Thanks to our
poets and poems thread I went looking through my old writing folders and thought I'd post some of what I found. These are all from the poetry project I submitted in the second year of my BA, and all were inspired by photographs or pieces of art.
The Seventh DayDad was a miner
working underground six days a week,
shovelling coal from seam
to pit head.
I remember his jet black eyes;
demon red from dust and dark,
as he walked the hill home every night,
back broken from work.
Fridays he would bring us scrumps
from Evans-the-fish-shop,
and tuck into cod and chips
with greasy paper and greasy hands.
Day of rest would mean us all,
dressed in our Sunday best,
trooping down to the Ebeneezer Chapel
on the corner of Davies Street and Cynon Terrace.
Standing smart for what seemed like hours
and singing hymns about Cyfartha
to the Good Lord, then home for roast..
The smell of mam’s cooking
echoed down the streets
through curious doors and windows,
and the neighbours would greet us
with the best way to cook lamb.
Dad was a miner six days a week,
but on the seventh he took his rest
halfway up the mountain,
caught between heaven and earth.
I remember him walking the hill home,
brown soil clumped between fingers and boots
and the look of the sky in his eyes,
bringing us fresh carrots and tatties,
and only the faint sigh of coal dust.
The Gap Between 54th and 9thThere is a girl
with opium eyes
who hides in the shadows of the gargoyles
down on 54th and 9th
we see here there sometimes
daisy chained
and picking lilies
or splashing in the puddles
the rain makes
weaving through the sky
she spends her Sundays
collecting tin foil caps
and pays the milkman in bread
for the half pint cartons
she feeds to the alley cats
night time scroungers
outside restaurant doors
she is never there on Mondays
when we leave for work
with shined shoes and buttonholes
but when we tread carefully home
avoiding the day’s leftovers
she sometimes says hi
The Furthest PointThey do not tell you
that the furthest point you can travel
is to where your heart beats.
(They tell you only
of frozen dreams,
of wishes scattered in time.)
They do not tell you
that to hear the sound of breath at night
is to remind ourselves we are alone.
(They tell you only
of the waves breakered to the shore,
of the tide’s lapping silence.)
They do not tell you
that to head west will bring you back to the beginning,
only none the wiser.
(They tell you only
that a journey of a thousand miles
begins with the first step.)
They do not tell you
this is the easiest place to fall.
CalvaryWe tried
nailing raindrops to a cross,
but the nails
got rusty,
wood broke,
rain dried up in the sun.
Next
we tried a rainbow,
thinking the red and blue and yellow
would look better
than paint on tired grain,
but the rainbow was harder than the rain;
the colours kept slipping to the ground.
The dirt looked pretty
but the cross was still bare.
After that
we tried the sunlight –
easier for us to hold in place,
but with night the shadows
and the cross remained
silver with nails.
We shall stay with the flesh -
it is less likely to fade with the dawn.
