Five Poems by Stephen Kingsnorth

 

Swaddling

It was summer when she passed -
we knew come spring she would not last.

But as fresh buds broke from dead wood,
the tree stump bark cork cambium
erupted, unexpected growth,
we set our minds to recreate,
wrapped in those tie-dyes, student years,
free spirited, our crazy route -
wherever wheels led, patchwork quilt.

The golden beetle, sixties beat,
with petals painted engine end,
exhausted smoke, herbaceous mist,
above tired tyres, poor tarmac grip,
we blared our Massachusetts air.

Amongst pricked gorse of butter milk,
where heather bushed in purple rug,
and ling blushed swags for peewit wings,
we reminisced on heath surrounds
with lizard whips and butterflies.

We lay on turf, moss bed of peats,
shared sunbathe near an adder brood
and watched the glare drop from our earth
as cool pulled lower down the snake
in the question mark, our beading eyes,
saw what we knew dreamt, hoped and felt.

May we stay here in cling sarongs,
two folds, but one in chrysalis,
a swaddling band for pyre cloth,
await the dew on resting eyes,
a serene ending, all our days?


Scrabble

Letter pieces thrown from board,
I wait until they drop.
Except, not quite, I speak of ready words,
the dictionary pages torn,
then through a hungry shredder fed.
I take the slithers out of their place,
remaining neighbours, never less.
'Components' for 'ingredients', I scrabble for my word;
the tip of tongue, I know am wrong,
but know the thinking right.
Right notes but in the order wrong
as Eric Morley said,
or was it Morecombe, not Miss World,
with chubby little friend.
Les Dawson on piano, with confidence I play,
yet though the Lord's Prayer, obvious,
alternative, the service made.
I can think silently, fish gasping for my term,
or float its neighbour, maggot hook,
hope close enough to reel.
I might consume Crabb's synonyms,
helped glass of ginger wine,
a change of letter, sound almost same,
some journey in my mind.


Hoops
 
In vest, short shorts, quick reflex points,
our up and over, chain-link fence,
we traded jokes, paraded skills,
especially under watch of girls,
as learnt to make a better pass,
slow climbed team pecking order, cheeked,
our early learning underway.
Lithe limbed, grown pecs, less heaving chests,
we argued, competition rules,
but knew that friendship surpassed wins;
we found that bruising brought out best,
concern, take care, strip bandages,
best treatment, algebra of bones.
We cursed at dogs which mucked about,
grass scraped together, rubbed along,
and rolled our joints to reach our dreams.
Short bounce, tall slide, taut words and terms,
vocabulary of the court,
and when were caught, swore under breath,
the oaths we’d take another place.
While palms were crossed, high five for some,
as sentence passed, no spin at all.    
And now this frame is old, grey, tired,
waste band that sags, hangs out below,
with knots, sad bag, though ties still hold,
wee lads that made it to the man.
I guess this now a sunset cause,
the last post calling, rusty links,
as green tufts breaking through the tar,
our baby stubs, where we first puffed.
Buddleia blooms, flit butterflies
now hover where we stood our ground;
but soon I’ll lie and rest awhile,
those sods around the plot I chose -
a final hoop, then down to land.  


Splashers
 
The hug of clothes that want to be
my shadow bones, while I tense stiff,
try to shrink small within the mess,
straitjacket, rigid, colds my roots,
exoskeletal mummy trim.

Why then do I more long for room,
skin steamy shower, pores over me?
And why suit swim, delighting fall
ghyll, fountain, installation art,
or watching children muck about?

When, H2O ingredient,
why Gran swearing homeopath -
though malaprop names osteo,
because she thinks it’s preferences -
shows no support for water-sports?

No calories or nutrients,
though always making presence felt,
adapting shape to what without;
dihydrogen monoxide tap -
killer, best-model, car exhaust?

I wade lands, curlew, snipe, redshank,
lug shovels sieving wormy tripe,
sea lunar drag on glisten flats,
silt bays, a haemorrhage of waves,
while soles know creep of seeping boots.

The second day, creation’s map,
then floods before Mount Ararat;
whatever myths, curl hieroglyphs,
this damp course stalking every step,
for we are splashers, wet, drip, wet.



The Wizard was Late

I’m told to search the tabloid press,
to find my stars, auspicious time,
most opportune to take a step,
make stretch for stride, the leap of faith,
to steal a march on dawning fate.

My winding path’s not predestined -
decisions, left or right are mine,
or, occupy the middle ground
until the fence proves painful stance,
that hole in genes, my choice alone.

Each rooted faith draws ancient lore,
however twisted, stirred, or claimed;
when forests grounded after walk,
told fishes flew, figs grew on thorn,
foundations laid by greenman’s store.

Built wizard, warlock, sorcerer,
bag shaken bones from necromance -
but these were late, not starter cant,
nor early search amongst the groves -
but craft designed, feared, ignorance.

As covens faded, wands misspelt,
a divine life asserted truths -
truncated time in body span;
a tree brought pain, yet death erased,
self-knowledge through that cross-grained wood.

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/