Tell me, o muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide
after he had sacked the famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit,
and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was
acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save
his own life and bring his men safely home; but do what he might he
could not save his men, for they perished through their own sheer
folly in eating the cattle of the Sun-god Hyperion; so the god
prevented them from ever reaching home. Tell me, too, about all
these things, O daughter of Jove, from whatsoever source you may
know them.
  So now all who escaped death in battle or by shipwreck had got
safely home except Ulysses, and he, though he was longing to return to
his wife and country, was detained by the goddess Calypso, who had got
him into a large cave and wanted to marry him. But as years went by,
there came a time when the gods settled that he should go back to
Ithaca; even then, however, when he was among his own people, his
troubles were not yet over; nevertheless all the gods had now begun to
pity him except Neptune, who still persecuted him without ceasing
and would not let him get home.
  Now Neptune had gone off to the Ethiopians, who are at the world’s
end, and lie in two halves, the one looking West and the other East.
He had gone there to accept a hecatomb of sheep and oxen, and was
enjoying himself at his festival; but the other gods met in the
house of Olympian Jove, and the sire of gods and men spoke first. At
that moment he was thinking of Aegisthus, who had been killed by
Agamemnon’s son Orestes; so he said to the other gods:
  “See now, how men lay blame upon us gods for what is after all
nothing but their own folly. Look at Aegisthus; he must needs make
love to Agamemnon’s wife unrighteously and then **** Agamemnon, though
he knew it would be the death of him; for I sent Mercury to warn him
not to do either of these things, inasmuch as Orestes would be sure to
take his revenge when he grew up and wanted to return home. Mercury
told him this in all good will but he would not listen, and now he has
paid for everything in full.”
  Then Minerva said, “Father, son of Saturn, King of kings, it
served Aegisthus right, and so it would any one else who does as he
did; but Aegisthus is neither here nor there; it is for Ulysses that
my heart bleeds, when I think of his sufferings in that lonely
sea-girt island, far away, poor man, from all his friends. It is an
island covered with forest, in the very middle of the sea, and a
goddess lives there, daughter of the magician Atlas, who looks after
the bottom of the ocean, and carries the great columns that keep
heaven and earth asunder. This daughter of Atlas has got hold of
poor unhappy Ulysses, and keeps trying by every kind of blandishment
to make him forget his home, so that he is tired of life, and thinks
of nothing but how he may once more see the smoke of his own chimneys.
You, sir, take no heed of this, and yet when Ulysses was before Troy
did he not propitiate you with many a burnt sacrifice? Why then should
you keep on being so angry with him?”
  And Jove said, “My child, what are you talking about? How can I
forget Ulysses than whom there is no more capable man on earth, nor
more liberal in his offerings to the immortal gods that live in
heaven? Bear in mind, however, that Neptune is still furious with
Ulysses for having blinded an eye of Polyphemus king of the
Cyclopes. Polyphemus is son to Neptune by the nymph Thoosa, daughter
to the sea-king Phorcys; therefore though he will not **** Ulysses
outright, he torments him by preventing him from getting home.
Still, let us lay our heads together and see how we can help him to
return; Neptune will then be pacified, for if we are all of a mind
he can hardly stand out against us.”
  And Minerva said, “Father, son of Saturn, King of kings, if, then,
the gods now mean that Ulysses should get home, we should first send
Mercury to the Ogygian island to tell Calypso that we have made up our
minds and that he is to return. In the meantime I will go to Ithaca,
to put heart into Ulysses’ son Telemachus; I will embolden him to call
the Achaeans in assembly, and speak out to the suitors of his mother
Penelope, who persist in eating up any number of his sheep and oxen; I
will also conduct him to Sparta and to Pylos, to see if he can hear
anything about the return of his dear father—for this will make
people speak well of him.”
  So saying she bound on her glittering golden sandals,
imperishable, with which she can fly like the wind over land or sea;
she grasped the redoubtable bronze-shod spear, so stout and sturdy and
strong, wherewith she quells the ranks of heroes who have displeased
her, and down she darted from the topmost summits of Olympus,
whereon forthwith she was in Ithaca, at the gateway of Ulysses’ house,
disguised as a visitor, Mentes, chief of the Taphians, and she held
a bronze spear in her hand. There she found the lordly suitors
seated on hides of the oxen which they had killed and eaten, and
playing draughts in front of the house. Men-servants and pages were
bustling about to wait upon them, some mixing wine with water in the
mixing-bowls, some cleaning down the tables with wet sponges and
laying them out again, and some cutting up great quantities of meat.
  Telemachus saw her long before any one else did. He was sitting
moodily among the suitors thinking about his brave father, and how
he would send them flying out of the house, if he were to come to
his own again and be honoured as in days gone by. Thus brooding as
he sat among them, he caught sight of Minerva and went straight to the
gate, for he was vexed that a stranger should be kept waiting for
admittance. He took her right hand in his own, and bade her give him
her spear. “Welcome,” said he, “to our house, and when you have
partaken of food you shall tell us what you have come for.”
  He led the way as he spoke, and Minerva followed him. When they were
within he took her spear and set it in the spear—stand against a
strong bearing-post along with the many other spears of his unhappy
father, and he conducted her to a richly decorated seat under which he
threw a cloth of damask. There was a footstool also for her feet,
and he set another seat near her for himself, away from the suitors,
that she might not be annoyed while eating by their noise and
insolence, and that he might ask her more freely about his father.
  A maid servant then brought them water in a beautiful golden ewer
and poured it into a silver basin for them to wash their hands, and
she drew a clean table beside them. An upper servant brought them
bread, and offered them many good things of what there was in the
house, the carver fetched them plates of all manner of meats and set
cups of gold by their side, and a man-servant brought them wine and
poured it out for them.
  Then the suitors came in and took their places on the benches and
seats. Forthwith men servants poured water over their hands, maids
went round with the bread-baskets, pages filled the mixing-bowls
with wine and water, and they laid their hands upon the good things
that were before them. As soon as they had had enough to eat and drink
they wanted music and dancing, which are the crowning embellishments
of a banquet, so a servant brought a lyre to Phemius, whom they
compelled perforce to sing to them. As soon as he touched his lyre and
began to sing Telemachus spoke low to Minerva, with his head close
to hers that no man might hear.
  “I hope, sir,” said he, “that you will not be offended with what I
am going to say. Singing comes cheap to those who do not pay for it,
and all this is done at the cost of one whose bones lie rotting in
some wilderness or grinding to powder in the surf. If these men were
to see my father come back to Ithaca they would pray for longer legs
rather than a longer purse, for money would not serve them; but he,
alas, has fallen on an ill fate, and even when people do sometimes say
that he is coming, we no longer heed them; we shall never see him
again. And now, sir, tell me and tell me true, who you are and where
you come from. Tell me of your town and parents, what manner of ship
you came in, how your crew brought you to Ithaca, and of what nation
they declared themselves to be—for you cannot have come by land. Tell
me also truly, for I want to know, are you a stranger to this house,
or have you been here in my father’s time? In the old days we had many
visitors for my father went about much himself.”
  And Minerva answered, “I will tell you truly and particularly all
about it. I am Mentes, son of Anchialus, and I am King of the
Taphians. I have come here with my ship and crew, on a voyage to men
of a foreign tongue being bound for Temesa with a cargo of iron, and I
shall bring back copper. As for my ship, it lies over yonder off the
open country away from the town, in the harbour Rheithron under the
wooded mountain Neritum. Our fathers were friends before us, as old
Laertes will tell you, if you will go and ask him. They say,
however, that he never comes to town now, and lives by himself in
the country, faring hardly, with an old woman to look after him and
get his dinner for him, when he comes in tired from pottering about
his vineyard. They told me your father was at home again, and that was
why I came, but it seems the gods are still keeping him back, for he
is not dead yet not on the mainland. It is more likely he is on some
sea-girt island in mid ocean, or a prisoner among savages who are
detaining him against his will I am no prophet, and know very little
about omens, but I speak as it is borne in upon me from heaven, and
assure you that he will not be away much longer; for he is a man of
such resource that even though he were in chains of iron he would find
some means of getting home again. But tell me, and tell me true, can
Ulysses really have such a fine looking fellow for a son? You are
indeed wonderfully like him about the head and eyes, for we were close
friends before he set sail for Troy where the flower of all the
Argives went also. Since that time we have never either of us seen the
other.”
  “My mother,” answered Telemachus, tells me I am son to Ulysses,
but it is a wise child that knows his own father. Would that I were
son to one who had grown old upon his own estates, for, since you
ask me, there is no more ill-starred man under heaven than he who they
tell me is my father.”
  And Minerva said, “There is no fear of your race dying out yet,
while Penelope has such a fine son as you are. But tell me, and tell
me true, what is the meaning of all this feasting, and who are these
people? What is it all about? Have you some banquet, or is there a
wedding in the family—for no one seems to be bringing any
provisions of his own? And the guests—how atrociously they are
behaving; what riot they make over the whole house; it is enough to
disgust any respectable person who comes near them.”
  “Sir,” said Telemachus, “as regards your question, so long as my
father was here it was well with us and with the house, but the gods
in their displeasure have willed it otherwise, and have hidden him
away more closely than mortal man was ever yet hidden. I could have
borne it better even though he were dead, if he had fallen with his
men before Troy, or had died with friends around him when the days
of his fighting were done; for then the Achaeans would have built a
mound over his ashes, and I should myself have been heir to his
renown; but now the storm-winds have spirited him away we know not
wither; he is gone without leaving so much as a trace behind him,
and I inherit nothing but dismay. Nor does the matter end simply
with grief for the loss of my father; heaven has laid sorrows upon
me of yet another kind; for the chiefs from all our islands,
Dulichium, Same, and the woodland island of Zacynthus, as also all the
principal men of Ithaca itself, are eating up my house under the
pretext of paying their court to my mother, who will neither point
blank say that she will not marry, nor yet bring matters to an end; so
they are making havoc of my estate, and before long will do so also
with myself.”
  “Is that so?” exclaimed Minerva, “then you do indeed want Ulysses
home again. Give him his helmet, shield, and a couple lances, and if
he is the man he was when I first knew him in our house, drinking
and making merry, he would soon lay his hands about these rascally
suitors, were he to stand once more upon his own threshold. He was
then coming from Ephyra, where he had been to beg poison for his
arrows from Ilus, son of Mermerus. Ilus feared the ever-living gods
and would not give him any, but my father let him have some, for he
was very fond of him. If Ulysses is the man he then was these
suitors will have a short shrift and a sorry wedding.
  “But there! It rests with heaven to determine whether he is to
return, and take his revenge in his own house or no; I would, however,
urge you to set about trying to get rid of these suitors at once. Take
my advice, call the Achaean heroes in assembly to-morrow -lay your
case before them, and call heaven to bear you witness. Bid the suitors
take themselves off, each to his own place, and if your mother’s
mind is set on marrying again, let her go back to her father, who will
find her a husband and provide her with all the marriage gifts that so
dear a daughter may expect. As for yourself, let me prevail upon you
to take the best ship you can get, with a crew of twenty men, and go
in quest of your father who has so long been missing. Some one may
tell you something, or (and people often hear things in this way) some
heaven-sent message may direct you. First go to Pylos and ask
Nestor; thence go on to Sparta and visit Menelaus, for he got home
last of all the Achaeans; if you hear that your father is alive and on
his way home, you can put up with the waste these suitors will make
for yet another twelve months. If on the other hand you hear of his
death, come home at once, celebrate his funeral rites with all due
pomp, build a barrow to his memory, and make your mother marry
again. Then, having done all this, think it well over in your mind
how, by fair means or foul, you may **** these suitors in your own
house. You are too old to plead infancy any longer; have you not heard
how people are singing Orestes’ praises for having killed his father’s
murderer Aegisthus? You are a fine, smart looking fellow; show your
mettle, then, and make yourself a name in story. Now, however, I
must go back to my ship and to my crew, who will be impatient if I
keep them waiting longer; think the matter over for yourself, and
remember what I have said to you.”
  “Sir,” answered Telemachus, “it has been very kind of you to talk to
me in this way, as though I were your own son, and I will do all you
tell me; I know you want to be getting on with your voyage, but stay a
little longer till you have taken a bath and refreshed yourself. I
will then give you a present, and you shall go on your way
rejoicing; I will give you one of great beauty and value—a keepsake
such as only dear friends give to one another.”
  Minerva answered, “Do not try to keep me, for I would be on my way
at once. As for any present you may be disposed to make me, keep it
till I come again, and I will take it home with me. You shall give
me a very good one, and I will give you one of no less value in
return.”
  With these words she flew away like a bird into the air, but she had
given Telemachus courage, and had made him think more than ever
about his father. He felt the change, wondered at it, and knew that
the stranger had been a god, so he went straight to where the
suitors were sitting.
  Phemius was still singing, and his hearers sat rapt in silence as he
told the sad tale of the return from Troy, and the ills Minerva had
laid upon the Achaeans. Penelope, daughter of Icarius, heard his
song from her room upstairs, and came down by the great staircase, not
alone, but attended by two of her handmaids. When she reached the
suitors she stood by one of the bearing posts that supp

Down through the ancient Strand
The spirit of October, mild and boon
And sauntering, takes his way
This golden end of afternoon,
As though the corn stood yellow in all the land,
And the ripe apples dropped to the harvest-moon.

Lo! the round sun, half-down the western *****--
Seen as along an unglazed telescope--
Lingers and lolls, loth to be done with day:
Gifting the long, lean, lanky street
And its abounding confluences of being
With aspects generous and bland;
Making a thousand harnesses to shine
As with new ore from some enchanted mine,
And every horse's coat so full of sheen
He looks new-tailored, and every 'bus feels clean,
And never a hansom but is worth the feeing;
And every jeweller within the pale
Offers a real Arabian Night for sale;
And even the roar
Of the strong streams of toil, that pause and pour
Eastward and westward, sounds suffused--
Seems as it were bemused
And blurred, and like the speech
Of lazy seas on a lotus-haunted beach--
With this enchanted lustrousness,
This mellow magic, that (as a man's caress
Brings back to some faded face, beloved before,
A heavenly shadow of the grace it wore
Ere the poor eyes were minded to beseech)
Old things transfigures, and you hail and bless
Their looks of long-lapsed loveliness once more:
Till Clement's, angular and cold and staid,
Gleams forth in glamour's very stuffs arrayed;
And Bride's, her aery, unsubstantial charm
Through flight on flight of springing, soaring stone
Grown flushed and warm,
Laughs into life full-mooded and fresh-blown;
And the high majesty of Paul's
Uplifts a voice of living light, and calls--
Calls to his millions to behold and see
How goodly this his London Town can be!

For earth and sky and air
Are golden everywhere,
And golden with a gold so suave and fine
The looking on it lifts the heart like wine.
Trafalgar Square
(The fountains volleying golden glaze)
Shines like an angel-market.  High aloft
Over his couchant Lions, in a haze
Shimmering and bland and soft,
A dust of chrysoprase,
Our Sailor takes the golden gaze
Of the saluting sun, and flames superb,
As once he flamed it on his ocean round.
The dingy dreariness of the picture-place,
Turned very nearly bright,
Takes on a luminous transiency of grace,
And shows no more a scandal to the ground.
The very blind man pottering on the kerb,
Among the posies and the ostrich feathers
And the rude voices touched with all the weathers
Of the long, varying year,
Shares in the universal alms of light.
The windows, with their fleeting, flickering fires,
The height and spread of frontage shining sheer,
The quiring signs, the rejoicing roofs and spires--
'Tis El Dorado--El Dorado plain,
The Golden City!  And when a girl goes by,
Look! as she turns her glancing head,
A call of gold is floated from her ear!
Golden, all golden!  In a golden glory,
Long-lapsing down a golden coasted sky,
The day, not dies but, seems
Dispersed in wafts and drifts of gold, and shed
Upon a past of golden song and story
And memories of gold and golden dreams.

Perhaps I wondered too much

in the past
and now I must
let my mind be silent.

Or perhaps it is that series of events

which molded my mind.
What I grasped from experience
is dulled in comparison to what's past.

I wish that by chance I would come across some new

experience as vivid as the past.
Though we only remember what strikes us,
I wonder why these days I often wait outside striking range.

He wandered along the decks by night,
Stood at the rails by day,
Kept to himself from what I saw
And didn’t have much to say,
He wore a yellow sou’wester when
The weather came in cold,
And a battered and worn old Navy cap
With the legend ‘Merchant Gold’.

He must have been once a ******
In a time quite long ago,
He still had his steady ******’s legs
On the ‘Michaelangelo’,
A crusty and time-worn cruise ship
That had seen much better days,
Pottering round the islands through
The softly lapping waves.

I doubt that it could withstand a storm
It was just a summer cruise,
For a raggedy band of tourists who
Had nothing much to lose,
The fares were cheap and the cabins bare
So I utilised the bar,
While the wife would wander off and say,
‘I’ll know just where you are!’

I got in some serious drinking
There was nothing else to do,
While Helen came back with every name
Of the stewards, and the crew,
For Helen’s a social butterfly
And she loves to gad about,
I’ve never been much of a talker
So I tend to shut her out.

One night I happened to wander out
She was over by the rail,
Listening to the sailor who
Was reading her some tale,
I turned back into the dining room
Until my wife was free,
Then asked her: ‘What was he reading?’
And she said, ‘Some poetry!’

‘A poem called ‘Sea Fever’ that had
Brought a tear to his eye,
It was all about a tall ship
And a star to steer her by,
If only you could have heard him, Ben
He had such a tale to tell,
I could have listened to him for hours,
His soul is like a well.’

‘His life was spent on the water and
He calls it God’s domain,
He said that having to leave it brought
His life’s most constant pain,
He pointed the constellations out
Named every little star,
He gave me a feeling of awe about
The ocean, where we are.’

I know I must have been jealous for
I never took the bait,
I didn’t talk to the sailor,
When I would, it was too late,
A storm blew up and the rising seas
Crashed over the decks and spars,
While he clung onto the outer rails
And gazed on up at the stars.

And then I must have been seeing things
For a man approached him there,
Holding onto a trident with
Coiled seaweed in his hair,
Touched him once with the trident and
The sailor turned his head,
Nodded once, with a gentle smile
Then draped on the rail, was dead.

They gathered the poor old sailor up
And bound him up in a sheet,
Waited until the sea calmed down
Called everyone to meet,
Then after a simple service they
Just slipped him into the sea,
A fitting end for a sailor who
Had left our company.

But Helen was broken hearted she
Was weeping all day long,
While I was irritated, and
I asked her, what was wrong?
She stopped and smiled, and she said, ‘Oh well,
He’s back in the sea he loved,
In a tall ship with a broad sail,
With the sky and the stars above!’

I think of him, and Neptune with
A trident, on his throne,
The sailor reading poetry
But this time, quite alone,
While coral reefs and gentle seas
Pay tribute to his life,
But I couldn’t share it now with him…
He shared it with my wife!


David Lewis Paget

(‘Sea Fever’ by John Masefield)

We follow the bridleway that dissects the growing field of wheat, now dark green and vigorous after it's Spring dose of nitrogen. Pass the smouldering ruin of a bonfire which has been awaiting the torch for weeks. Charred black are two big sections of oak trunk which I considered purloining every time I passed, but decided they looked too heavy to move.

Reach the road, rein in the dog's lead, turn right. The thatch I renewed a few years back is definitely not looking new any more. Past the houses, past the one where the whistler lives. All the way across the wide East Anglian field I often hear him trilling, when we are both pottering in our gardens. He has a brick outhouse, probably a former loo or wash house. A thrush is sitting on top of the chimney and a blackbird on the weather vane, they look about four feet apart. I pick up a lager can, crush it and slip it in my back pocket. A pigeon climbs, claps its wings and glides back down. Jogger's footsteps catch up from behind. It's the chap who owns a Harley Davidson.

I turn back into our lane, a skylark is singing loud and clear above us to the left. A rabbit dashes across the lane a few yards ahead, disappears. The dog's ears go straight up and he eagerly sniffs its trail. Back home.

I'm pottering and napping
with no space for snap chatting
I'm reading and snoozing
with no online browsing
I'm just taking downtime
some space for just me time
I'll see you tomorrow
when I emerge from my burrow

He wandered along old Codshill Street,
Quite late on that Christmas Eve,
And scanned the used haberdashery
Society ladies would leave,
The hats they’d worn, but only the once,
The boots with barely a scuff,
The poplin prints they hadn’t worn since,
A single dance was enough.

He stood outside in his working boots
The ones he wore at the mill,
He hadn’t had time to change himself
He should have been working still.
But in his pocket he clutched the pound
He’d saved for many a day,
He’d squirrelled each shilling away for months
Out of his meagre pay.

And all he could see was Mirabelle,
Who lodged at his heart and eye,
She worked upstairs in the counting room
Above where the shuttles fly,
And he would glimpse her once in a while
Pottering to and fro,
Dressed in a worn and paltry frock
Where the stitching was letting go.

He’d wait outside, and follow her home
To see she was safe and sound,
The rogues that he’d meet in Codshill Street
Would keep their eyes on the ground.
While she was aware of his loving gaze
And sometimes gave him a smile,
Others were bold in their loving ways
And pressed their court for a while.

And so it was on this Christmas Eve
That a Squire had stood at her door,
With a string of pearls you wouldn’t believe
He’d bought in a jeweller’s store,
And she was flushed as she let him in,
So pleased to have such a gift,
For she was only a working girl
And his interest gave her a lift.

But there in the haberdashery
In a window, stood at the side,
Was standing a model, dressed entire
In a gown so fine, he’d cried.
He thought he could see his Mirabelle
In place of the mannequin,
In the gown of grey crushed velvet, so
In a moment then, went in.

‘You know that the gown is second-hand,’
The girl explained to his stare,
‘Here are a couple of tiny stains,
And there is a little tear.
But this, that once cost a hundred pounds
Is a bargain now for a cause,
If you can give me a single pound
This lovely gown can be yours.’

She placed the gown in a long flat box,
And tied a ribbon around,
Then he flew out to his Mirabelle
In hopes she still could be found.
He saw the pearls were around her neck
When she had opened the door,
But once she pulled out the gown, she checked,
And dropped the pearls on the floor.

Her kiss was sweet on that Christmas Eve,
Though he had showed her the stains,
The tears she shed on that gorgeous thread
He said, were like summer rains,
She had no time for the wealthy Squire,
She’d waited for him all along,
Her greatest gift was a second-hand gown
With the love that the gown came from.

David Lewis Paget

With smug delight have I loved thee;
With pride, with confidence.
With joy, with finery;
With hope, with a coincidence.

With tears have I wanted;
With feelings have I failed.
I was too young to have a wit;
To fall in love, from my shell.

Thou, strained outside the brook;
With glittery eyes glancing past;
Meeting mine, drawn to look;
Kneeling on the green grass.

Sensing me, my young fabric;
And the perfume of my love,
I was strong, yet too weak;
My love was keen and lunatic.

I grew awake at midnight hours;
But not that my heart ever slept,
Nearing to me, my quiet slumbers;
Thou came by to sit, and wept.

I grew idyllic, and sang;
Then thy voice rang through
The hot night, and sprang
On to my silent summer hue.

I looked at thee, and stumbled
Upon my own lulled, mumbling words;
How couldst a soul be so humbled
Amongst the busied human worlds?

I was the Mermaid; that was all
Nobody came to me but at nightfall;
But how couldst they be charmed by me?
The ivy thought, my name was awry

Inhuman, toxicated, amiss;
Never wouldst I deserve a kiss,
Not even one on my behalf;
I learned to love just behind the walls.

Those of the lake, before thou came;
And the grand of thine appeared in time,
For thee, that I wouldst feel the same;
Thou saw me through, called out my name.

Those of the water, as I had tasted;
With lilies and rosebuds to my right,
Oft’ at night, I swam to the surface
To the hauntingly fierce nights.

Love sounded sordid, that I knew;
I didst not believe it all anew,
Myths had it that thou wouldst not see—
Nor hear, nor hold any faith in me.

Love sounded true, in the heavens;
The human realms I imagined,
Not that of my brethren,
Not the one that I had seen.

Tales had it that thou could see;
For it wouldst be too much disgust,
To watch my deserted land, to be
In a love that wouldst not last.

But thou caught me in that lilac stream;
A stream filled with young lavenders,
And their naked, infatuated dreams,
West to my natural heavens, ever.

But thou didst, that thou listened;
Within my fears, thy eyes glistened,
And I couldst locate but the scars—
Those remnants pottering thy hearts.

That I wouldst dearly heal, my love;
An injury that had been buried;
The dismembered once enough;
The despaired of a heartbeat.

That I wouldst listen, as thou spoke;
To cure the devils of all shock;
To return thy heart to what should be;
To stir thy love just for me.

What if my hours pierced the night;
And injured me again tonight;
Wouldst thou be my lover still,
Be a danger to what I feel.

What if my lungs felt thy voice;
To send thee to a stern standstill;
From this cursed being, and heal;
To forget me, back in human bliss.

What if I console, and thou refuse;
What if thy world without my poems,
What is my chorus, is it of use?
What is the melody of my doom?

What if I dance to unborn stars,
What if I wished to heal thy scars,
What if we battled in all wars,
What if we loved with all our hearts?

And thou, lamenting there every night;
Listening to me ‘till sunlight;
And flew away on summer mornings;
To retreat more, on beloved evenings.

And thou, being the hymn of all roses;
The moss, the found, the lost;
Thou read to me, on those hot days;
Thou heard my words close, every day.

The stubborn dose of blue eyes;
Bewitching to the counting skies;
Resembling all my lonely nights,
Burning the wrong, turning all right;

That handful of red lips;
Scratching at my beds of tulips;
Like the scorching gloss of sunset;
Red but defined, just mad.

That hand, that flesh, those cheeks;
Mine in my mind and all those weeks;
My human friend, my love
Having him was solitude enough.

That kiss, that warmth, were fluid;
I had plenty of them, my sweet;
He smelled like the moon, my prince—
He was mine, he had been.

The lightning ruined it for me;
On a day of summer sunshine;
Clawing into the pure skyline,
Making all too broken to see.

The sun made its way, and killed
My shielding of all was displaced;
She struck the birch trees on the hill;
“T’is is not over,” she said.

She moved to the lake, and all—
Ran as waters moved on to fall;
Then she startled my lover, lazing
On my lap, flirting and singing.

And I heard his scream, his death
Approaching him from gurgling earth;
The sun prodded his life, his breath
Shrinking him into frosted dirt;

The sun shrieked in jubilance;
Enraging my disgusted stance;
Laying my lover’s tossed head;
I squeezed and whined, hoping for death;

A few hours passed, the sun won
Flocking to welcome dawn again;
The night watched dead, with air torn
Leaving me spread in passing pain.

Five minutes passed; the dawning air
A guiltless foul, but naïve and fair
Carrying her rose in a dead odour;
With a stained presence, emptied colour.

I was wicked, I was angered;
I rose from busted land, and water;
Dragging along my pointed soul
I stood unfazed; perched in the cold.

I clicked my fingers and opened blood;
Then dawn bled from its heart;
The wound, piercing its sonorous veins
Watching her out and about in pain.

I rubbed my palms, and thick streams
Shot at the sun’s paled surface;
I killed in arrays of white dreams,
I destroyed in horror, in haste.

I touched the ground, and strokes of mud
Launch their ways to the skies, out loud;
Washing all brown earth off summers,
And all its threats and sworn powers;

Around my arms were they;
Those humans, having none to say,
But to run, to their human lovers;
They couldst—and wouldst be together.

My immense rage bottled me,
And I ended those lovers to be;
Leaving the cold universe to my own
And my bloodied moors, my lake alone;

And I was there, that death passed by;
A curse that wouldst see me lie—
By the raised legend of the sky,
That I couldst **** then I wouldst die.

And I was there, that he came round;
My dying body that he found;
In a gone soul, a friction;
An oval ghost, an apparition.

And I lay there, with him;
Welcoming death to our dreams;
And our lips, in thrumming kisses;
By our dead hearts, dead impulses.

And I lay there, by his side;
Basking in the life of the night;
Blending our arts, our idyll—
Celebrating what we couldst feel.

And I slept there, with my whole;
I didst not feel all that was cold;
Running my hand through his bronze hair
All of a sudden; all felt fair.

And I lived there, with my love;
He was ever my spirit and laugh,
He was ever my sweet, my loving;
He was to me my everything.

Gnarl your toes,
Know that you can’t catch everything
That comes flying through the rye
We are rosebuds trying to
Find the right window.
The right person to pluck us apart bit by bit
Trying to make up their minds
Yes’s or No’s
Gnarl your toes
Because either way, you will face
Him, Bruce Wayne
And cast your conscience in to the dark
but somehow you’ll come out of it
Harry Pottering your way through the darkness
finding her in front of you
And you’ll show her all the reasons
To the hate the sun
You’ll pour galaxies in cups
Trying to measure what this feeling is
You’ll take her words like nebulas
meek and hazy swimming inside your
ears
Show her where the stars sleeps
Where they go when you die
tell her the stories that your
parents told you at night
you will love her until the snow falls
upward
and when she’s gone the streets will no
longer be slippery
So gnarl your toes like you use to do
For there’s plenty of things to be scared of
Plenty of things to be angry about
Plenty of things to corrupt you
To change your mind, to make you Darth Vader
Down the path you did not want
and if you do, know that it is fine
because you will grow like the universe before you
and in that process you will find
poetry etched in between chopsticks, lips, fingertips, maps of big cities
and small towns. first loves and second dates .
you will find them on the places you hate—
On your parents graves.
know that they were the ones that left them for you

A year ago I was sitting in my room
dropping out of college
I found a pen and an old notebook
which I got for my creative writing class
in high school
So I picked it up, unsure of what was going to happen
but I wrote a poem called in my dreams
without meaning to
Dude, poetry is gay
but It seemed I had a taste for it
a week later I was writing to drown out the sound
of my roommate fighting with his girlfriend
and the couple was born

I was a secret drop out
I even made up a class schedule
so I would go at varying hours on varying days
to any cafe which had cheap coffee and free wifi
and I would write these ****** little poems
saved in a google docs folder called
poetry
I used to ***** around on the web too much
stuff like stumbleupon
and I found all of you beautiful sons of *******
a strange old website called hellopoetry.com
facebook for those young or foolish enough
to call themselves poets
I was skeptical
I’ve never been a fan of other writers in my atmosphere
but I’ll be ****** If I didn’t fall in love
with the ***** old dog
I wrote and I wrote and I wrote
I may not have been the best
but you can’t spell prolific without pro
and when I finally hit
100,000 views
it was like losing my virginity all over again
only not as awkward and drunk

I’ve been pottering around on here for a year now
and every person who read my work
every angel which clicked follow
Got to see me bang my head against the keyboard
in dark rooms on even darker days
and they’ve seen some of my best work
definitely some of my worst
and I’ve met some genuinely great people along the way
I only hope that you all know who you are
So let’s raise a glass to the year passed
and celebrate
a bunch of wild poet… things
and here’s to another year
of weird little poems

when the shadows creep away
at the ending of the day,

she's gone and yet she has not
she's still pottering about and
watching out for her family,

as her spirit takes wing and flies
she finds the time to wipe the tears
from our eyes,

at the ending of the day
when the shadows creep away
she keeps watch.

It was sad to say goodbye
Once more, once again
as year lapses and memories tap
tear drops erodes but it’s not all sad
It’s not forever mad, the feverish traps
the ceased rants and patrolled turns
circular motions of building monsters
matting uneven walls of un-triumph

There are times where socks don’t fit
when words fizzle the contextual riddles
when the bricked walls takes a collapse
when time is all there is to unending motion
when fears whispers of all the world gone
phasing all the hold ups and yearly turns
those are the time where chances erupts
and paths meanders to a subsequent merge

It was sad to say goodbye
coupled with construed mishaps
held in a submerged cliffy edge
awaiting a victory, or a ledge of sacrifice
upon miles where hurt is erased
Pottering around the patchy tracks
I wish we could fight as people do
or fought the trodden thousand miles

There are times when I need you
as the skies slip on wanted dreams
and all the lively laughter and love
coupled with all the delightful passions
In stormy clouds lost in torrential rain
deep within I know you still love my all
and all the let downs and angry quarrels
appear as faded mist of unplayed harps

It itches in my head
the world turns and tumbles
on margins

of prestige and laws
and well-known artists
dance along

they want to make
something for thousands
of years, for everyone

an axis of eternal truth
and beauty, protected
from the own laws

of vandals, the army
of black beetles
on bomberdumberdays

the violence of time
in the margin of which people
potter for immortality

Imagine a path leading on into a garden leading in and through a house and then leading back onto a path and imagining
a circle going off onto a circle far beyond in an infinity of colours as the rainbow's end explodes.

We come back to the path where we know it all began,
to the house where mam and home made bread
and dad down in the garden shed
pottering about.

always to beginning and the starting of the end

I raise my glass to all those friends who passed me on the way

I hate pottering around inside my mind
With no reason or rhyme, like I'm retired-
Poking through cobwebbed corners,
Pulling at age-old tablecloths, considering
A garden party for me and my little lost smile
There in the half-wild,
With the sun like messy oil I'll have to wash
Out of my hair and clothing when I'm done.

I hate playing docile card games alone,
Laying out plans like pictures I'll never colour in-
My doughy brain pokes stimulus off the shelf  
And traps itself in kindergarten daydreams;
I fingerpaint endlessly,
Defining the world through crayon senses,
Crushing, mushing cookies and shaking
Clumsy maraca beats.

If only I could lie down in soft rustic flesh
Snatching handfuls of it to conceal my skin
Finally, finally filling myself in
Buried alive for good
And be expelled, again, into blazing harshness
Choking on the earth that forms my body
Crying, crying for hope and fresh presence
Coming to life for good.

What do I need the church bells for?
Monday tomorrow reminds me it's Sunday today.

The faithful pray
the innocent play
the guilty pay
it's Sunday today
and
I'm staying in bed.

well
that was the plan
but
sadly I woke as a man
and put this great
notion behind me,

you'll find me in the potting shed
pottering.

she’ll always be
our ballerina girl,
giving a twirl or
a pas de deux,
or
dressed as the
chocolate soldier
dancing her little heart out
somewhere up there,

and yet she’ll always be here
pottering about,
sometimes drinking a
beer,
in the kitchen
dancing to Whitney or making
onion gravy

we’ll miss her dreadfully
tearfully
and she’d say
don’t cry for me,
but we will.

Aged six, I think, charging through the front door,
With a mesh of macaroni painted and glued in the shape of a car
Stuck out at the end of two tiny arms:
Here's what I made for you!

Then a childhood flies by and before you can think, then we were four-
Now only three.
Perhaps you are off pottering about, in a room out of view
On some eternal Sunday afternoon
Having left, as you were wont to do
Your tea going cold on the counter.

I step back through the door, now twenty-six
And you're looking out from the kitchen,
Quietly smiling, golden sun painting shapes on your loose old tee,
And see me as a man, a bank account, two pips a master's degree
and a car, achievements won
just as messy as the spaghetti twenty years before
That I made for you.

We may fear it as we come to the end of it, but time's not the enemy nor is it a friend to me, it's just a reminder that the clock ticks merrily on its way, day in, day out, the clocks never stop, that's the way the cupcake crumbles or the snowflake stumbles.

It doesn't bother me that what will be we'll see in the fullness of the new Moon and if the great unknown is so unknown how come so many people know about it?

I think that I'll potter along pottering away
and that's the way to do it.

When she wakes we'll celebrate our anniversary,
but for now
I shall sit silently, sip my cup of tea and think,
'oh lucky me'

I'm still pottering about the house
and making a general nuisance of
myself,
she still gives me 'a piece of her mind'
oops sorry,
I meant, she still gives me,
peace of mind
and we still get that feeling that sealing
the vows
was the best thing ever.

seems maybe if it is written down

for tomorrow

in the diary

it gets done today

finalised with finesse tomorrow

like

the stick fence and composting

and other varied tasks

pottering in and out

did you see that river stone there

adding accent

do you see the chicken wire behind the ivy covered some time ago

do you find that predictor adds words not required and meanings irrelevant

even the thorns came useful