Thursday, 27 June 2024

Five Poems by Peter Devonald

 



 

Somehow We Let The Shadow In  

 

We didn’t mean to but we did,  

when we opened the door for a delivery,  

soft and silent as silk chiffon scarves 

tracing our neck with such deadly desire. 

 

We felt the melancholy and dread 

sucking the air out of rooms, deadening  

silences playing within our heads, deafening  

regrets seeping into every fragile pore.  

 

We forget where we end and the shadow  

begins, twisting our past out of shape,  

we feel the hollowness of lost remorse, 

deep pangs of the life we left behind. 

 

No words can unify this deep dark sorrow, 

such grief, profound failures and mistakes  

grow as shadows deepen darkest memories  

suffocating exposed nuances of desire.  

 

Victims achieved, the shadow takes their leave, 

let themselves out without goodbyes, 

leaves hushed silences and a terrible fall,  

grieving for ourselves, the lives we failed to live.

  

 

 

Winter Solstice Sonnet  

 

Wind howls the day away, sudden, breathless, 

scurrying weary clouds into tomorrow, 

memories play harshly on doors, ruthless, 

echoes of a life blown fast to and fro, 

raw rumbling grumbling sounds roar far away, 

cascading inward torrents of tides,  

natures power so abundant today,  

gasps yearn deeply as strong fear divides. 

We huddle under deepest blue blankets,  

childhood remembrances still keep us warm, 

storm savagely slices, soothes and smothers,  

reminds us of our place in deepest storm, 

terrible beauty, devastating majesty and awe, 

we listen scared revealing our tragic flaw.

 

 

 

Three Weeks Before You Died 
 
You found it easier to talk to a stranger, 
no baggage or condemnation, no weary words, 
recriminations or forgotten history, disavowed. 
 
Your regrets flowed like fierce rivers from you, 
you were the River Wharfe, hidden tunnels suck us in, 
banks undercut, allusions drag people in whole. 
 
Afterwards, you stare out the window at blue skies, 
trees swaying you into deepest sleep, lilting, forgetting, 
all your sin released, you were ready for catharsis. 
 
I watched your final eulogies from the back row 
silent and austere, everyone unaware of me, 
outpourings of grief from Barden Tower to Bolton Abbey. 
 
I wondered if they were talking about the same woman, 
I met, admired and administered her sin. I wondered  

if she even knew? So sure she was alone, hopeless. 
 
Bright sunlight caught pained stained glass windows, 
we all gasped in the moment as she passed, held  

our loved ones a little closer now, embraced tightly. 

 

 

 

Turquoise Dreams Sigh Goodnight  

 

She died silently in the middle of the night  

without any fuss or regrets or kerfuffle, 

she didn’t want to bother anyone or be a nuisance 

or make problems for those who had better things to do. 

 

If there was a recycling centre she’d have gone there,  

but instead her bed was as easy as possible.  

She’d lived a good life, was happy, mostly,  

she counted her blessings till she couldn’t count any higher. 

 

Her problems were many but remained uncounted, 

she was ready to go, she felt the decline,  

so arched and forgetful these days,  

she wanted to leave with her heart full of memories. 

  

She smiled in the last moments, her history fixed  

in a grin, she was tired, it was time and she was ready. 

Comfortable, her life flittered in her head delicately  

as she gently embraced the turquoise goodnight.

 

 

 

You Don’t See Me  

 

Lingering in every room, clinging to every memory,  

every laughter and kiss, every drink and drama,  

even the arguments are kisses, even the laughter  

echoes long in my memories as I endure. Empty  

rooms stripped of meaning, furniture forgetting, 

floors full of flaws, missing rugs full of regrets,  

remembering when we first arrived here, hope  

painting all the walls, dreams a tapestry of curtains 

bright with red velvet desire, so full of exuberance  

the universe unites to make our future come alive. 

 

You don’t see me, tears in eyes, clearing away  

the last remnants of our dreams, vacuum packed tears. 

 

You don’t see me, vacuuming the last of our memories, 

scrubbing walls of marks we made, our history erased. 

 

You don’t see me, folding the last of my hopes neatly away 
in suitcases full of shame and regrets, hard to close. 

 

Say goodbye to each room one by one, lingering. 

Say goodbye to each room one by one, haunting. 

 

Leave a bottle of champagne and a note 

May your future always come alive.






Peter Devonald is widely published in magazines/anthologies including London Grip, Door Is A Jar, Bluebird Word, Metachrosis, Vipers Tongue, Voidspace and the6ress. Winner of the Waltham Forest Poetry Prize 2022, Heart Of Heatons Poetry Awards 2023 & 2021, joint winner FofHCS Poetry 2023, commended by judges in the Hippocrates Prize for Poetry and Medicine 2024, Forward Prize nomination 2023, two Best Of The Net nominations and shortlisted Saveas 2023 & Allingham 2023. He is poet in residence at Haus-a-rest. Won 50+ film awards, former senior judge/ mentor Peter Ustinov Awards (iemmys) and Children’s Bafta nominated.
www.scriptfirst.com Instagram: @peterdevonald Facebook: @pdevonald Twitter/X: petedevonald 

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