kookaburra and cockatoo natter and squabble
the day is here, the rest is gone
© Graham Sherwood Australia 2008
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