peter-oram
Welsh
Peter Oram was born in Cardiff in 1947, and has first class honours degrees in modern languages and composition. He has been active as writer, composer, translator and guitarist. His publications include the novels Maddocks (Gomer 1997) and The Rub (Starborn 2001), The Page and the Fire (translations from the Russian, Arc 2007), White (poems, Starborn 2001), Valaisian Quatrains, Orchards, and Roses (translated from the French of Rilke, Starborn 2008, Revolver Night (with the artist Diane Walkey) and numerous educational books. His two musicals Swarm Fever (with Alex Barr) and Atlantis (with José Andreu) have been performed in Germany and the UK.
He’s a smuggler, bearing certain small
but heavy packages across the borders.
No one knows the powers from whom his orders
come or what authority he’d call
upon, should he be spotted as he drags
himself through brambles or goes burrowing through
the undergrowth. He carries with him few
possessions and his clothes are all in rags—
he doesn’t care: his sole concern is for
the things he carries and the consequence,
should frontier guards discover and inspect them.
He leaves them in left luggage lockers or
on supermarket shelves or under stones,
and no one ever turns up to collect them.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
I scribble on a scrap of paper while
she goes to buy a cartridge for the printer.
It’s five o’clock and Wednesday and mid-winter:
I should’ve stayed at home—I’ve got a pile
of work to do and this is wasting time.
Obama’s on the radio again
with promises on gun-related crime
and fighting poverty that hidden men
in long dark rooms will never let him honour.
A woman in white boots. Behind her, on a
bicycle, an old man, very slow.
She doesn’t look it, but somehow I know
she’s pregnant and they have no place to go.
I switch channels. It's an old song by Madonna.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:16 PM UTC
20.
One’s speaking softly in considered tones,
a quietener to his child’s whim. The other’s
sailing the contented seas of early
love. The storms that tried to strike these brothers
down are over now, the bitter taste
has passed, and bells of laughter have replaced
the stones that once we hurled at one another.
Back in the tent, high up on the trapeze,
bracing his body for the triple twist,
the acrobat swings. The great crowd shifts and groans.
He wants their wild applause, but if he’d have it he
must seize the point where his arc has slowed and kissed
the stillness. For this is his gentle Pentecost,
the white dove motionless in zero gravity
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
20.
One’s speaking softly in considered tones,
a quietener to his child’s whim. The other’s
sailing the contented seas of early
love. The storms that tried to strike these brothers
down are over now, the bitter taste
has passed, and bells of laughter have replaced
the stones that once we hurled at one another.
Back in the tent, high up on the trapeze,
bracing his body for the triple twist,
the acrobat swings. The great crowd shifts and groans.
He wants their wild applause, but if he’d have it he
must seize the point where his arc has slowed and kissed
the stillness. For this is his gentle Pentecost,
the white dove motionless in zero gravity
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
The people in this place
—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon
begin to show himself,
although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re
all so like tin apostle
spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil
to the inscrutible hero.
Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now
is fleeing the inquisitive
crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world
we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they do-
ing here? They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon begin
to show himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin
apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the in-
scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing the in-
quisitive crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged into
that far-off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are
they doing here? They come and go
like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show
himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not tru-
ly separate beings but figurines,
a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing
the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly rein-
gested, merged into that far-
off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show himself, although
we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who
just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
The people in this place
—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon
begin to show himself,
although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re
all so like tin apostle
spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil
to the inscrutible hero.
Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now
is fleeing the inquisitive
crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world
we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they do-
ing here? They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon begin
to show himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin
apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the in-
scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing the in-
quisitive crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged into
that far-off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are
they doing here? They come and go
like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show
himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not tru-
ly separate beings but figurines,
a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing
the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly rein-
gested, merged into that far-
off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show himself, although
we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who
just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
The people in this place
—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon
begin to show himself,
although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re
all so like tin apostle
spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil
to the inscrutible hero.
Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now
is fleeing the inquisitive
crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world
we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they do-
ing here? They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon begin
to show himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin
apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the in-
scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing the in-
quisitive crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged into
that far-off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are
they doing here? They come and go
like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show
himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not tru-
ly separate beings but figurines,
a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing
the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly rein-
gested, merged into that far-
off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show himself, although
we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who
just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
The people in this place
—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon
begin to show himself,
although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re
all so like tin apostle
spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil
to the inscrutible hero.
Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now
is fleeing the inquisitive
crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world
we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they do-
ing here? They come and go like actors in
a play whose star will very soon begin
to show himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so like tin
apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the in-
scrutible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing the in-
quisitive crowd? But in a while he too
is slowly reingested, merged into
that far-off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are
they doing here? They come and go
like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show
himself, although we have no clue
which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not tru-
ly separate beings but figurines,
a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin
pale figure who just now is fleeing
the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly rein-
gested, merged into that far-
off world we can no longer be in.
The people in this place—what are they doing here?
They come and go like actors in a play whose star
will very soon begin to show himself, although
we have no clue which one he is, for they‘re all so
like tin apostle spoons, not truly separate beings
but figurines, a passive foil to the inscru-
tible hero. Is that him, that thin pale figure who
just now is fleeing the inquisitive crowd? But in
a while he too is slowly reingested, merged
into that far-off world we can no longer be in.
Mar 14, 2012
Mar 14, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
recto:
I send this from the little cell wherein
I dwell, a sealed room without a door,
no latch or bell or knocker waiting for
those whom some debt or doom or mortal sin
might draw towards this private tomb.But for
one single tiny window set up high
which holds a poor small square of greying sky
where thin birds’ flightlines scratch the current score
there’s no way in or out. Yet I shall try
to find that secret power that lies within,
that quiet light that I am storing in
this room in which I live until I die.
verso:
I send this from the little cell
wherein dwell, a sealed room
without a door, no latch or bell
or knocker waiting for those whom
some doom or debt or mortal sin
might draw towards this private tomb.
But for one single tiny win-
dow set up high which holds a poor
small square of greying sky where thin
birds’ flightlines scratch the current score
there’s no way in or out. Yet I
shall try to find that secret power
that lies within, that quiet light
that I am storing in this room
in which I live until I die.
turbo:
I send this from the little cell wherein I dwell,
a sealed room without a door, no latch or bell
or knocker waiting for those whom some debt or doom
or mortal sin might draw towards this private tomb.
But for one single tiny window set up high
which holds a poor small square of greying sky where thin
birds’ flightlines scratch the current score there’s no way in
or out. Yet I shall try to find that secret power
that lies within,that quiet light that I am stor-
ing in this room in which I live until I die.
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 2:37 PM UTC
Recto:
One of those days. The snow is falling soundless
out of a grey and uneventful sky.
A day for calling friends from times gone by?—
each one I try stays hidden in the boundless
wilderness of restless Sunday si-
lence. Floods, a sinking pound, less job provision—
the usual run of news on televison—
groundless reasons for concern or high
time for despairing? Or decision! Reach an
arm out, you can fly, your spring is wound! Less
imprecision! Let the word resound! Less
fun, short -term, maybe, but clearer vision.
Verso:
One of those days. The snow is falling
soundless out of a grey and un-
eventful sky. A day for calling
friends from times gone by?—each one
I try stays hidden in the boundless
wilderness of restless Sun-
day silence. Floods, a sinking pound, less
job provision—the usual run
of news on televison—groundless
reasons for concern or high
time for despairing? Or decision!
Reach an arm out, you can fly,
your spring is wound! Less imprecision!
Let the word resound! Less fun,
short -term, maybe, but clearer vision.
Jan 3, 2012
Jan 3, 2012 at 1:14 AM UTC