Great Poetry Circle

Great Poetry Circle

About the Poetry Blog

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







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 Springs of Love

TS LovePosted by G. Thompson Tue, July 10, 2018 04:24:53

The springs of love are strange

some are pure but others

sullied, muddied and poisoned

by influences unbenign

but gold is found in dirty streams

crystals of amethyst and quartz

in base and granite rocks

the force of sin and degradation

can heat our tainted love

to moments of even greater perfection:

the man on the cross-

roads of so many lives





You turned your head

TS LovePosted by Graham Thompson Wed, March 21, 2018 22:58:47

You turned your head

and tossed your hair

though it fell again across your face

As your half-questioning look

tilted your head

and your dark eyes smiled

in perfect knowledge

the small wavetops dissolved

from sight and hearing

The pebble felt warm

as it was pressed into my palm

my arm slowly lowered

my eyes too

Do you remember? laughed your lips

but the shocking waves

stole your glance

and my memory

awoke no meaning

the present became long past

and the future spoke alone






for Barbara


You constantly made up to me

TS LovePosted by Graham Thompson Tue, March 20, 2018 10:36:44

You constantly made up to me

In mascara, liner and rouge


Though I never asked for that at all

Nor ever made the first move


Then I was the partner left unseen

When you sals'ed thru the night


I was the secret that danced between

Your breasts and other men


My love you took the tram to Moscow

That got sidelined in my heart


You wanted to dance one last dance for me

On life's perfect seamless strand


It was a day you gave back to me

But really it meant the end


Then you tried to skate away from me

But fell and broke your wrist


You mailed me an X ray of the bone

That still treasonably hurts


Now you skate on kitchen floors

With home and babe and man


You never answer the phone to me

You've found another's wings


So when the time comes to count

All those ballroom heroines


I'll put you high above everyone

Though I'll have to unclip your wings


I can't remember the lines I said

When as friends we finally did part


But all I know is that breasts your size

Should never be let out alone



Hey angel, this utopia is upside down!

TS LovePosted by Graham Thompson Tue, March 20, 2018 10:23:27

“ … and (s)he was the devil of my dreams, the handsomest angel.”

Antonio Machado


Hey angel, why do your visits

come so often? Were you once

more human & voluptuous,

instead of ice thin & boney,

like my incarnate lover?

Are your wings of wider span

now you need to defeat

my gravity?

& who is escaping from whom?


Hey angel, the first time

you left me, you were parked

on a slab of stone, not in paradise

but the morgue – did you

fly up to heaven

all on your own?


Then you haunted me

constantly in muddy lanes

& briared paths

between sunrise & dawn

and in the soon-to-be-harvested

wheat-fields of my youth.

Were you taken in your nest

like the sliced & quartered rats

I found when they

came to take the grain?


Later, when I'd lost you,

I thought it was

forever, you flew in

from Lisbon

or some other port of whores.

You came back to tempt me, seduce

or pre-empt me – but I

knew your game right from the start.

You might have given me

the clap, but not the bee-sting kiss

of a Hecubus from hell

pretending to be heaven.


In Flanders fields I found you

blindly strolling through the graves

that ten feet below

tugged at your heels, but stop

you never did

except to undo this kid

who had single-mindedly

failed to win the war.

We slept between the graves,

made love between the folds

of the dead, we consumed

one another in passion's fire;

but there were no phoenixes,

only sadly failed intentions

as I escaped

out of your coffin door.


Hey angel

I thought I was free of you

in the far north of my freedom

a place where angels can catch

cold

in their extremities,

but you found me

you came knocking

at my balcony window door

as I paused from my words

on the page. Of course,

they were of you, only you,

as you reached again

into my fiery coal-black heart.

You came to wrench me

from the page to the precipice,

you came to tear me

from my fate

ringed by circles arctic

and of stories old.

You dragged me to the balcony's

rough ledge,

then it was push & pull:

your push to make you thrill

at the dizzy heights below,

and at my fall,

my pull to draw me back

to the stage;

for it is an act, a play,

a whole production on the road

I'll never live to see:

it's our common desire

to join beyond the grave

at the crossroads

where all the angels

met the witch

(of the north?).


Written in a bar on the Avd. Antonio Macho, Playa del Balamadena, Andalucia, March, 2018









Vanilla – a mixed metaphor

TS LovePosted by Graham Thompson Tue, March 20, 2018 10:00:43

The candles in this stranger's house

reek of vanilla – a scent

that takes me back unerringly,

compulsively, to,

not the love of my life,

but loving that once seemed

unquenchable – it was her soap

and from it her skin

that gave off a perfume

which preceded her every entry

to my presence

by seconds:

Vanilla! It's origin

no mystery: those long

sensuous dark pods

the hidden fragrance of their insides

a life history

of pollination by hand -

a strange kind of sex

at its foundation

leading to another

more personal history

of childhood custards

seaside ice-creams

motherly cheeks and apple pies.

Vanilla!

wreaking of life, sex and even the death

captive in its unlit interior

exteriorised in my love's

every tender move

this love haunts me now

from some distant place

I can no longer reach

but only smell

and here retell

again and again

our injured history and

miraculous intercourse

almost preternatural in its origin

a passion now belonging to

its own relational geology

an ice-age erratic left

forlorn, isolated

on some foreign strand:

how many times

will it lead me astray,

this lone signpost

to a pre-historic love




Love's Corner

TS LovePosted by Graham Thompson Mon, October 03, 2016 14:07:29

The cold held us;

A street corner of directions

Wheeled us apart.

Emptying your arms

I ran against the startling cold,

My face upturned and cradling stars,

My heart in the dark nowhere.

Then time streamed down my bitter cheeks,

And forced a turn of mind

To the statue of your beauty,

Immured in wrapt attention:

A woman of scarves and anticipation

Propped by her bicycle.

Alone, so utterly alone you stood,

Refusing all directions except my own,

Which in that moment turned on yours,

To the warmth of neck and hair.

And on the street we took away,

As long as two minds meeting,

We felt the words we had no need share,

Were turned on this love's corner.





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