Tantric

(I was recently advising someone that D H Lawrence was a good source of erotic description. Afterwards it made me remember his poem "snake" and this piece is some sort of hybrid of both it and erotic verse).

Charm me, like a snake
draw me up,
use your hands to hold me there,
firm but wavering,
my intent unclear
in gentle sway, erect
with piercing concentration,
transcendental
one aching tip,
unable to satisfy my basic urge
to spit and strike
into your soft plum flesh.

© Graham Sherwood 2/2010

Twelfth Night

(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

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

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

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

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

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