Poetry

The Poetry section has changed! The poetry section has been "promoted" to be its very own section and you can now visit the Poetry of the Month page each month to see what's been added. We've also included links at the bottom to previous pages, so if you missed January's Poetry of the Month - don't panic! You can still have a look!

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If you like my poems

If you like my poems, let them walk in the evening a little behind you
Then people will say, 'along this road I saw a princess pass on her way to meet her lover
(it was toward nightfall) with tall and ignorant servants.' "

--e e cummings

Overload

A photo of Chris writing poetry by the canal on a sunny day. I’m walking the ancient canal trail, with my senses on overload.
But, “do not feed the pigeons
it’s time to operate
48 hours max and can you spank me”
bring graffiti thoughts
as dark as the water that laps and wraps itself around the barges and flotsam
back into focus.

A factory calls for ‘goods inwards’ as a jet plane takes goods outwards over the Lock Dock and Barrel and the derelict buildings with their freshly bricked up windows.
It’s as if they’ve closed their eyes to pray with the Christian bookshop opposite
whispering that they’ll forgive us.
A St. George’s flag flutters
but I hear no mutterings of peace
and it is not flown at half mast for those who fell yesterday or today.

A voice complains “you wouldn’t believe we picked up rubbish here on Sunday
you just wouldn’t believe we picked up here on Sunday”.
And with another click “I’m not very good with a camera”.
But each click and pic captures a misplaced day or night
a bra and a bag of discarded chattels that reminds us of who or what we really are.

I sit with my back to the wall
listening to a backing track of the droning traffic as birdsong fills me to the brim.
A dandelion clock tells me that it’s 2 o’clock, precisely.
A rush of leaves calls to the flapping pages of my note book
as the old and the new of everything hustle for attention.

Chris Hoskins 2007

Published in 'The Best of Warwick Words' a publication as part of Warwick Words Festival.

Stepping Stones

As we walk up the hill
a childish stream runs down to meet us
greet us with its babbling and uncertainty

We leave the pain that tests and binds us on the stepping-stones.
You help me because sometimes I’m a little fearful.
I pretend I’m not and so do you.

Through it all, sunlight shines on the holly leaves.
It’s as if a god has polished them, or maybe it was someone else.

We find shamrock nestled in shades of green.
You take a picture and I pick three stems to press and dry and keep
like memories.

Back to Wearing Black

I loved your bones and called you sweetheart
But art is my messenger today

Black is my heart
as black as the earth that buries the sweetest of memories;
the snowflakes that surrounded us
the coloured leaves that warmed us
the fire that lit our evenings
the sunlight that tried to outshine us
the music that sang in us
the poetry that wrote for us

So I’m back to wearing black
woven with
naivety, stupidity and slowness
while you wear
no compassion
no sensitivity
empathy or understanding
and someone else wears my dreams like a rainbow

So I’m back to wearing black

It’s the colour destined for my use
the texture of my skin
my years of experience
the ones you couldn’t touch
not even with your pretence

So I’m back to wearing black

Black for gentleness
for dignity and sincerity
for all the robes that heaven makes
for all the love that hell destroys
for all the souls that drift bereft
for tears and weeping
endless weeping

I’m back to wearing black

Grief

Cobwebs obscure the view,

As the spider spins backwards
the humming bee spreads nectars balm on mourning lips.

A fledgling’s wing strokes trembling hands.

A masquerading moon floods the sky
and pungent dew splits every blade of grass.

The Visitors Book

I’m peeping through a keyhole of words
The transparent ones
The ones that take a snapshot of a time that’s dead, but leave a living
memory for someone else instead

The ones that reassure us as we smile upon a peaceful day and a scribbled pad of poetry, waiting to be read

I simply wrote, thank you, it was perfect,
And left transparent things unsaid.

NEW! Waiting Still

I read your poem at 8 today over cold coffee
cigarettes
and half breaths
Half waiting for the secrets
we blink to give themselves up.

I sat next to you
half breathing
half seeing
half believing those
half remembered moments.
And when they sang the song we wrote
you shook my hand
as if we were
acquainted in some way.

I've waited for you
I've watched other lives encroaching on our history
I’ve watched from an unbridgeable distance
I’ve thrown you my life raft
but still you blundered onwards
as if waiting for some translation.

Time runs on
like a half breath
a half spark
and like the songs you played me
that were so beautiful
they all got lost in the wreckage.

So I read your poem today
the one that made me cry
The one you wrote when I was seeing
believing,
breathing
and waiting
and still

like
it was only yesterday.

Never our skin

Wearing garments of gold
and pretence
and denial
that stroke our pride
and our intellect
but never our skin

We drink from a chalice
embellished
with dreams
where chandeliers glisten
and play us lullabies that send
us into a non-listening

And sometimes we open
our eyes and find something
more precious than
fantasies and fables
and tooth fairy’s wings.

Published by Dawntreader 2008