"currants" poems
It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.
My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days.
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.
A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill's shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.
It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sun light
And the legends of the green chapels
And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singingbirds.
And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning.
12.2k
How to cook carrot salad
carrot wash and clean. Grate the carrots on a coarse grater. Apple wash and grate.
apple, honey and the juice of red currants. Also add the chopped parsley and crushed nuts. All well and carefully
mix. Sitemap salad.
sprinkle with citric acid and mix. Vegetables lay heaped sprinkle with grated cheese and chopped herbs
parsley. Sitemap salad.
Heck, Cook the fish and carrots. Fish and carrots on toast to cut pieces. Cleaned fish and carrots to put in
salad bowl. In a salad bowl add the peas. In add grated horseradish mayonnaise and season with the Sitemap sauce salad.
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 6:08 PM UTC
A delicious little bakery
is only down our street
the smell of baking bread
well.. it really is a treat
It is run by Mrs ******
she is just so very charming
but she is a little clumsy
it's really quite alarming
You see,
she does her best to make the cakes
and bake such tasty bread
but the currants just go everywhere
and in the pies instead
And in the Cornish pasties
there is very often nuts
and in the fruit pie filling
bacon and beef cuts
But she seems to be quite fancy
well there has been many rumours
of her and the deliveryman
well... she flashes him her bloomers
But she really is so charming
poor soul.. she has the worst mishaps
like when she inadvertently
displayed her finest baps
And no one will forget
when in came a group of nuns
all asking some tea cakes
but out popped her Chelsea buns
But she really is a riot
you can't help but love her so
she give you all you ask for
in a bargain box 'to go'
And she takes care of her customers
and gives out treats to sample
you'll never go home hungry
you'll end up with quite a armful
So if you get a moment
take a stroll just down our street
to Mrs Dingle's bakery
she really is a treat.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 1:39 AM UTC
Diaspora
From the Greek
When I heard the word I felt it
And I looked it up
In my old red dictionary
I could have used the Internet,
I suppose
But I like to run my forefinger down pages
Of words
I read the definition
And I felt it
Oh
Oh
We are diaspora.
Am I using it correctly?
We are a diaspora.
Diaspora
From the Greek
From the green valley of Ottawa
From Scotland
From Ireland on wooden boats
From the French village thirteen children
From the mines in the North
From Poland and from Germany
From the churches and
From the Blueberry patches
From the Island Manitoulin
From the dark lake Kagawong
From Kinburn and Arnprior
From Markstay and from Sudbury
From Waterloo
From Kitchener, Michener
From the Suburbs
Oh
From the Suburbs
From the red bricks, red currants
And geraniums
From green island cabins
From the desert
Oh
From the desert
From the potholes and pipes
From the salty wind
Cracked Caspian Sea
From the middle of the east of nowhere.
From the mountains
Oh
From the mountains
From the crystal water fountains
From the tram bells
On the cobblestone streets
From the torrents of the Rhein
From the white cross
Oh
From the white cross
On the green hill
From the river Laurence
From the French and from the English
Plains of Abraham
We are diaspora
We are a diaspora
Diaspora
From the Greek
How did it end up here on my tongue?
It is diaspora.
It is a diaspora
Diaspora is a diaspora
And I wonder if it misses its other pieces
The way that I miss mine
Ours
There is no
Roping us back together now
There is no
Home to go back to
There is no
Point of meeting
Of reunion
No
White steeple in our old town
No
Yellow slide in our backyard
No
Old folks on an old farm
No
Walled house on a hill
No
Luzernerring 93
No
Familiar riverwater
There is no
Ancient Greek anymore
Diaspora
Only fragments of fragments
Of roots of stems of words
In different dialects
There is no
Place for you to belong,
Diaspora
You’ve been sliced to pieces
And scattered
Into the wind
But
When people ask you
Where you are from
You say simply
From the Greek
Oh
From the Greek
And
When people ask me
Where I am from
I say simply
From the diaspora.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
when I fell in love I pressed my heels against the sky
as if in a bread oven
sitting with my forehead on the warm ground
and the wind and the butterflies and the clouds like smoke
were hard to be spoken they stuck inside my chest
without even knowing
I invented God in a new season of the year
believing it was the same
through days with sun and moon both white
because of heavy blessing it rained with sweet incense
clocks lagged behind from their minute hands
gooseberries and red currants popped between my nails
milk teeth grew in my ****** *****
with the name sculpted by man lips
I slept another one’s dream in a stranger’s bed
he looked at me on Sundays through the train window
he saw through me
from our century of loneliness only dust flew over
like from an old Bible leaves
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
These, I, singing in spring, collect for lovers,
(For who but I should understand lovers, and all their sorrow and joy?
And who but I should be the poet of comrades?)
Collecting, I traverse the garden, the world—but soon I pass the gates,
Now along the pond-side—now wading in a little, fearing not the wet,
Now by the post-and-rail fences, where the old stones thrown there, pick’d from the fields, have accumulated,
(Wild-flowers and vines and weeds come up through the stones, and partly cover them—Beyond these I pass,)
Far, far in the forest, before I think where I go,
Solitary, smelling the earthy smell, stopping now and then in the silence,
Alone I had thought—yet soon a troop gathers around me,
Some walk by my side, and some behind, and some embrace my arms or neck,
They, the spirits of dear friends, dead or alive—thicker they come, a great crowd, and I in the middle,
Collecting, dispensing, singing in spring, there I wander with them,
Plucking something for tokens—tossing toward whoever is near me;
Here! lilac, with a branch of pine,
Here, out of my pocket, some moss which I pull’d off a live-oak in Florida, as it hung trailing down,
Here, some pinks and laurel leaves, and a handful of sage,
And here what I now draw from the water, wading in the pondside,
(O here I last saw him that tenderly loves me—and returns again, never to separate from me,
And this, O this shall henceforth be the token of comrades—this Calamus-root shall,
Interchange it, youths, with each other! Let none render it back!)
And twigs of maple, and a bunch of wild orange, and chestnut,
And stems of currants, and plum-blows, and the aromatic cedar:
These, I, compass’d around by a thick cloud of spirits,
Wandering, point to, or touch as I pass, or throw them loosely from me,
Indicating to each one what he shall have—giving something to each;
But what I drew from the water by the pond-side, that I reserve,
I will give of it—but only to them that love, as I myself am capable of loving.
2.5k
Ferry Me
Ferry me, but once more.
The last ferry rides of Indian Summer,
Always arrives on schedule which is
Always and precisely, too soon.
Then, the imprisonment months,
Sentence, indeterminate.
*A Grand Jury trial of months,
I, and my co-defendant,
My sanity, this time, the Oddsmakers say,
Won't survive the lockup.
The source perfume of driftwood words,
Very ferry distinguishing marks,
Sails and seagulls, diesel fumes and saltwater,
Sunsets and seagrass, flying fish and multi-mollusks,
The stuffing of my summer turkey, the currants of
Poems and dreams, sad-eyed longings...
Now,
Evidence used by prosecution,
Confession freely uncoerced,
I Am A Summer Man
Adjudged and convicted,
Guilty of Winter's Discontent.*
But it is these last few passages,
Not of words, but over water,
The absence thereof, crush, ravage,
Worse than any grey calendar captivity,
Forlornly, I mouth silently, repeatedly,
Ferry me, but once more.
The course, straightforward,
Voyager, but a few minutes, but long enough to
Love it deeply, need it like a fix,
The mania of the mainland left behind,
The island, thinly lit, more shadow than real,
The approaching dark, shelters, comforts, embraces.
Perhaps, likely, I deceive myself.
No matter how the island comforts,
The brain always rumbling,
Can never make stop questioning,
Prisoner of 24/7,
But it is lessened, left behind,
As I am ferried away both,
In body and in mind.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
You probably think this poem is about
Lisbon, Portugal, where women
dangle your imagination like
a necklace of sun-dried
currants. No,
Lisbon, Iowa, a town twenty-two
miles removed from the 21st
century, where I stopped
for coffee, flipped eggs
and a place to ****
on my way home
from god what a day;
a man ordered a plate
of Rice Krispie bars
and tea—shuffled
his wallet for ten minutes,
made me nervous
like he was on
Thorazine;
it was the last
time I visited
Lisbon.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 10:32 AM UTC
Old Meg she was a Gipsy,
And liv'd upon the Moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.
Her Brothers were the craggy hills,
Her Sisters larchen trees--
Alone with her great family
She liv'd as she did please.
No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
Full hard against the Moon.
But every morn of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen Yew
She wove, and she would sing.
And with her fingers old and brown
She plaited Mats o' Rushes,
And gave them to the Cottagers
She met among the Bushes.
Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore;
A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere--
She died full long agone!
2.3k
My poetry is an acquired taste,
So come, dear one,
Place your tongue in my mouth.
Pace yourself, there is so much,
Spoke and unwritten,
That fruitions only when spit-shared.
Flick your tongue-tip to mine,
Sealing bond, the salt caramel of my rhymes,
The iambic meter of my tamarind prose,
The buds, flowering, poems forming,
Watered by the admixture of joint, minted saliva.
My poetry, so very complicated,
Hints of currants and ash,
Soil volcanic, basaltic vowels, oh's and eyes,
Cursed verses that commence with I,
Nonetheless, despite soil inhospitable rued,
Compositions flourish, born wetland soluble.
Yours, for the taking,
Yours, for the tasting.
You place your fingers on my waist,
My body of work to contemplate,
My ditties, you spit out,
You want courses, not appetizers,
You want truths, not fluff, lies, menu tastings.
Columbus and Magellan, thy fingers named,
Trace the curvature of my ***
With tip and tipsy stroked caresses,
You laugh with the pleasure of all the sssssss's.
Hissing all the day your satisfaction,
Capturing my writs, by your tongue's duress,
Recipient-thief of my literary largesse.
I am dressed all in white,
Stripped bare to my native coloring,
Except for two brown nippled spots, you lick,
Imbibing milky thoughts from fountain-heads *****
Savoring, relishing, stanzas that praise love's flavor.
With every line, every word-painting accessioned,
You make my soft parts hard,
My hard parts soft, but my liquidity,
My tears, they, that, you drink straight,
Licking, liking, and oohing and ahhing,
You tongue curled, upside down arching,
The storage point of your seduced gatherings.
To drain me full, your incisors cut,
Straight lines, entry points for your *******
Taking, draining, leaving nothing,
Not even one aleph or bet escaping.
When you acquired my poetry, my verbosity,
Pillaging soul's hiding place, took and *****
Your acquired the best, breaking my nape,
Imprisoned on and by my island's seascape,
Blanched and pained, a blank tape,
I am tasteless, witless, mockingly, tongue-tied.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
Your love for me is like a black currant-
Red and pink inside.
You are wild outside, but sweet and tender inside.
Make me a promise to never grow old for your love for me.
I will never grow too old to have love for you.
What do you do when you have no-one to talk with?
I think of you, and how close you are to speak with.
Every day my heart grows fonder of you and your love for me.
When does your love end? Mine is never-ending, it never leaves,
and it will never fade.
What does your love garden grow? Mine grows flowers and currants,
all in a neat little row.
When you are gone, my love still goes on.
Roses are red, violets are blue,
Sugar canes are sweet, and you are, too!
Where do you go when you need someone who cares?
I just look at your picture next to my bed, and I know that you will always be there.
Letters are great, but hugs are cheaper.
When you need a letter, I’ll give you a hug if it’s cheaper.
Your love for me is like the night sky.
I’ll always know when you’re coming by.
When the moon is high, you’ll be coming by.
We meet at the middle of the month, and the end of the month, with no changes
to tear us apart.
If it is the middle of the month, I know we will be off to a great start.
Your love for me is like a diamond-a diamond in the rough.
You make my heart beat faster, and a diamond makes your love start faster.
But, I don’t need any stinking diamonds. Give me a hug-it’s cheaper, and more
loving than a case of diamonds in the rough.
Love is hard to last, but I know what is even more tough.
Having no-one to talk with with times get tough.
And, you help with both of those-love and someone loving to talk with through
thick and thin.
You are mine, and I know we will always win!! Love you until time stands still,
or until someone makes us choose love or our favorite pill!
Just joking, I love you still!!
Oct 8, 2016
Oct 8, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
It's acold misty morning
The large grey cobblestones creating valleys by themselves
The old black lampposts casting the imaginings of light
The buildings shuffle between dark grey and black as if they were a depressed Chameleon
A man walks along this pathway
His dark black Brioni suit covered by the enveloping arms of his coat
The buttons undone as the coat ***** dramatically in the wind that isn't there
The outfit is completed with a black fedora which he wears upon his head
He walks down the pathway and passes a small man
With ragged clothes and a baggy hat
He barely notices the painter as he Iis consumed with his Own demons
The painter holds a brush in his right hand
An old thing with paint and chips on the wooden handle
The bristles are long
Not imacculate
But well used
In his left hand he holds his pallette
It has every colour imaginable
But only a small splotch of it
The painter walks behind the man with the fedora
And he painted
He painted galaxies on the cobblestones and valleys separating them
He painted patterns into the sidewalk and stories into the bricks
His style a rough painterly style
Jagged geometric lines creating organic spirals and waves
A Van Gogh style
Painfully wild strokes
That seem to contain the souls of suffering and pain
His flat yellows contrast to his vivid reds
Powerful imagery created by nothing but contrast
Emotions toyed with by jagged currants and swirls
The painter painted
Trying to catch up to the man with the fedora
Painting eruptions of beauty from the lampposts
And birds and flowers floating upon the air
As the fedora man's heels lifted paint was laid down in insane yellow
Driven insane by trying to catch up to this man
Driven insane by trying to show the man beauty
The painter ran out of paint
A masterpiece a mile long
Seen and admired by all who walked behind
But the artist had failed
His face Contorted as his emotional suffering manifested physically
His heart broke again as he realized that this man with the fedora wouldn't stop
He would live his whole life
Without seeing beauty
The painter was put in a nice jacket and a white padded room to live the rest of hus days
Forced to live in his misey....
His emotion....
His failure...
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 1:09 AM UTC
The mixture,
looking as good as it tastes
dappled with currants
matured by the lakes.
Splashed with cherries
as ripe as they should be
Baked with love in my heart
backed up by a cup of tea.
Cradled not curdled with eggs
with a touch of Jamaican ***
Drenched in the juice from an orange
and dried pineapple, loved by some
not by others. But it is not for them
it is for you Sally. The finest cake
in the land, baked lovingly by me.
For your forthcoming special day.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 11:39 AM UTC
It was a dream,
To explore the wines.
The Cabernet Sauvignon.
With a bold fearless taste.
Aged only a few decades.
And in a glass,
The smell of charred cedar,
Baked currants & Satin pulled sage.
Which was the dripping spirit
of the grape vines.
The passion would be the Saxifrage.
Snowy herbs,
Caught from the coldest flakes,
Of an Artic storm.
The aromas of violets & sweet basal,
Made a home in the burgundy tint.
The dark density spiraled from
The acid in edible fruits.
The golden gooseberry's were a surprise,
A leather flavor,
Which kept you sleep longer in the morning.
The Diamond Creek is a dream.
For dinner, a medium rare, prime rib,
Topped with plum skins
Thick smoke,
& mushrooms from a forest.
I didn't want to leave.
But I woke up anyway.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
Guarding the blossom
On cool summer nights
The gem of the loganberry, raspberry
And currants.
A sweet little fairy, wings as pink as fruit
Flitting between thorns, tearing her skirt
Coaxing the spider to repair her wings
With silken threads from his web.
Her lace, his face, her grace, his pace
Her terms, his place.
The fairy of the bramble,
A delicate little one.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 8:24 AM UTC
Guarding the blossom
On cool summer nights
The gem of the loganberry, raspberry
And currants.
A sweet little fairy, wings as pink as fruit
Flitting between thorns, tearing her skirt
Coaxing the spider to repair her wings
With silken threads from his web.
Her lace, his face, her grace, his pace
Her terms, his place.
The fairy of the bramble,
A delicate little one.
Her Song, she did wrong, his legs, so long
The fairy of the bramble.
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 2:08 AM UTC
Why did you make my love for you
so hard?
Baked like a rock cake
currants burned in a pastry shard.
Tearing my mind and mouth?
Stoppering words I had to say?
Pointing a finger at me
while telling me to go
my own way?
You were a constant contradiction.
Putting my head in a spin.
Whichever way you turned me
I simply couldn't win.
Now I am not competing
I confuse and baffle you.
I don't listen to your bleating
I do what I want to do.
Apr 25, 2010
Apr 25, 2010 at 9:59 AM UTC
that white floral perfume
by michael kors reminds
me of the day we scaled
the abandoned house
down Picnic Point Road
and I took pictures of
Kaitlin framed against
the red flowering currants
We found the beauty in careless
graffiti and marveled at the way
the sun sparkled on the charcoal
shingles. That summer we buried
ourselves in orange honeysuckle
and irrationally proclaimed our
friendship (that never lasted)
but i remember sitting
on the roof with you.
I remember that, amidst
the evergreens.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
I saved a little bit of Christmas
The best bit
The nice cosy warm bit
I kept it up my sleeve
And caressed it so it stayed
Then I took it home and cooked it
Cooked it in a pie
A really tasty pie
With currants all soaked in romance
Held in a strong hug of gold
And glazed with excitement
Then my pie needed spicing
Just lightly
For Christmas is spice enough
Dusty spiced affection
And a pinch of honesty
Sprinkled on as snow
That's how I made it
My Christmas pie
It just needs some patience
To warm all hot and crispy
Then would you like a piece?
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
it closes in
the waves are crashing into my lungs
the salt scratches my throat
the water pulls my limbs downward in each direction
and I am not strong enough to keep the pressure from crushing my ribs
awoken with a gasp, I fumble around my bed.
missing you comes in waves of dark blue and subtle motions
most of these past few years I've been keeping myself afloat
in the middle of a scorching hot ocean
bumping over currants
and everything is peaceful; numb
until the next storm
missing you comes in waves
of dark blue and subtle motions
then the water pours again
overwhelming my thoughts
I scream for you
but my voice is muffled
a distant memory of what we created
presses its palm against my mouth
I reach for you
extending my arms towards what seems to be an unatainable surface
but you're not there
and haven't been there for quite sometime
to pull me from the waves of this drowning sea
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
Time moves snakely
whipping around tripping me up
on the scales which are really just trap doors
on hinges, flapping shut to the rhythm of
the blood currants
carrying river run-off to the mouth.
He that dares stand where I stood
to drum up sunlight from the cellar
pulling the cord, hand over fist—
Calling the ring shouts in my place
weaving and wasting what little is left.
Mar 13, 2012
Mar 13, 2012 at 4:22 PM UTC
I proposed to myself tonight
And fell asleep in your clothes
The fan blades hum a harmony
To the breathing in my dreams
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 1:46 AM UTC
The young bird sails,
the little purple currants
control the fear.
The fragile bite,
the real last supper
controls your mind.
How can you exist like a luxuriant high button shoe?
Are they selling flu?
Are you the schoolmaster and were you a no scholar?
Can you be sold?
"What's that?"
I don't know.
I have a vision of a ******
Forest fires,
menstrual fluids,
a new language,
the divine messenger,
the hidden gods of blood
&
a single moment's pain.
The fundamental young bird now sails for a brief moment.
I will buy you all a ****** and a little persistence of memory
- Samar Charulingah Godfrey
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 2:37 PM UTC
A memory of you reaches out
a hand,
floating to the top of my
consciousness as if the
layers of time
are water
in it, you are
smiling and picking
currants out of scones
the flour that dusts
your fingertips touches
me, unawares
we are sharing sugar
between lips and
in that kiss I knew
we were sinking
sinking down between
the wavers of flesh
and moans
to be shipwrecked
with you, was a
fantasy
but now I am
sinking,
sinking,
without
you
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC