Poetry of the Month - June

This section is updated on a monthly basis with a different theme. You can view previous months' entries using the links at the bottom of the page.

Welcome to the June 2008 Poetry of the Month page.

The silence before the sound

Picture of a conductor In the silence before the sound
The score stands upright in the half-light; the back-ground
The notes call out "play me,
sway with me close to you"
and wait
in that silence before the sound

In the silence before the sound
The moment lasts, and casts a fleeting glance around
Then calls out "Maestro, Maestro
pianissimo staccato"
and wait
in that silence before the sound

In the silence before the sound
The Maestro enters centre stage, to bow, engage, and look profound
Applause calls out, a baton lingers
while lips and fingers hesitate
and wait
in that silence, before the sound

Written for Symphony Hall Birmingham

Apple Blossom

Picture of Apple blossom Ghosts linger in my legs
Shadows of the day before
the week before

Before then I danced and sang a litany of lives
I shared a glass and sat at the table.
That was then

Now, I sip at them more slowly.
I hold my own hand

I lead myself down an avenue of apple blossom,
Here, crushed petals get blown away by the wind,

The sun shines and shadows play on the leaves.

Texas Bar

He stands outside from 9 till 5.
He's called a pro
and he is
at everything
especially charm.

He has a mischievous grin.
He can't help that and he can't help himself.

He sleeps too little
smokes too much and drinks as much as he's given
which could be too much

He hands out tickets like he's selling a ball game,
Yes, he's an American with a charm all right
and an accent that strokes like a feather.

He calls the random tourists dregs of society,
Their language is as choice as no choice
with unthoughtful breath and dirty hands.

His nights hot up at 2am.
He becomes an usher of drunks
a nurse for growing teenagers
and a comedy routine

As the morning breaks and Texas spews its guts into the street he mops them up,
At 5am he goes for salty chips and a ride on the hamster wheel because to him
it's all a big joke.

The Nanty

We reached the farm
and nudged the memories.

In procession
we made our way down the hill and past the well.
Wet footed and clumsy
a silence fell as we fell upon the house.
Rubble, stone and wood, but still a house,
Our house
where we sang hymns, slept with army coats and harsh voices,
but still sang.

And the hanging bough where we used to sing and swing on innocence still creaks and moans.
And the leaves in the orchard still crack beneath our feet like china saucers

We turn to leave
and so I pick up a stone and carry it back up the hill
like a mother risen from the dead.

Back at the farm we listen to the story of my father's burial on the moors
like we didn't know.
We find the grave marked only by heather and wild rough grass,

We breathe the unpolluted air into our lungs.