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Paul Hansford Apr 2018
There was so much we never did together,
places to go and other lands to try,
so much we could have learned about each other,
so many things to say before goodbye.

Nobody ever knew how much I suffered,
but, using all the strength that I could find,
I always coped. My strategies were successful,
the ache of separation left behind

So many times the same has happened to me,
and every time the anguish will restart,
just as intense. Although it's so familiar,
regret comes like a band around my heart.

Falling in love, each time's a new experience;
the same thing goes for learning how to part.
A big thank-you to Mary Elizabeth for her very welcome contribution, which has turned this into a proper sonnet. If you haven’t seen the first version, it's a few posts back in my stream, but this is better.
Apr 2018 · 361
All round my Hat
Paul Hansford Apr 2018
All round my hat I wear a lot of badges,
all round my hat, for many and many a day.

A disc of abalone shell from New Zealand;
a jester’s mask decorated with four glittering glass jewels (Venice,
though we weren’t there for the carnival) :
the Stars and Stripes, given to me in New York
in the weeks after 9/11, when you could hardly move
for huge examples of the national flag;
three lions, for England;
a bull, for Spain, even though I hate bull-fighting;
a liner (Alaska Cruise,2000, but we've done other cruises) :
and a gold-coloured jet plane, for all the journeys we have made;
a small badge of a very large statue, Christ the Redeemer (Rio) :
the seashell of St James, with his special cross on it
(Santiago de Compostela, though we didn’t walk the Camino) :
a very tiny badge of the ****** of Guadalupe in Mexico;
and a shiny gold-coloured outline of a dove
(Carcassonne cathedral) representing the Holy Spirit;
King Kong, my biggest badge, appropriately:
a smaller-scale hero, Winnie-the-Pooh, a gift from my daughter:
a koala decorated in crushed opal (Australia) :
a stripy cat on a tartan ribbon (Edinburgh) :
a dolphin from the Azores, though we didn’t see any there,
(but we have seen dolphins, so it counts twice) :
a miniature cookie-cutter in the shape of a moose (Canadian rockies)  
– but it would make impossibly small cookies;
a toucan (Costa Rica) and a puffin (Iceland)
admiring each other’s beaks;
heroes of the Revolution: Chairman Mao, bought in Beijing:
the Hồ Chí Minh League of Youth badge (Vietnam) :
the star representing Yugoslavia,
though even when I bought it
Yugoslavia was no longer a country;
the face of Che Guevara, looking handsome and intense (Cuba) :
and not forgetting the daddy of them all,
Lenin, on a red and flaming star;
the Hand of Fatima (Tunisia) for luck;
and the Eye of Horus (Egypt) ,
because you can’t have too much luck.

And if anybody asks me the reason why I wear them,
they remind me of places – and people – that are far, far away.
Apr 2018 · 297
Red Roses *
Paul Hansford Apr 2018
[Inspired by a photo by Munia Khan posted on Facebook]

I gave you red roses
as a sign of my love,
and now they lie there,
cast down on the pavement.

Red petals, green leaves,
faded and dry,
all life gone from them,
shrivelled and dead,
like the love that you once said
you felt for me.
Only thorns are left
to remind me of your heartlessness.

Is this what my love means to you?
What did I do
to change your mind?
Is there no hope for me any more?
Apr 2018 · 279
Counter-intuitive
Paul Hansford Apr 2018
I look forward
against all my instincts
with a kind of sad pleasure
to the moment
when we shall say goodbye,
even though I know
I shall never see you again.
And without a photograph of you,
which can never be mine,
I must inevitably lose the detail
of your lovely face,
your gentle smile.
But the real you,
open, welcoming,
tolerant, friendly,
– the nervousness
when I feel I am about to see you,
the pleasure
that lights up in me when you are there,
the disappointment
when you are not there –
you will remain in my heart,
a dear memory.
You will be in my mind forever,
I am certain.
That is the least you deserve,
and I must be satisfied
as far as possible.
Apr 2018 · 581
Amazon Adventure *
Paul Hansford Apr 2018
Newly arrived at the edge
of the rainforest,
I explore the camp,
our temporary home.
Under a shelter there is movement.
I go to investigate
and there you are.
You turn to me
and our eyes meet.
Impulsive, I reach out
to stroke your long, pale blonde hair,
and you, equally impulsive,
encircle me with your arms,
your soft hair brushing my cheek.
I am filled with a strange,
yet familiar feeling,
in love at first sight
with a woolly monkey.
True story from a trip a few years ago.
Apr 2018 · 287
Ending It
Paul Hansford Apr 2018
Once we were friendly.
Then we were more than friends.
Now there is nothing.
Must this be how it ends?
Apr 2018 · 315
The Science Of Parting
Paul Hansford Apr 2018
(On a line from Mandelstam - 'I have learned the science of parting')

There was so much we never did together,
places to go and visit hand in hand,
so much we could have learned about each other,
so many things to say before goodbye.

Nobody ever knew how much I suffered;
but by applying all the skills I'd learned
I always coped. My strategies were successful;
the ache of separation always eased.

So many times the same has happened to me,
but every time the pain returns anew.
Just as intense, although it's so familiar,
regret comes like a band around my heart.

Falling in love, each time's a new experience;
the same thing goes for learning how to part.
Blank-verse sonnet, with a rhyme at the end.  I might try writing a rhymed version, probably just lines 2 and 4 of each verse - unless someone feels like editing it for me!
Paul Hansford Mar 2018
There were four of us that day.
We all lost our virginity at the same time.
. . . well, more or less the same time,
there were a few minutes between.

All that fuss she made,
you’d have thought we were killing her.
She told the police she didn’t want to lose hers,
but we said she did,
and there were three of us
to back each other up.
We said she was hot for it,
and they believed us.

There were bruises, of course,
but we were all pretty excited, her as well,
and it got rather active.
The police agreed
it wasn’t all that unusual,
but they took photos,
in case they needed evidence.

I wish they’d given us copies.
They’d have made a good souvenir
of our first time.
The other lads would have had a good laugh.

What did she lose anyway?
Her self-respect?
Well, self-respect's cheap enough,
and when you consider it,
if it had gone the other way,
we could have had a criminal record
and lost our freedom.
So, all in all,
it was a pretty good result.

Pity about the photos, though.
That would have been the icing on the cake.
When I first posted this I received not a single comment. I don’t mind if some people don’t like it- it wasn’t meant to be pleasant - and I wouldn’t have minded if people had said they didn’t like it, preferakbly explaining why.
This was written from the point of view of one of a group of rapists featured in a heart-rending poem from a teenage girl. I was trying to put myself into the mind-set of a selfish, vicious boy, only interested in the power that he and his mates had over one helpless girl. I had thought that there would be a few people on this site with enough intelligence to understand. Did I really get it that wrong?
Feb 2018 · 582
Predictive Text
Paul Hansford Feb 2018
I received a message from you
but when I clicked on Reply
my predictive text
trying to be helpful
offered me a choice
of three words
to start with

I  You  The

not an impressive option
you might think
but on reflection
"I"
had "You"
in the centre of my mind
and for a robot
guessing
what I wanted to say
two out of three wasn’t bad
Feb 2018 · 218
How Love can Last
Paul Hansford Feb 2018
If I loved somebody
as much as I love you,
if I loved somebody
as long as I've loved you,
how could I ever stop loving them?

If they had gone away from me,
if they didn't want to know me any more,
if they were dead to me,
even if they were  
literally
dead,
I could never imagine not loving them.

You don't go to that much trouble
for nothing.
Feb 2018 · 391
Forgetting
Paul Hansford Feb 2018
Forgetting,
according to the theory,
is not something that just happens,
it's an active process.

Well, that's the theory,
but we all know, we don't always mean to forget.
Sometimes there are more important things,
or more interesting,
for us to remember.
And sometimes our brain does the forgetting for us,
without our wishing it.

The old lady wondered
why the car we were in was so big.
"It's a hearse.
We're going
to the funeral,
do you remember?"
"Whose funeral is it?"
"We're going to bury Dad,
your husband."
"My husband?
I was married?
Was he a good man?"

She had not chosen to forget
the life they had spent together.
Her brain had simply switched off those years
as if they had never happened.

Lucky in a way.
What would her life have been
if she had remembered
those seventy-three years
and had nothing to replace them?
Worse still, if she had had to start remembering
all over again?
Thanks to commenters who have seen the point of this one. We had always thought she would be desolated if he went first, and even though she had forgotten who we were, at least she recognised us as friends.
Feb 2018 · 1.5k
Four senryu
Paul Hansford Feb 2018
1.
Into a dull day
you came all unexpected.
My afternoon shone.


2.
Look into my eyes,
see my whole world reflected,
you at the centre.


3.
In your eyes are tears
but your smile overcomes them.
Where is the rainbow?


4.
There was so much more
that we could have said and done,
but we said goodbye.
Some will read these as authentic haiku, because of the 5/7/5 syllable count. Others will have noticed, since they are not related to nature or seasons, that they are not really haiku at all, but senryu.
Jan 2018 · 2.5k
Remnants - Auschwitz **
Paul Hansford Jan 2018
Even from behind the glass,
you can smell the chemical
that keeps the moths away.
A vast mound of matted sheep’s wool
you would say, except (they assure you)
it is original, all two tons of it,
the human hair that was left
unused at the end.
The rest went for socks
to keep workers’ feet warm.
All grey now, sixty years on, it has aged
as those that owned it never did.
They went naked to the shower room,
clutching the soap
they would never use,
and then to the ovens.
A lorry’s engine drowned the screams,
and the Governor’s wife tended her flowers,
making a garden “like paradise.”
This is at least the fourth major re-write of this poem .  "A poem is never finished, only abandoned."
Dec 2017 · 345
Summer Night
Paul Hansford Dec 2017
The heat the sun created in the day
persists indoors into the night. I cannot sleep.
The full moon reflecting the sun's rays, modifying its strength,
now shines more coolly but no less clear,
and I, sitting outside in the silence of the night,
can relax in peace.

Then I catch sight of movement in your window.
You have switched on no light, but are illuminated
by the silvery moonglow, entranced, it seems,
by the quietness, by the peace
that has been brought to the garden.
And I in turn, entranced by your stillness,
your magical calm, can only observe
as you hum your secret to the moon.
Alas, the moment is ended far too soon,
but I'll never forget that lovely, beautiful tune.
Dec 2017 · 347
Rainbow *
Paul Hansford Dec 2017
Two
hundred
ways
in Sanskrit
of saying
r a i n b o w
and among that richness one
that would perfectly describe
the magical light that fleetingly
shone from your face as,
tears welling in your eyes,
you turned to me
and smiled.
'The vocabulary in Sanskrit is so rich that some words,
such as rainbow, have over two hundred synonyms.' Raja Rao.
Paul Hansford Nov 2017
All of these were at the Tate;
I know they were, for I took notes:
The plaster cast of an empty space;
View of the Thames with Pleasure Boats.

I know they were (for I took notes)
on open view, but Art? Well, maybe.
View of the Thames with Pleasure Boats;
Mother Feeding Crying Baby

on open view, but Art? Well, maybe.
– unless they take me for a fool.
Mother Feeding Crying Baby;
Man in Orange Shirt, on Stool.

– Unless they take me for a fool,
Damien Hurst and Jackson *******.
Man in Orange Shirt, on Stool,
saying, "What a load of -------s!"

Damien Hurst and Jackson *******;
Couple Drinking at a Bar,
saying, "What a load of -------s,
"A plywood model of a car!"

Couple Drinking at a Bar;
Monet's Waterlilies, and
a plywood model of a car;
fruit decaying on a stand.

Monet's Waterlilies, and
People on an Escalator;
fruit decaying on a stand.
No, skip that one; we'll come back later.

People on an Escalator;
a film of two men standing still.
No, skip that one; we'll come back later.
I'm certain that they'll be there still.

A film of two men standing still;
the plaster cast of an empty space.
I'm certain that they'll be there still.
All of these were at the Tate.
I wrote this after a visit to the famous gallery of modern art,feeling a little confused about what was "art" and what was "real life." I hope this unusual form adequately conveys my confusion.
Paul Hansford Nov 2017
.
"I hate sunsets and flowers.  I loathe the sea; the sea is formless."

I hate sunsets and flowers;
I loathe the rolling sea.
What matter sunshine or showers?
None of it matters to me.

I loathe the rolling sea,
Where once we used to roam.
None of it matters to me.
No colours, no waves, no foam.

Where once we used to roam
It's formless now and bare.
No colours, no waves, no foam,
Because you are not there.

It's formless now and bare
Everywhere I go.
Because you are not there
Your garden's full of snow.  

Everywhere I go,
What matter sunshine or showers?
Your garden's full of snow.  
I hate sunsets and flowers.
Nov 2017 · 261
Recycled
Paul Hansford Nov 2017
My ultimate ambition in life
is to be recycled. When I die
I shall not be put
with the newspapers, plastic bottles,
glass, cans, batteries
and aluminium foil
into the box to be collected
on alternate Tuesdays.
That is not dignified
for a human,
and besides, it is unhygienic.
But recycled I will be
into soil and air,
beetle, centipede and blackbird,
and the blossom
that every year comes
and fades.
Yes,
I'll be back.
Nov 2017 · 235
The Power of a Word
Paul Hansford Nov 2017
(triolet)

Unthinkingly just now you said "my love".
    I made no sign, as if I hadn't heard,
but now my heart is soaring high above.
Unthinkingly just now you said "my love";
I'm all a-flutter like a turtle-dove
     to think perhaps you didn't use that word
unthinkingly. Just now you said "my love".
    I made no sign. As if I hadn't heard!
Paul Hansford Nov 2017
(triolet)

I've been awake since half past two;
    if only I could sleep
instead of brooding as I do,
"I've been awake since half past two."
If only I could be like you
    and snore in slumber deep.
I've been awake since half past two!
    If only I could sleep!
Nov 2017 · 281
End of Autumn
Paul Hansford Nov 2017
(a minute poem)

October turned the leaves to gold
but now the cold
November wind
rustles their thinned
and tattered remnants on the trees.
No kindly breeze,
this bitter blast
will tear the last
few faded leaves from oak tree's crown
and cast them down
onto the earth
for spring's rebirth.
Not a minute (very small) poem, it has sixty syllables, like the seconds in a minute, arranged 8-4-4-4-8-4-4-4-8-4-4-4, in rhyming couplets.
Nov 2017 · 203
Three Blind Mice
Paul Hansford Nov 2017
(as T. S. Eliot might have written it)

Lady, three blind mice sat under the wainscot,
silently waiting, sightlessly waiting, while in the garden
the blackbird sang and the children
played at knucklebones. The farmer's wife
entered the kitchen,
entered the warm kitchen,
preparing to prepare the meal for the children.
Crumbs fell from the table
but the mice said , We are not
worthy we are not
worthy. And they all ran
after the farmer's wife.
     Well, I ask you. Did you ever
see such a thing? Did you ever?
Quick as a flash she was,
took the carving knife to them,
chopped their tails right off.
Sorted them out good and proper, I'll tell you.
Did you ever see such a thing in your life?
Did you? Did you ever?
Three blind mice!
Nov 2017 · 694
The Flight of Birds *
Paul Hansford Nov 2017
(homage to Ogden Nash)

See the buzzard soar, the swallow skim a lake, the kestrel hover;
observe the skylark pouring his little heart out in the sky;
admire the flapwing, lapwing flight of a flock of plover;
what birds do is fly.

At least they oughter,
because once birds get onto the water
they can't help looking absurd
– except the swan, for which nobody I know has an unkind word,
or, mostly, seagulls,
who fly with almost the grace of eagulls,
and in their silvery-white uniforms are impeccably neat,
even if my admiration for their manners is incomplete –
but, shucks,
look at ducks.

And for something really silly,
shaggy-winged, fluffy-headed, and disproportionately
                                                                ­                   neck-and-bill-y,
consider the pelican, for heaven's sake.
Surely Nature made a mistake,
or left the designing of it to a particularly inept committee,
it's so unpretty.
But once in the air he can soar like a buzzard, though maybe lower,
and skim over the waves with more perfect control
                                                                ­        than a swallow, and slower,
and dive for a fish like a living javelin, that clumsy pelican.
By helican!

No, for a shapeless, hapless caricature, created to be comical,
the epitome of what a bird shouldn't be, the penguin
                                                             must be the most epitomical.
As he does his impression of a Charlie Chaplin waiter,
you know he'll fall off the ice sooner or later.
But before a warning can escape your lips
he trips
(and slips).
Then, as he slides beneath the waves, ah! See the happy penguin fly,
A graceful bird in his greenblue underwater sky.
Ogden Nash is, in my opinion, greatly under-rated as a poet. True, he seems to ignore rhythm, but as you read his lines, you can't help hearing traditional rhythmical lines echoing behind them. And I hope I've put some genuine poetical feeling in, as he did.  It isn't meant to be just amusing.
My favourite lines, the last two, are lifted wholesale from a poem about penguins that a class of eight-year-olds I enjoyed teaching wrote as a class effort.
Sep 2017 · 286
Comfort (revised)
Paul Hansford Sep 2017
What can I do to comfort you?
Would talking help at all?
A gentle, friendly touch?
(Or would that be too much?)

I don't know what might do any good,
but I know you'd tell me if you could.
Perhaps you just need to be aware
that I am here, and that I care.
Written as a response to challenge in a poetry workshop I belong to in real life, to write a short poem based on a word chosen at random from a book. The word was "comfort".
To be truthful, the original idea was to use no more than forty words, and rhyming was not mentioned, but a couple of revisions later, this is what I produced.
Paul Hansford Aug 2017
.
The burden I bear is more heavy than lead.
The physical weight is a thing that I share,
but the loss that I feel will not leave my head.
Why did you have to die? Why is death so unfair?


I am close to you now. Yes, touching my hair
the flag with its lions of gold and of red
that wraps round your coffin. I know you are there.
The burden I bear is more heavy than lead.

My comrades move with me in slow, solemn tread.
Our eyes are all fixed in an unseeing stare.
Our shoulders support you in your oaken bed.
The physical weight is a thing that I share.

As I feel the world watching I try not to care.
My deepest emotions are best left unsaid.
Let others show grief like a garment they wear,
but the loss that I feel will not leave my head.

The flowers they leave like a carpet are spread,
In the books of remembrance they have written, 'Somewhere
a star is extinguished because you are dead.
Why did you have to die? Why is death so unfair? '

The tears that we weep will soon grow more rare,
the rawness of grief turn to memory instead.
But deep in our hearts you will always be there,
and I ask, will I ever be able to shed
the burden I bear?
.
The sight on the TV of a team of RAF officers carrying the coffin of Diana, Princess of Wales, to return her body from France to England, brought home to me and many others the realisation that she was actually dead.  This is written in the voice of one of those men.
I had just learned of the rondeau redoublé, with its repeated lines, and the limitation to two rhymes, and it seemed appropriate to use that strict form for such a formal but emotional public event.
Aug 2017 · 1.4k
Senryu by kids -- Winter
Paul Hansford Aug 2017
The ground is covered with snow.
   There is ice on all the plants
      like stone flowers.
                                                (by Darren)

The frost is cold.
   Spiky blades of grass
       crackle under your feet.
                                                  (by Peter)

The sky is black,
   the moon shines on the ice,
      the ice is silver.
                                                    (by Sarah)
OK, they didn't count the syllables, but could you say they aren't good poetry?  And since they are about the season, we'd be justified to call them "modern haiku".
Paul Hansford Aug 2017
The rain makes everything fresh,
   the plants and the grass are like gold,
      the air is sparkling with joy
                                                           (by Sharon)

The rain is coming down.
   Look outside, everything is wet.
      The leaves glitter with the rain on them.
                                                           (by Tracey)

Rain makes the roof top wet,
   the grass is all wet and soggy,
      and mum cannot do the washing.
                                                        ­    (by Lee)
Aug 2017 · 2.0k
Senryu from an 8-year-old
Paul Hansford Aug 2017
Zoe was a clever girl, and I wasn't surprised when she wanted to try a haiku-style piece, but it was even cleverer than I had expected, with a correct syllable count and a delightful punch-line.

Slow-worm in the grass
looks at me with beady eyes
and puts its tongue out.


(Note: the slow-worm is a legless lizard that looks like a small snake, locally quite common in England.)
I love the suggestion that the creature is being cheeky by putting its tongue out, while we all know - don't we? - that lizards do this to smell the air around them.
Aug 2017 · 892
Not a Diamond Poem
Paul Hansford Aug 2017
Andrew was a rather dreamy 8-year-old boy of average intelligence.  I had explained what syllables are, and given examples, then asked the kids to write a short poem with 1,2,3,4,5,4,3,2,1 syllables, to make a diamond shape.  Several of them didn't get it, and counted words instead, or just made the lines look the right shape.  This was Andrew's effort.

Please
little man
sing me a song
the sweetest song
that has ever been
with a harp
or a fiddle.
Sing a song
about the beautiful princess
or the sad puppet
or the thunder giant.
Sing me a song.


Would any of you have told him he had it wrong?  He had started off with an idea of the shape, but then the poetry had taken over.  I told him it was a brilliant poem - because it was - and not to worry about the syllables.
Aug 2017 · 2.4k
Proverbial Wisdom *
Paul Hansford Aug 2017
In wine is truth, but truth is sometimes hurtful.
If I hurt you, I never meant it so.
The road to Hell is paved with good intentions,
and what's said can't be unsaid - this I know.

It's best to tell the truth and shame the Devil.
What might have happened is non-history.
So seize the moment, say what needed saying.
In wine is truth,
     and the truth shall set you free.
I had this in mind for years before I wrote it fully, having only the title and the first and last lines. It’s shorter than I had hoped, but it says what I wanted.
Aug 2017 · 888
Nightingale *
Paul Hansford Aug 2017
If my words had power

to tell my feelings for you my love

they might seem illogical.

So too the extravagant nightingale

singing to the summer midnight.
Aug 2017 · 494
To a cyber-ladyfriend
Paul Hansford Aug 2017
Knowing you, as I do, in cyber-space,
not in the world that we consider "real,"
I have no way of knowing how I'd feel,
if I should chance to meet you face-to-face.

Looking at you, I wonder would I be
embarrassed, mute, uncertain what to say,
and end up wondering why I'd come this way,
not really sure if this was right for me?

Or would we hit it off right from the start?
Two minds that share their innermost ideas
of poetry and life, their hopes and fears,
like two souls with one single beating heart?

(In case you think by cyber-love I'm smitten,
I'll make it clear - it's fantasy I've written.)
Jul 2017 · 591
You young girls . . . *
Paul Hansford Jul 2017
You young girls whose faces
if I try hard alone of a night
I can recall
though your names
are more difficult
exist so to speak
in the parallel universe of my mind
and I
as I once was
or as you would have liked me to be
perhaps live on in yours
but as we are now
there is no crossing those frontiers
and even if the possibility should arise
in that other world
the people we have become
would be strangers.
Jul 2017 · 860
Traveller's Tale
Paul Hansford Jul 2017
I have visited the shores where Ariadne loved and died.
I have seen the ruined palaces of the bull-king.

I have climbed in the white mountains where wild oleanders grow.
I have bathed in the torrent where it rushes between gates of rock.

I have looked down on valley fields after sunset aglow with their own luminosity.
I have seen the rocks that float.

I have seen the bones of the ones who died without hope.
I have seen the twin peaks of Kerá shrouded in dreams.

Nella and the sun smiled for me
but the sun was less gentle and less memorable.
written after a holiday in Crete
Jan 2017 · 1.1k
Drowning Kittens
Paul Hansford Jan 2017
You came too soon, the four of you,
into this world.  Your mother,
recognising the feeling,
did what she had to do
to give birth to you,
cleaned you,
disposed of the afterbirth
in nature's economical way.
But you had no experience,
no knowledge of how to be kittens.
Almost still foetuses,
furless, unmoving, cold,
you did not stimulate
her maternal instinct.
She did not recognise you
as her babies. Lying against her belly,
you did not know how to suckle,
and she, not ready to feed you,
walked off.
You had no future.

A bucket of water, I thought, would speed
your departure from the life
you had barely started.
But you, recognising the element
you had so lately left,
were at home in it,
swam untroubled under the surface
like tiny, pink sea creatures.

Unwilling to watch longer,
I gave you a quicker end.
Your mother, unlike me,
resumed her life
as if nothing had changed.
Dec 2016 · 560
So Far Apart - by Bad Wolf
Paul Hansford Dec 2016
From the earth the stars
look like they could reach out to one another
and hold hands,
link fiery arms,
and share burning kisses.

But I imagine they're lonely,
just minute blinking lights to one another,
fires extinguished,
in a single breath,
flames dulled to nothing,
like pinched candles.

Can you feel what they do,
As they watch each brother die?
Not close enough to know,
not close enough to hold,
not close enough to save?

I can.
This is one of my favourite poems ever, written by one with whom I regrettably no longer have contact, who was 16 years old at the time.  I have read it aloud many times, and it never fails to bring tears to my eyes.  Once, as an experiment, I read it to a poetry group I belong to, planning in advance not to read the last line, and was surprised to feel hardly any emotion. Then I read it again, with that brief last line in place, and in the familiar way, the tears sprang unbidden to my eyes.
Paul Hansford Dec 2016
(The ******)
My lord,
you trouble me
with your weighty message.
I am but a humble ******.
Why me?

(The Angel)
Lady,
Mother of God,
I do as I am told,
prostrated before you.
Why me?

(The Son)
*Father,
who knowest all,
I am your only son.
Am I to bear all the world's sins?
Why me?
Dec 2016 · 4.7k
Bee-Man
Paul Hansford Dec 2016
I wish I could be a super-hero.
I wish I could be your super-hero.
But most of all I would want to be your Bee-Man.

Flying over continents and oceans,
over forests and gardens,
until I found you,
my Rose Queen,
my super-powers would detect
your pink petals
from far off.
Down I would fly,
drawn by the fragrance of you
to the exquisite beauty
of your blushing petals
silkily emerging from the heart of you,
unfolding for me,
welcoming me to your secret treasure.

Gently but firmly
my long, loving tongue would press
between those dew-moistened folds,
unable to resist the perfume
overcoming me.
Tugged in
by your intoxicating scent,
your nectar I would sup
until I could drink no more.

Then transforming
the sweet nectar
you had so willingly granted me,
I would create my rich, creamy honey,
especially for you,
so willingly penetrate
between your soft petals,
find your hidden depths,
and to repay you for the delight
your fragrant nectar had given me,
magically inject my honey,
into the essential heart of you,
until my store was empty,
and we could both feel
the most exquisite joy of all.

I hope that you dream of it as I do,
that you wish it also,
and that some day our dreams can come together.
And if you and I could come
together
in ecstasy,
it would be the most perfect fulfilment possible
of my desire.
Dec 2016 · 1.8k
Another Sun *
Paul Hansford Dec 2016
Perhaps in another world
another sun comes
up,
lighting a different
here
and now,
where another I
could meet a second you.
Would she smile to know him there?
Would he look into her grey eyes and see
what I have seen, know
what I have known?
Perhaps in another world,
but here
spring always ends, petals
fall, and rivers
only
run
downhill.
This was originally written as an exercise using (a) my name as an acrostic - you can still see the way the first six lines, and the last five fit the form - and (b) my telephone number at the time to give the number of syllables in the lines - it’s been edited so much since then that only a few lines now fit the requirement.
#v
Nov 2016 · 12.4k
Varanasi *
Paul Hansford Nov 2016
Ganges, dawn, a luminous haze
over the water. The bathing ghats
are busy with the faithful. (But India
is inconceivable without faith.)  
The robed bathers, raising river water
to the sun, pouring it back
to mother Ganges, are they worshipping
the sun or the river?
For them God is everywhere
and everything.  Water, sun,
the river and the twinkling lamps floating on it
are part of one consciousness.

The burning ghats too (such quantities of wood
stacked ready) are beginning their day.
The funeral party approaching in respectful haste
have a job to do. They build their pile,
move the body to the wood,
start the fire. I watch, but not for long.
This moment, so intimate, so public, reminds me
I am an intruder here. The ashes
will return to Ganga unwitnessed by me.

Away from the river, the vendors of tea
do their trade among the stalls. Monkeys,
cheerfully pilfering, are chased away
half-heartedly, for they are Hanuman’s representatives,
and they, with the sacred, garbage-clearing cows,
are part of the one consciousness. In this land
all are “the faithful”, everything is God’s creation.
In this poverty is richness.
Varanasi is the Hindu holy city formerly called Benares. The "ghats" are a series of steps leading down to the river, and are divided into areas for various purposes. Hanuman is the Hindu monkey-god.
Nov 2016 · 456
seen on Youtube
Paul Hansford Nov 2016
I saw you last night
in your bath
playing
singing
preparing for bed
three years old

as the camera approached
I saw in close-up
to the depths of your eyes
your deep­­­
­­­­deep-brown eyes
and caught a glimpse
into your soul

but after hearing you sing
so innocent
so spontaneous
so free
so absolutely
so essentially
you  
I know that for me
Incy
Wincy
Spider

can never be the same again
Nov 2016 · 1.4k
Perfection's Imperfections
Paul Hansford Nov 2016
Nobody's perfect,
but you come pretty close.
Or if that's too many words,
just stop at four.
("Nobody's perfect but you.")

That's what I said at first,
but then I thought – No.
It's literally true.
Nobody
is
perfect.

Especially you.

Because the more I get to know you,
the more imperfections I find,
and your imperfections
are what makes you ...
... well, you.

And loving you
as I do,
perfect or imperfect,
then I love your imperfections.
They are, after all, what make me feel
you are perfect.

Why can't there be some language
that says what I really want to say?

Ah, but there is one.
There is such a language.
It's Poetry.
Nov 2016 · 387
So Far Apart (mk. 2)
Paul Hansford Nov 2016
From the earth the stars
look like they could reach out to one another
and hold hands,
link fiery arms,
and share burning kisses.

But I imagine they're lonely,
just minute blinking lights to one another,
fires extinguished,
in a single breath,
flames dulled to nothing,
like pinched candles.

Can you feel what they do?
As they watch each brother die?
Not close enough to know,
not close enough to hold,
not close enough to save.

I have always known
that you feel it,

but now,
so do I.
As some of you will know well, I didn't write the original version of this one.  Very sadly, I am no longer in contact with the writer, so I can't get agreement or permission to use it.
Nov 2016 · 7.2k
Dos Besos *
Paul Hansford Nov 2016
(a brief love story)

1/
The morning sun warmed the dew
from the opening rosebud;
a bee visited the fragrant heart of the rose;
the breeze tumbled a petal to the water,
drifted the pale petal across the surface of the water.
You surprised me gently.

2/
I thought - hoped - the emotional baggage
was safely in the locker,
just for once,
just overnight,
but like a Houdini homing pigeon
it escaped,
it came back.
Like a smart missile locked in on thought patterns
it found the target,
penetrated the armour,
and suddenly
just after midnight
I knew how Cinderella felt,
her new world ****** back
through the vortex,
as the life we call real returned.
Suggested (not exactly inspired) by a visit to Cuba, where the local currency is the peso and the language is Spanish.  When I assocaiated "dos pesos" (two pesos) with "dos besos" (two kisses) the germ of the poem was set.
Nov 2016 · 333
heroes *
Paul Hansford Nov 2016
heroes should be recognised at birth
which would save them the incon
venience of a firstname
that nobody will want to use,as for example

Voltaire now there was a guy;
less than h a p
p y with françois-marie arouet
as a handle(and who can
blame
him?)
he up and invented his own name
he would have invented God too
if God hadnt already
existed

or take Beethoven who
for all i know
might even have been God

or then again Picasso(who justifies(more than most)
his capital letter)
he really didnt need
the pablodiegojoséfranciscodepaula
     nepomucenomaríadelosremedios
          ciprianodelasantísimatrini­dadruiz
that he was lumbered with from birth

ok it's easy enough to make
    f  u  n    
of people with flatfish faces
both
éyès
on one side iaskyou
!
but who can look at faces the same
since he drew them that way(?)
and if people don't (real
ly) look like that
some of them
   jolly
     well
        ought
           to
(in the style of e e cummings, in case you didn't recognise it)
Nov 2016 · 331
Is this a poem?
Paul Hansford Nov 2016
If I wanted to write a poem for you, what would I write about?
   - Better not go too far
Other eyes than yours may sparkle
    - Better be very careful  
Other lips may smile
     - Better not say too much
Other cheeks may blush
      - Better not seem to have said too much
Other names may have music in them
       - Better say nothing at all
But my poem would not be for others; it would be for you
        - Better not even consider it
So this is just to say, this is not a poem
        - But it could have been.
Paul Hansford Oct 2016
I.
As you survey this marble hall
And cast your eye around the wall,
Consider the polyglot graffiti.
I personally find them far from pretty.
- That last line could have been more spectacular
Had I indulged in the vernacular,
But I thought it best, at this seat(!) of learning
to give my phrase a more modest turning.

II.
We would sit here and read with pride
the words we’d written up inside,
and when the caretaker rubbed them out,
we didn’t scream, we didn’t shout,
but knuckled down like Oxford men
to write graffiti up again.
So now the Taylor’s rarest, if not best,
this manuscript’s its only palimpsest.
Part I was composed during an idle moment at the Taylorian Institution, Oxford, the modern and mediaeval languges centre of the University of Oxford.  Part II when I returned in a new term and found the walls the walls re-written after a thorough cleaning.
- Kilroy, for those who don't know him, is the phantom graffitist who writes "Kilroy was here" on any availablr toilet wall.
- Palimpsest is a document written over an old one where writing has been erased.
Sep 2016 · 649
These children . . . *
Paul Hansford Sep 2016
These children
round-eyed
absorbing what the world offers them
or silently wandering in their own
imagination
must lose their innocence and grow
older but not necessarily wiser.
Sep 2016 · 2.7k
Found Object *
Paul Hansford Sep 2016
Green glass
but it's French
which makes it
verre vert.
The French should like that.
They appreciate
their jeux de mots.

Not a statue
of a man
but it could be.
Not a piece of art at all
except
I have made it so
by saying it is one.

Its qualities
are visual
and tactile at once
the material heavy
(over a kilo)
not so much transparent
as translucent
the colour
from under the sea
the surface curved
smooth
glossy
the shape functional
admirably suited for its purpose
its name
embossed on the back
(or the front?)
giving a clue.

L' ÉLECTRO VERRE
redundant insulator
from an overhead power cable
found object
(objet trouvé)
from the garden
of friends
in the Alpes-Maritimes.

This souvenir
potential paperweight
ornament
sculpture
is more than all of these.

Souvenir after all
is French for memory.
This doesn't give the full impression without a photograph.  Luckily, that is available at < flickr.com/photos/48763199@N04/5901032327/ >
Sep 2016 · 1.4k
Nobody *
Paul Hansford Sep 2016
Nobody can understand how another person's mind works.
Nobody can travel across time.
Nobody can be in two places at once.

So if I were Nobody, I could read your mind.
If I were Nobody, I could time-travel to where you are.
If I were Nobody, I could be with you and still be where I am.

But is that the way it works?
Sadly, no.
It is all a fantasy,
just playing with words,
totally impossible.

In any case, I don't want to be Nobody.
I want to be Somebody,
to be a part of your life.
But I can do nothing,
except give you my love,

and hope you return it.
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