Monday 9 September 2024

Six Poems by Stephen Kingsnorth





The Fig Bowl


The fig bowl not a bowl at all,

but named so in the family,

an amber pot like honey glazed,

but circled, fig limbs curling round.

Because Dad daily ate them, loved -

the routine comfort of itself -

hard pressed and packed in cellophane,

a fruit unseen in nature’s growth,

the tree alike unknown to him,

save on the Bible picture page.

But there, in corner, by his chair

the brave pot made its stand for him -

assumed an heirloom from his past -

who taught the scriptures all his life

but never saw the Holy Land.

I wonder how it would have been -

he who never sailed or flew -

a trip to see that native soil.

Could he drink deep beside the shore

and eat his fig by Galilee,

see sycamore by Jericho,

the winepress near tiered vineyard hills,

those garnered fields from sowers’ work?

Or more annoyed, commercial tone,

injustice seethe for Palestine,

take pills for change of food and time,

dream, his chair, and the fig bowl?



Larkrise


I hear far, fore I see its spin,

ascending and descending swirl,

free scaling notes in rise and fall,

but white light stealing sight from eyes

where curlicues drift, riff twirl in air.

Each height sinks slight then reignites

in upward spiral, tighter coil,

a slight bite further, dare to tear,

eviscerate all fear of drop.

This sprite delights to scare all wights

those ghosts that stalk the earth below,

to fight all drag and pull down low,

release from shades all wraiths beneath.

So if you near its ode to joy

then watch your footing, springy turf

or you might trample, downland earth,

the nesting herald brough to birth.



Parkinson Freeze


The warmest ever Christmastide

wherein I froze, my first astride

the varnished boards at lectern side,

from where I had led noontide prayers.

I said Amen, expecting glide,

with wife and carer at my side,

but shoes though worn, the brakes applied,

so could not slide, less stride to chairs.

Thus pinned, held solid, stultified -

presiding parson near collide -

my straddle, planned for waddle ride,

dies, wayside guide, now wide-eyed, glares.

We had sung Crimmond, due ‘Abide’,

with me stuck there, tongue and leg tied,

my feet heard not what brain contrived,

those stares of priest and people, mares.

My freeze-dried calves at last complied,

lift-off through thaw so long denied,

then tottered, as if wine imbibed,

out for a duck, as stumped, declares.



Hues


A shelter, yes, but hiding place -

pyrites pirates of fool’s gold -

for smugglers, rum casks, kept at bay

by revenue, those taxing men.

Or tracks, for folk escaping war,

a lax regime patrolling shore,

so inlet to a calmer strand,

an anchorage to weigh at last.

Here sands of varied hues are found,

all compounds, iron, oxidised,

rare rainbow in this rocky world,

its strata, mix of age and form.

So promise greets the travel sick,

a covenant for those who will,

the sampler cliff of how to live,

an archway, cave, an alcove site.

Between the rocks of hardware placed,

the softer stone has given way,

and thus both cave and cove renamed,

a landing stage for living art.



The Second Touch Pericope


‘Pericope’ is a theological term for a small portion of a sacred text

There is no simile assigned

in editing this story line.

But mark my word, no accident,

those incidents of one and two

are paralleled theology.

Some know the gospeller’s account,

at midpoint of their journey, road,

when he enquires of followers,

what others say of who he is.

The compliments turn Jewish lore,

Elijah, Prophet, Baptist John,

but he rejoinders to them all -

but what of you, but what’s your view,

and who do you say that I am?

You are the Christ is Peter’s call,

until he’s told the consequence,

unleashing the Satanic name

for knowing rôle, but not the cost.

His insight was but partial too.

So thus the act prepared before,

pericope, first drama seen -

a blind man brought for eyes restored.

When he is touched, his focus poor,

for yes, he sees, but men as trees,

the trunk of folk, but legs branch air

as if the image upside down,

for righted sight, needs second touch

metamorphopsia addressed.

That is the prophet’s mission here,

to question where disciples are,

as turning the world upside down,

a cause as costly as his own,

where man and tree are scene, as one,

where man and tree now seen as won.



Frutti de Mare


The wreckers search the post storm strand,

both eye and ear, revenue men,

and always lurking, pressgang fear,

but shipwreck yields the common touch.

Both cargo and the hulk bear fruit,

the timber, sailcloth, coal and plate,

and even keel set in its place,

a stable board of food, hoard stores.

This treasure chest from tidal horde

will keep the winter gnaw at bay

while we can spar the lighter beams

as coffin rest, bedraggled mates.

The coinage of foreign mint,

but now rechristened in the waves

these strangers face a common god;

we’ll not disguise these wights, now shades.

Their blue bleached flesh now beached among

gulls, crows and terns, all skua birds,

a thicket, wings and pecking beaks,

that we must brave to feed our own.






Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales, UK, from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces curated and published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Lothlorien Poetry Journal. He has, like so many, been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His blog is at





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