Five Poems by Stephen Kingsnorth

 

Mysterish

Standing stones, sharp against flop folded tors,   
squashed granite slop, extrude from moss,  
though this no turf to ember fire,   
and no peat bog to die, preserved.  
Menhir, cromlech, sarsen stores, energy   
of ironman against the rock,
pit down drop sink as far as lift,  
drowned deep earth, berg, float, without.  

Orienteering, fix on ley line guide,      
a silver compass, perspex blade,  
tin mine find from the common wheal,
fresh leat flow floss beyond the mill.   
The drop letter box posted, Cranmere Pool
has spread, a network of the mail;         
did ancient internet web spread -          
myth, truth mix, in mysterish?       

Lexiconography

Enquire within, sole moved by, it’s
lexiconography for me,
my faith in glory of the word,
an evolution created,
with lore of garden, sharing shade,
from Adam man, but blaming Eve -
as nothing changes, skimpy dress -
his apple bobbing at the core,
and adamantine by the tree.

Beattie found fame through ology -
if yours spanned era on TV -
through ism, ography is mine -
where some want gruff, and some Graf Spee.
Look, lexi, I like herded words,
the sheepdog snapping heels, fresh flock.
But icon, that’s new on the block,
an art not used to western eyes
peering, seek through the incense gloom.

Gradle

Re-incarnation not my berth,
setting off on further course,
as if the first, rehearsal dressed,
a training ground, evolving climb.
Assertion, cradle to the grave,
maybe as the autumn fall,
sapling born in tilth of death,
those twisted leaves laid carpet down,
and new life sprouts from sacrifice.
By compost bins its only we
who see grass cuts, banana skins,
those scattered leaves not burnt at stake,
but left for snaking early worms.
See soil renewal, seeding point;
so from the reds of sonset cause,
I trust for gradle, rising sun,
from grave to cradle, ex inhale,
inherent cycle of the earth.

 

Thinplace

There are those moments of moment,
when chronos stops and kairos reigns,
a quiet spirit in the air,
awareness of a bond beyond
the busyness that haunts our path,
when I connect with who knows where?
I’ve heard it said, Iona Isle,
pale sky, old abbey in the grass,
where coracles brought saints across,
and cells became wide open space.
There is a causeway, tidal reach,
where stranger waves can slide apart,
reflection lies across the sea
and mysteries revealed to see,
a thinplace, site of second sight,
for those who have the time to spare.

Spellbonding

I do not speak of Hogworts or
some school of wizardry elsewhere,
liaisons of a magic kind
between the staff and wanderer.
But when I see beyond my nose,
far from short-sighed views at hand,
those woes enjoyed when listed, spoke
that keep the spinning wheel so tyred -
I see ley lines, diving rods,
megaliths, Stonehenge on tour.
Another cast of fishing line,
an actor angling for a rôle,
a plaster moulding mending leg -
each vision, myth and fantasy
becomes spellbonding exercise.
It’s partnership like superglue,
a faction, friction on the shelf,
my head and mind stuck in a book,
emerging, as spellchecker banned.

Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies.

He has been nominated, like so many, for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net.

His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/