The Poetry Marathon

I haven’t made my favourite cakes
In quite a while. I lost the tins,
Some several flats ago.

I still buy all the things I need
Whenever they expire. I even found
Fancy cinnamon.

I keep it on the top shelf,
In the wrong bag. Waiting for the day
I can bake again.

Just before the last big move
I bought new tins. Star-shaped
Just like the ones I lost.

I don’t really like cinnamon,
Not much. But your smile
Makes them better than banana bread.

When my life is a straight line again, I will make some more for you.

Another ship has just arrived
On fierceblown wind and stormbanked tide.

The fisher’s wife has fair contrived,
With sweetsong voice and sparkling eyes,
To carry home its cargo prize.

All is well, the cupboard’s full
There’s plenty brandy, gold and wool,

There’s spices, necklaces and teak
And feasts upon fine silver plate,

And as the waters grim arise,
Another ship has just arrived.

All is well, the cupboard’s full
See you now, through azure cool,
The shelves packed tight with glass, like jewels,

And in each tightly sealed jar
A sailor’s soul burns like a star.

I found a world inside a shell,
I peeked in for a fleeting spell;
A tiny church for plankton bones
And grains of sand for standing stones,
Hairline hedges tufted round
Algae lush upon a mound
Where, almost too small to be seen,
Cattle grazed upon the green.
There beneath a pearly glow
Ragged rainbows dancing go, –
Little folks with spiny horns
In hues of sunset, leaf and corn,
Fancy hats atop their heads
And siren bells upon their legs.

I closed the shell. I hope that they
Still dance beneath their astral bay.

This is one day,
With a warm sofa
And a furry friend,
Fresh paint on the walls
And our favourite painting,
Balloons
And a little bunting.
Time for silly days
And happy days,
This is one day.

I bound a book,
Hardback,
From the space we left between us.

I folded into the pages,
Oak leaves
And a sunflower, like in your photos.

I sewed the spine
Bright green,
With yarn from the knitting you taught me.

And instead of glue,
A nail.
The one we couldn’t find for our bookcase.

The harvest dust has left the air,
The rain is all applause,
The stage is set, if slightly wet,
And garlanded with haws.
The ivy whispers affably,
The crows tune up their throats,
The old man’s beard lights up his pipe
Of tumbling tufty motes.
The squirrels all have snacks to bring,
The whistling mice are practising,
The jay is dancing in the aisles,
The alto swan has come for miles,
The spiders string their instruments,
The moths all find their seats
And the leaves play the piano as they fall.

Space-farer
Explorer
Hero of a thousand new skies!
Marooned.
Cast into the evernight in a plummeting bead
Tearing the firmament with valiant speed
And vast wings to catch him that he cannot bleed.

And nobody watches his fall.

Star-dancer
Sun-sailor
Rooted to the red dust below
Festooned
With crystalline grass that sparkles in the breeze,
Mountains scorched in red heather frieze,
Gold storms scudding over monument trees

And no one to tell.

High-flier
War crier
Architect of deep scarlet days
Ruined
Upon a hillside, silence long-turning in
Bronze-burning suns, sky never changing
And one day a lifetime, the air ever thin

And no one remembers his name.

The darkest evening of the year
And yet we have found sunlight here,
Carried laughing through the deepwoods
Hand to hand are beams of cheer.

In puffy coats with fluffy hoods,
Disturbing squirrels’ neighbourhoods,
We’ll reach at last a winding cave
And lift our songs to light the woods.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————
‘The darkest evening of the year’ is a line taken from the poem ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening ‘ by Robert Frost. This poem also uses the partial structure of the same.

I am trenches in the ocean,
Deep sea breath,
All black and brine, no rot,
There’s nothing there to rot.
I am storm clouds out at sea
Mountains unimaginable
Trailing wind and waves,
Titans but mere tales to me.

I am lightless monoliths
I am the heat
Older than your landyoung fire.
Older than your whisper songs.
I am moonlight glinting
On the waiting weight
Of water, breathing tides.
You are fledgling.

I am darkness in your wake
Cascading,
In the dusk between the surf
Returning, like a dream
And if I die,
I am island-building.
I am mester stoor worm
And I am majesty.

Home is not a place.
Home is a time.
Home is that time of the night
Where you can feel the whole world breathing
And the darkness is vast
And smooths the creases in the daylight world;
Softens the noises.
We are all the same place in darkness.

Or

Home is not a place.
Home is a person.
Home is sitting on a sofa in the twilight
With my brother, discussing Doctor Who.
Home was where he hugged me in the playground
When a teacher was mean, and we were small.
Home is when I see him again.

And

Home is not a place
Home is a person
Home is sitting in the passenger seat of my mum’s car
Putting the world to rights as she drives us… wherever.
Home was when she took us to the library van
Or picked us up from school.
Home is whenever I can call my mum.

And

Home is not a place
Home is a person
Home is holding my dad’s hand through the streets of Oslo.
Home is when he took me sledging, with my toes packed into boots.
Home is when he came to see me when I was grieving,
And called me his little one again.
Home is whenever we can catch up.

And

Home is not a place
Home is a person
Home is my partner’s eyes when he’s excited;
Home is in the gentleness of our evenings, in the quiet times, and the endless hugs.
Home is the starlight that we share in our hearts
And the promises and welcome that we hold.
Home is whenever we are together.

And

Home is yet more people.
Home is my cat, the best cat in the world, who sometimes still feels nearby.
Home is the bright-bedecked crowd that I dance with.
Home is the childhood friends that still love me.
Home is wherever I can give my old teddy bear a hug.

Home is my Nan and my Grandpa,
And the deeply kind magic they create.
Home is my Grandma
No-nonsense, in blouses, who might take the world on and win.
Home is my Grandpa
And the memory boardgames, and tomatoes in a sunny garden.

The best thing is, my home is not fractured.
My home is unnumbered and abounding.