Great Poetry Circle

Great Poetry Circle

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Selection of Great Poetry and some from Tommy Stroller - choose your category - and see my other sites -
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The Philosophy of Love

TS LovePosted by Tommystroller Mon, January 28, 2019 17:10:57

Love is a Forest


Who can explain the tides of the heart?


The push of love that takes you far away


When all the time a different love unfolds

On every side.

When children are growing

Who could have been yours

In the hearts of those around you

In the songs of lives you once did share

So closely.

Who can detour your highway love of life

The dreams of your slow becoming

Except this passing god of goblet wine?

Not friend, nor enemy, nor even

The dead hand of ancient love

Can still the madness, the occasional frenzy

Of a love that fires the brain,

Of a purpose that rarely seems sane.

Love is a forest of close-knit trees

Growing from the thinnest of soils,

Each flaming arrow of heavenly green

Traces the plot of our souls

In a space magically shared

Without reason or foreboding.

Each individual flame grows

In reaching for the blue illusions of future skies

Yet from their base they suddenly seem to lean.




Sometimes in the Light


Sometimes in the light of our former days
Together I am caught off balance
In this thin present:
In the pencilling of the you of memory
The inner rush of thought is halted
And I am stranded on this isle of tired emotion.

What force can free us
From the terrible memory of love lost?
When even the forming of tender speech
Will not stir my love-torn tongue.
Each face upon which the present alights
Is hideously drawn, each offer
Of a friendly hand seems like
A distant fading wave.



To Find the Love that Stops the Sky from Falling


The dark forms spiralling down
The love of gods in their eyes
Somewhere the music is playing
Somewhere else the music is playing
At 3 o'clock in the morning.

How to tell it as it is
And how it is not
Now the angel has fallen by my bedside:
If I could lower the bars to my cot
Then we could grow young together
This fallen angel and I.

Rain in these hearts
The only constant in this world of cloud shadows
But do not be nostalgic
If the rain is falling, it falls for everyone.

Have I wasted my life
In the search for the wrong kind of love?
Tell me, my angel, before you fell
What kind of love held you
Above the human sky?
And is your fall my own?
Will I ever learn: to be loved by another
Can never suffice in this life
Let alone all the others?
Is the reason for my rejection
Of Jesus and all the holy ones
Built on the pride of an earthly love?
Is the path I am taking
Sure to take me away
From the love that dissolves in desire?

The angel is silently watching
As the raven circles my burning tower
As the lovers repeatedly
Fall apart in midair.
It seems as though not even death can fix us together
Or save us from the sweet odor of those autumn fires.

A long time before even the first dissolution
I glimpsed the truth my angel has now lost,
The one that brought her thundering fall:
In the midst of a love so full and certain
When the coupling lasted all and every night
There in the shadows of dying elms
I found Rilke's lines
And the bitter truth of our spiritual bargains:
We can never take these arms that
Constantly kindle and hold our world
Across the other side.
And lost in our loving
We become blind to death's preparation
For all our human love is
Merely a motion within
And never towards any sacred other.
But why then this plaintiff sadness
For the perfected flesh so mortal?
Why does the smell of the rose so disturb me
And the seasons refuse to turn?
The fruits of old age are strange:
They are ripe when the harvest is already taken,
They fall only after
Your beautiful hands have reached for them,
They dissolve in my angel's gaze.

I was buried in Romance
Before my mouth was first kissed
I have died ten times
But been reborn In twice that number of women's eyes.
And now I face this last resurrection
Will the same love carry me over?
Or angel can you show me
A world where the mirror Is empty of faces except my own?

My fallen one, I rise
Because the love you have given me
No longer rests on the gaze of another
Not even the gaze of the one
Whose wings I now have stolen.













Željko Buklijaš

Great Poetry EuropeanPosted by Tommystroller Mon, January 28, 2019 16:44:43
Room 317

On the Square of “the Victims of Fascism”
- the square originally called “N”
and much later the Square
of the Great & Good of Croatia
stands at number 11
an old house of mutilation -
later a students’ home
over from “the Mosque” which was once
a real mosque with three minarets.
Room 317 looks over the square
it looks over a history of grieving
- which sticks in the throat when waking:
tables, faces, dogs, walls,
and by the park of shredded bones
magnolias, blooming all

Tr. Tommy Stroller & Tatjana Ćirić

Željko Buklijaš (b. 1955) is a Croatian poet now living in Zagreb, and one of the movers of the well known Croatian poetry group Jutro poezije, which has been meeting in the capital for the past 30 years. Buklijaš writes for a Croatian audience in this poem, one very familiar with this famous square in Zagreb. As the poem states, the square has had many names, and even its present name is under attack from today's Croatian Nationalists. In the 2nd World War, the Croatian Fascist Party (Ustaše), which ruled the country under the Nazis, used number 11 as an interrogation and torture centre. The "mosque" at that time was a real mosque, helped to be built by the fascists as a poke in the eye of the Jews. This, of course, is ironic in terms of the later break up of Yugoslavia and the present almost total lack of Islamic buildings in Croatia. The mosque was destroyed by Tito, but the main part was converted into an Arts and Culture Pavilion (which was its original use in the 1930s). It remained as such until recent times but now appears like an unused mausoleum. Room 317 refers to a student room in the now deserted ruin which sits on one side of the square. The author is nearly always an absent but ghostly presence in his own poems, so he probably at one time looked out from this room when he was a student in Zagreb in Tito's time. The final irony is that the beautiful magnolia trees have been cut down and removed from the square by the present city council.




Dan Dare



Was life similar
to someone my age
growing up on the other side of the iron curtain:
did he read the Eagle
in the sixties of the last century
while on my side, my goat snatched
my “Plavi vjesnik”1 comic?
The Beatles perhaps
maybe only Dan Dare
and the Stars?
It seemed
they were just on the far side of Mt. Biokova2
and so near to me. 



Tr- Tommy Stroller & Tatjana Ćirić


1 Plavi vjesnik was a popular young person's comic in Tito's communist Yugoslavia
2 This is the highest mountain in Croatia and looks over the Adriatic close to Makarska. Buklijaš grew up on its eastern side.


Tommy Stroller's reply:



Under the same Stars



We were twins
brought up on either side
of a wall we did not build
we were listening
to Tamla Motown, Bobby Vee
& Cliff happy summer holidays
Richards
on the tinny
transistors
under our pillow
we were Radio Luxembourg
fans waiting for the same
top twenty
at 11 o'clock on a Sunday
unbeknown to mothers
teachers or policemen


Buki & Tommy
brothers of a revolution
not made by Tito
not made by Kennedy
but by twin souls
all over Europe
we were shouting through the wires
we were climbing the same wall
we were singing the same songs
and dancing with women
wearing the same short skirts
And Buki my friend
we meet at last
in a bar in old Zagreb
reciting our poetry
of tomorrow
looking again
for Dan Dare
in the Stars






Croatian Scapes

TS InscapePosted by Tommystroller Thu, November 01, 2018 08:49:44

Rainy Sunday

I am so lazy

on this sodden Sunday

the city is empty

the cafes lie down in a bath

of salty water

the umbrellas drip

like lonely children

on a Scottish outing

someone has nicked

the white houses of Opatja

across the bay

but the casino

is still no doubt

open - I sit

no longer with coffee

toast or money

the world spins slowly

away from me

and my cigar

whispers smoke secrets

in the ear

of the ashtray

something has departed:

the last train to Ljubljana

sounds like a wall

I cannot climb




Tito’s Yacht

There is a place

in forested Croatia

a little port town

Where Tito kept

a little yacht

so similar to

An English queen’s

And in a cafe

overlooking the harbour

I once sat

for an hour

Waiting for

my love to come

and looked over

the Adriatic

But only fishing boats

back from their nightly soundings

came to greet me

Their fish

winking at me with sad eyes

and in the distance

Italy




Extraordinary Homecoming

Extraordinary homecoming

This journey to the heart

Of a foreign land

Croatia’s tears are merely smiles

To Europe’s hopeful peacemakers

I tread the tightrope of north to south

My silent fall is mystery

To all my watchers

Yet still the net quivers

When all the clowns have entered

The drum too trembles on

& reverberates with history




Spiral Thoughts

Rijeka is my inspiration

For so many spiral thoughts

Galaxies of lives

Interwoven into the coming of the night

Glittering stars and rose-red reflections

Cries of children

Refusing to come home





Rijeka Weather

Yesterday:

In a cloudless evening sky

The mountains eat the sun

The sun drinks the sea

One last blue-red reflection

Before the world turns away from me

Today:

The clouds stroke the mountains

The mountains feed the streams

The streams bubble into the sea

The sea embraces the clouds

The clouds piss rain

And the rain? It falls on me




Istrian Twilight

Above the mountain

the cloud mountains of the sky

Above the sky mountains

the universe - too far to comprehend

for minds too-used to daylight

we only feel

its quivering rays

Below the mountains

the lithograph of orange light-lines

on deep blue Istrian paper

Below Istria’s shadow-plays

the squirm of Opatja’s painted charms

Below Opatja

the quayside lamps

delving deep shafts of gold

in the absolute black of the sea

Opposing Opatja

the moon slowly rises high:

a scimitar slices the hills

south of Rijeka







Croatian Poems

TS LovePosted by Graham Thompson Fri, October 12, 2018 12:45:26

Rijeka Evening

1.

The sun falls on this balcony scene

Of blue Slovenian hills with gilded filigree

Villages uncurling on small ridges

One above the other in single file

& the Adriatic azure stillness

Washes its gentle waves

Over my last loved body

In endless Slavic embraces

Then kisses fall like petals on my skin

Or bruise my silenced aching mouth

Teeth clashing tongues wrestling

So long that even breath

And dead memory are utterly gone

2.

Passion mystifies the maze of living

Under clear blue skies and Slavic eyes

A voice comes to me as if

From some deep well

In the fundaments of my being

Yours is the voice

Mine the song

This the final runway

For our entwining spirits

& this the meaning

from which our future lives

Is sprung


Keyhole

I have allowed you

To peer through the keyhole

Of my whole life

Without once fearing that keys

Rather than eyes

Will lock me in


Sheets

Our future travels beyond

All those terrifying

& sometimes beautiful past hauntings

All those dark infidelities

& back-stabbed hearts

Outrageous badly acted parts

We played for some fiction of the Other

This future leans on the

Other side of that past

A future as clean as the sheets

We love on


Before Departure

O my love now

"I can only write" (1)

Not of leaving

Nor nostalgia

Not even in the belief of the saving Graces

No only of this blinding love

That entwines us with the certainty

Of well-learnt dance-steps

Yes long learnt but freshly chosen

As if God’s angels were beating

Their wings in our hearts

In feet & toes now unfrozen


(1) Cf Neruda's lines in his 20 Poems of Love



After Departure

All that has gone from me

You safely tucked away in your heart

All that you have given me

Is now a stage where the play of our lives can begin

It’s a production

Full of comedy

Not of giant-killing or tragedy

It’s a love story

Of the common niceties we enjoyed

A kitchen-sink drama

With two chefs at the stove

Cooking love’s meals

Nourishing and tasty:

May it last

To the very last spoonful


Pecine

Croatian nights

The mystery of time

And this place where spirits

From many tribes assemble

Whilst stars hold their place in the heavens

Like constant friends

And fishing boats blink inconstantly

To move every night to new grounds

There are so many peoples

Who have met at the Gulf of Kvarner

So many landings from Pecine to Trieste

Angels have flown from terrifying heights

In the poetry and writings of Europe's best

The sperm of young generations

Lost in the battles

The fleets and machinations

Of emperors, dictators and fake dramatists

But still the calm Adriatic, warm and entrancing

Swings in the minds of Rijeka's Children

Squatted on the shingle, listening

To their music, mobiles illuminating

Green blue and yellow their

Faces absorbed in the smallest

Of international shows

Skin bronzed and shoulders constantly turning

Towards one another, new

Spirits released from the curse of history

From power-mad conquerors

Politics reoriented by love

On this beach of a dream at Pecine

Pecine's Pajola Rock Cafe 12.9.18


Untitled

Unlocked the tidings of the heart resigned

To teach these lepers of the mind new lines:

Schiele’s paper epigrams and Klimt’s

Tatooed dresses will be freed

To wander lightly beyond canvas bounds

And enter in mosaic walls and floors

Till stars drawn down at dawn

Carry us to the end of time







World on Fire

TS Political PoetryPosted by Graham Thompson Fri, October 12, 2018 12:31:59

Hospital Britannia

There is something desperately wrong

In olde England - how we still pretend

To be a world power, a first

Class nation with a long history

Of political lordism

Over so many lesser nations

Who have never recognised

The sources of our authority

Even if they respect our over-celebrated

History and look up to our

Bitter-sweet cultural icons - those

Bastards of a twisted and class-ridden past,

Even if they sometimes remember

Britannia the liberator, the Byronesque

Hero who himself despised its demesne

The rain spits in our faces

On our Anglo-Saxon south coast

All the way from ancient enemies

France, Spain, Germany

And Holland - all of whom

We never quite conquered

Even when we still pretend

We did - liberated yes,

But what kind of liberation did we give ourselves:

An old-age mixed with Britain’s filthy damp airs

Breeds lung disease and twisted babies,

Whilst the rich still fatten

On our stone-cold carcass

Bones poking out of drains and

Unrecycled garbage.

Something is desperately lost

Even with stick and age,

Demented thoughts scrabble like crabs

In unfermented brains.

We feel no longer wisdom

As once our forefathers were honoured

To do - no we suffer politely

Still pulling a forelock at our betters

And copying their stately homes

In miniaturised imitation,

Which constantly need up-scaling

Until we really believe every Englishman’s home

Is really the castle of our dreams,

Defended not only against foreign scum

But those from any slightly lower class.

It’s a squeezed tight-arsed world

Where rules are more important than people,

When procedures dictate

If and when people can eat

Even though they are hungry,

When immigrants are locked up

And nobody owns up to throwing away the key,

When beggars are persecuted and givers

Are sent to gaol for sharing a crust of their wealth,

When algo-rhythms steal our souls

And replace them with every advert

We could maybe wish to see

Even though we are never buying it,

It’s just to distract us from the more important matters

Such as life and death,

Human contact and human trust.

One day every human virtue will be stolen from us

By sleight of a hidden computerised hand,

Or a bureaucrat just doing an honest days work,

Or an untrained assistant in hospital Brittania,

Whilst the highly trained qualified professionals

Hide behind their screens,

Equally puzzled by their tick-box over-managed world

Humanity, respect, individual trust

Is sunk in a whirlpool of lies

And eaten by the sharks and money grubbers

Of this technologized overly-controlled world

Lies disguised as saving de-vices

And dressed up as official & politically correct rules

These lies will one day eat up their manufacturers

When the chickens come home to roost

The chicken house will be in flames.



One Sunday Morning in Cologne


I came across a naked woman

Walking in the rain

A lonely Indian in the mall

Trawling the smokers’ trash cans

A man asleep before a bench

Clasping a silver chain

An elevator offering one lost shoe

Stockingless, hi-heeled and tan

Two giant plastic bags

Filled with the next night’s bedding

A wild-haired woman sobbing

A doll inside her pram

Flashing neon haloing late homecomers

Hung over from Saturday’s feasts

It was by chance I walked this way

Not fate that aligned these tropes

The choice lies in all our wills

Not spells cast on screens

Yet still the adverts circle on

Trundling the tragedies of missed desire




Dummies


Every day the man from the clothes shop

Brings the same headless black dummies

Out into the street and thus displays

His wares to a careless world


Hver dag henter manden fra tøjbutikken

Samme hovedløse sorte mannequiner

Og sætter dem på gaden - på denne måde viser han

Sine varer til en ubarmhjertig verden


Thanks to Camilla Pless og Birgith Lotzfeldt for the Danish help
og de Chirico for part inspiration




Denmark

Denmark! Oh Denmark

“There is something rotten …”

Holger Danske needs reawakening

Now the Danes are broken in two

One half supping at

Their social-democratic beers

In the long lines of ever longer bars

Expressing their needs

For the return of a lost universe

Of social allowances

Pensions and easy diagnoses

The other exploiting the holes

In a crumbling social system

Making profit from the other half’s tears

Lining their trouser pockets

(Which themselvers have been bought

With the funds from the party

An all night party that never stops

At the parting of every opportunistic dawn)

With the ill-gotten gains from

Technogiants, warehandlers and merchant

Fleets - those great and generous

Contributors to Danish culture

But more importantly

To the party’s continuance

The party that will never see the dawn

Of Holger’s awakening




The Graveyard for the Prisoners of War


When 70 people die -

In a war

In a prison camp

A thousand miles from home

Belgians, French, Russians

And one Lithuanian

No longer as soldiers

But merely as the victims

Of typhus

In the overcrowded camp

Not a concentration camp

For it was before these were

Properly invented

So that even the German doctor

Dr. Fallscheer

He died treating them

But, of course, is buried elsewhere

And they were buried properly

With names written

On each simple headstone

And regiment and country

In their own little cemetry

Next to the long-gone prison camp

Far out in the fens

Of old Slesvig

- why do I find tears in my eyes

As I look down the rows of engraved names:

Bubowski, Dams, Faucault, and Stepkin?

Why do they plead me their cause

As they stare out over the flatlands

Of what is now Denmark

But what was once Germany?

No member of my Thompson clan

Was captured by Germans.

No grandfather of mine ever fought

In the Great War.

Is it that they died

Far from homes, wives and friends?

Or is it that they represent

A common Europe which

They augmented by their deaths,

Buried by Germans

Tended by Danes

And at least one Englishman?




EXHUMATION OF THE WORD

Einleitung

Be

In my head

With Calvin and cigar

Charles the three-eyed XII

Of Sweden

And Christ the humble hero.

Silence etched by rain,

The streets I walk on

Paved with three faces,

Cracking secretly their hidden thoughts,

I tread fiercely,

Hunchbacked we fight it out

Sadistics scrapping on into the night,

Till something breaks,

Or is it cut?


1. Calvin

It fell to me a sign

In quiet Génève

Where every line of desire

Was knotted into fear:

I am the ethos by which the judgment is made.

Show me the talents you have won for our Lord,

Yes, show me your tokens of faith.

Remember the prodigal son .......

The eyes of needles grow.

The cigar gves him away

In the row of small shops;

It is six o'clock precisely

And time to lock up.

It brings a small profit,

The sum his wife knows

Buys hats large and small

And sometimes tight shoes

O for they shall inherit the earth

Two by two on a predestined raft.

The security beneath my fingernails is destroyed.

The manor is left deserted,

My mind a cog, my heart a wheel,

I own nothing I can call my own.

Except a bottle.

It is mine.

I have bought a bottle.

With my own money,

Which I have earnt.

And I have worked to earn the money with which

I have bought a bottle.

I am speaking from a brothel

Conducting my own research

Into the vices of the mob - you know the kind.

I am all that is nice

But I am not beauty

For beauty is vulgar

If not a little indecent.

Tell me my whores

Do you think I am nice?

Do you not think my fingers are nice?

Bought a bottle full

Caught her throttle full

My fingers

Brothel brown

Better than a bottle full

Frothel frown

All over you

Coddle crown

Topple.


2. Charles XII of Sweden

Glory be to glory be

Land of sleeping elephants

Land of the free

It does not matter who we invade

As long as the kids are put in the way

Scots Welsh or Vikings

They'll all do the dirty spade-

work - though I was a King at the front

An old fashioned King

Who got my hands bloody

With all the best

At least the best of the rest

I carved my name with Swedish steel

From Narvik to Constantinople

Cockpitted and heroed for the folks back home we were

Joyriders in the clouds

Following the apocalyptic four

And full score seven millions

Got blasted on the ground

We´ll give them medals

Their babes free milk

We'll light their candles

And chop off their heads

If they desert my sinking ship, boys

If they support me back to front

And I am God's witness

If God exists

I watched the blood of the lambs

Washed whiter than the Narva snows

And heard the death-man play in Paris

The subtle drum-like tones:

The king now lies in state,

His bullet eye of death

Winks his glory to the world.

And nobody laid a finger on the préfecture,

Not a howl was raised from the mob

Searching for a new King’s head

In the bowels of the silent Pont Neuf.

Now the rain still falls,

The flame still flickers

For the swine who played football:

The referee is French,

And the pitch between the lines

Is human pitch.



3. Jay C. chats with Nietzsche

I spoke as a child to my

Childhood hero.

I speak with the knowledge of my universal murder

Without hope of salvation,

And cannot bear the rhythm of the eternal plan.

I speak with a child’s understanding

But as a man I am judged.

I have the taste of my body.

My body nourishes my mind:

O the ecstasy – devour the lamb,

Absolve it in the selfless soul,

For this is my ritual murder

I am the guiltless idiot:

Humbly I bow before thy feet;

Humility slips from my mouth

Like a sudden saliva bath.

Wine, wine & song,

O play the madman’s drum.

Daddy the devils are behind you with their needle eyes;

And Daddy the sky is moving,

Is shifting in the thunder.

Speak to me Daddy......

I lie unattended.

The tree rests in drunken angles:

It has soaked all the sweat from the land.

My teeth crumbles the soil in perpetuity:

Ickory dickory dock

The blood ran out the clock

The generations lie in the scrum,

Waiting for the water to turn into wine

At the marriage of life and death.

Wine, wine & song,

O play the death-man’s drum.


4. A Very Old Present

I walk into the night,

The precarious pearls of orange rain

Reflect their crown to the eyeless multitudes.

The walls of ordered memory -

The atrophied organ of time -

Are broken through,

Leaving the spatial fool

Gobbling the pity

Of unalterable reality,

Of arbitrary existence.

Insanity reorders it’s words exhumed

Into mosaic resurrection.

Morning creaks my guilt

Intends to catch me

Hallucinating halos

By the cemetery of previous desires.

Who hopes? I tell you:

Green garb and Roman silk

O leafy halos on whose head sweat it be

I tell you:

Eyes for circulation

Corner of Leicester Sq.

The thoughts hide behind the hoardings.

Have a ton

Go on.

It was that (yes that) precise kind of day

(The paintings against the Notre Dame are sinking in the Seine)

Dream

(The ash in the grate hugs the nine-tenths of my unused brain)

Up and at

The colonel backfired

The window no ladder no...................

Pearls in back pockets

History sits on us to produce the consumable product.

The word is dust and dry

Trench-minds:

The lines around the pitch are only lines

Painted an honest white

By men innocent of grounds.

Stage-fright:

Pandering to the footlights I might find a body

Hanging from the spotlight.

Up and at and into

The home straight is not straight

Peculiar glasses

For drinking eyes?

But do not touch

Symmetrical placards hung from the interpretation of human life.

Touch me I am hot

What?

A plane in the sky perhaps

Where?

In my head.

Pass over me

Where bolder names lie more nobly,..

Draped (now)

Mouths sucking teat sea

Or old tea leaves

In Rizla reds.

My head

Splits

But is held on either side by boulders

I would not like to say of titanic dimensions!

Ah, that famous old double negative

A Cretan repeating his lies

To Bertrand Russell et al.

It's not the class of all classes

But it's my kind of underclass ...

For mine is the wine

The power and the glory

But it is too much for one head

Such clear clear white wine,

Forget and be -

Etches days oozo go away,

Comebackonanother -

In my misunderstanding.


[Begun in 1967 in Luton, UK, finished in Svendborg, DK 2018]

Notes for the reader:

“It is more difficult for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven than for a camel to pass though the eye of a needle.” Matthew 19 vs. 24

Charles XII 1682 – 1718.
In a life just a little longer than Alexander the Great's, he managed to travel and conquer most of Norway, Denmark, Estonia, Saxony, Poland and Russia, only for those lands to immediately fall back into native hands as soon as he had passed through them. He spent time in luxury with his ally the Ottoman emperor in Istanbul before returning and being shot through the head before a castle on the Norway-Sweden border whilst trying to reconquer Norway. His body, with the shot producing the affect of a third eye in his right temple, was lied in state in Copenhagen and drawn by some unknown artist for history's "consumable product". His most famous battle was at Narva in Estonia where his army of 10,000 men defeated one four times as large from Russia`s Peter the Great. Thus he was a better general than Napoleon but without the big idea.

During the second year of the 1st World War on Christmas Day there was a one day truce. The soldiers from both sides strolled into “no-man's land”, started chatting and exchanging cigarettes. Soon the working class ordinary soldiers from both sides had laid down their army jackets as goals, and started the first of what was to become the greatest rivalry in football history – England vs. Germany. The next day the ringleaders on the German side were court-martialled and sent to a concentration camp In Schleswig, near Løgum Kloster (see above). The Brits were of course more civilized: they shot the whole team as deserters. The result of this famous first match remains unknown, though the Germans claim a 7-2 victory. We finally got revenge in 1966, and the English team got medals from the Queen. But who had the last laugh???

An old English nursery rhyme whose last line actually goes: “The mouse ran up the clock”.

This is based on the old children´s rhyme that used to be sung by mothers:

“Rain, rain, go away, come back on mother's washing day.”

I have used and adapted in different sections the 16th century prayer from the Sarum Primer: “God be in my head, and in my understanding.”




Autumn in Denmark

Lithesome females smile and turn

Oncemore to face the sun.

Autumn suddenly feels like spring

But winter is in Denmark’s seas.

Seagulls wheel the town’s spires,

Pale moons reflected in eyes

Unready for the turning

Seasons. It’s later than

The clocktower bell’s

Sad signal.

Svendborg, DK 12.10.18



From One Inside The Box

Psychiatrists are actually

Ventriloquists, speaking for

You rather than to you

Oh yes they listen

But when you open your mouth

What comes out is:

“I am mad,

I am my diagnosis

I cannot recover

From a lifetime of insanity,

I am damned to die

Manic, depressed, anxious

And obsessed”

With psychiatrists who do not tell you

But only speak for you:

“I am mad, mad, mad …”

















Syd Fyn

TS LovePosted by Graham Thompson Wed, August 22, 2018 11:10:36

South Fyn

til Anna


These fluid lines of curving grace

And pubic copses drawing more than eyes

To a feast of tapering thighs

Bend this mind through

Trembling late spring space

To the jailing memory

Of what we once meant

In touch as well as rhyme

I love the earth your body spent

The burst of passion floored in June

To me two sacred things you'll always be

Fyn's 'scape

The smell of mayflower's scattered must

Assembling in the dust





Remember Me



Remember me when you are old

For age will be the lesson

Of your completion

In things you do not savour now

But will only pause to miss when so long gone

Including this.

Remember us when you grow old

For we were young in loving then

And perfect in asymmetry

I - old in years

You - rolling in the profits of untramelled youth:

Dancing in limbs and fingers

Singing like a winsome flute or sadder violin.

Remember yourself when you fall old

And care for those things that time

Had no time to spare when you were young

And nurture memories of how it was

When wrinkles and dust never seeped

Into these corners of our lives

And trust was greater

Than any chasm yawning between generations.

Yes - it skewed us

Into opposing halves:

The divided paths that ended here

Beyond the canyon's edge










The Great Teacher

TS ReligionPosted by Graham Thompson Sat, August 11, 2018 11:05:25
Teacher, you are so arrogant,
So omnisciently powerful,
So blind, so prejudiced,
You teach the opposite of what you preach
To all us young initiates
You teach us to undo
All that we were taught
By lesser teachers
And even what you once preached
Until the final lesson in darkness
Reveals all

The Blind Flute Player

TS ReligionPosted by Graham Thompson Sat, August 11, 2018 11:01:20

The blind flute player whistles in the dark

And the dark sings back more beautifully

Covered in shadows, the narrow entrance

Of the maze responds to the travellers words,

And open mouthed admits

All the poets and the clowns

Of that stealthy world but forbids

Anyone who claims he knows the way.

Yes! True performers do not second-guess

The future but follow only their wicked

Inspiration and the thread

Of Dædulus – they are lead,

But never lead, to find

The minotaur of their fate,

In glad surrender








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