Seven Poems by Stephen Kingsnorth

 

Puff, the Magic…

 

Those dragons, aways women - why?

For, her indoors - that’s what he calls,

as too landlady, or the boss,

but female only - what’s the cause?

It’s not the makeup, face flesh art,

unless it’s warpaint, statement stance;

mascara, shadow, eyes red, blue,

puff powder magic, warts and all.

 

It was not me, the woman said;

it was not I, the snake instead,

but I count dragon which I chased,

a foiled attempt to drag me down.

There’s myth about that flaw was mine,

but Puff was magic, always youth,

down by the sea in innocence,

as I grew old, asthmatic wheeze.

 

So is it fire, that flaming tongue,

flared nostrils, he obsequious,

or nagging pain, worn wearisome,

with lash of falsely telling tales?

If dragon’s known then less to fear,

unless our quest is focussed there.

Obsession often queers our pitch

at knight time, fighting in their dreams.

 

Ironical, our patron saint

not even English - Turkish lad -

defeating dragon - still his brand,

but like St George, our myths merge, mix.

Flag’s celebration, weaponised,

creed, colour, immigrant now beast,

with wings spread, spearhead tongue and tail

is this fear’s fantasy to build?

 

So who’s enthroned, the Dragon Queen,

as if a game played out on screen?

Not weight, bland brown, Kimodo, while

neither Welsh, red on green field.

How many dragons in my youth,

all overseen by lampshade art?

They were a saintly lot I guess,

like grandma bearing bony me.

 

Uncharted

 

Here’s AI up the Amazon,

‘Shop pirate fiction’ the command;

though locals there indigenous,

and not piratical at all.

But that is what our stories for,

to prompt imagination’s call,

evoke the questions we should form,

as revel, stored experience.

 

Cut coconut, walnuts on board,

with stranger wooden disc on deck.

Intrigued by metal ring around

what is this instrument about?

Not ashtray of a later date

nor assumed compass, distant take;

some candle holder, clock work piece,

or further fiction on a plate?

 

So billowed galleons sail on -

no sale please note is cited here -

cumulonimbus onward blown

to rocks, palms, huts on treasured isle.

Turquoise sea, aquamarine scene,

waves flood the fiction, open book;

admire inventive artistry,

perspectives freed from normal frame.

 

So see a visual stimulus

to read, explore beyond ourselves,

accounts from far communities

with global spread in place and time.

But what is posed beyond ships’ charts -

part played by fiction from our start,

both skull and crossbones, history,

and turning leaves in mystery? 

 

 

Bonds

 

It’s argument of the old school,

that Ockham’s razor put to test,

narrated tale, short, simple state.

Delay dementia at all cost -

with active mind, argue, debate.

All logic check with rationale,

delight from past ‘compare, contrast’ -

such is the grammar, studious.

It’s strange when two sites offer, dual,

a challenge in the jousting lists,

encounter being with ourselves,

dislodging errant night’s reproach.

That’s when I ponder what may be,

Sir Gawain, green in corridor,

that fluence of past disciplines,

not creeping, but delighting work.

Life’s learning, propositions stayed,

a voyage of discovery,

vocation, gifts for every trade

as complementary bricks in wall,

the binding bond that builds it all. 

 

 

On Reflection

 

Here’s corporate, anonymised,

cellular bodies, occupied;

efficient use, compacted space -

in case of fire, can route be traced -

a brand where people lose themselves,

amongst the herd of common mark,

compartments, hutches beyond hatch,

enhanced battery, human farm?

 

To doorway frames, vertical bars,

like lines laid down in corridor;

but not, I fear, secure unit -

enlightened wing, HM detained -

but packed into their padded dwells,

where muffled cries are medicate,

or straitjackets fit the décor,

both out of sight and mindfulness?

 

The art’s a job lot gallery,

though stripped, suggestive, bearing stare;

one hopes not a dementia home,

devoid of guiding prompts retained,

where muscle memory reclaimed

though music, photos, synapse aimed;

see curvature - diffused glass light,

door number, knob, fob, pic bracket?

 

But shapes predominate for me,

that lineage, family tree,

horizons that need stretching out,

the vert diverted by degrees,

like Verdigris of copper belt -

thus history, philosophy,

and antique dealer’s chemistry -

are these some tutors’ offices?

 

Describing what we see, a truth,

discerning what we view, may be;

ekphrastic puzzles, further work,

another look as some suggest.

The riddle focusses the mind,

event horizon interplay,

as I refocus on the blurred,

and question where the point is stayed.

 

Presumptions, visions doomed, dismayed,

poetic explorations flayed,

for grand designs imposed, implied

soon bite the dust, my theme decayed.

I float the options - poets should -

but choice conclusion, readers’ charge,

though when re-reading challenge, task,

ambiguous in word, phrase, marks.

 

And so I query, ponder clues,

for much fake news, disseminate,

dissembling forces to distract -

but what is fiction, fact, redact?

In boyhood trained to honest, trust,

so little knew, post-war corrupt -

those boys in blue, the Lodge, the Krays -

no clue, abuse, parents naïve.

 

Incongruent geometry,

sum math’s dept, university;

that is conclusive proof for me,

the theory tested, Q.E.D.

 

But now I’m certain.  Trompe l’oeil;

reflective glass, a cul-de-sac,

until that carpet couldn’t lie,

unless lens laid a foot away. 

 

 

Skittering Through the Woods

 

The autumn fall of dancing leaves,

with flutter flit, snow’s early flakes

fits well, suspected roots in Norse;

yet jerking bait across the pond

or pet at play, as tales of rat -

these neither sit amongst the trees.

 

Such scurry, dart brings deer to hart,

with flexing limbs as branch from trunk.

Though less appeal, the naïve child,

in carefree skitter, forest path,

where grim expected, witchery,

as lore dictates, some loss designed.

 

So which the scene to dream about?

The sympathetic season’s call,

fly fisher, art, outwit with sly,

that rat at play, as alert doe,

or fairy tale naivety?

No, scamper, scuttle, skip through glade. 

 

 

Drift

 

And what is it, night’s early chimes

in whiching hour of questions posed,

close questions from insomnia,

the what, why, wherefore model stance?

 

Exhausted, but for mind alert,

those queries flow, poetic muse -

what purpose should the verse fulfil,

and why should I be purposeful,

and wherefore opted marking glyphs?

 

So ponder, wonder, wander dreams,

adrift as testing how sound words,

a spell that tells of wizardry.

with grains that shift, forever sand

or snowflakes melting all around. 

 

 

The Hook

 

Hear factories, industrial,

when millstreams powered large machines,

noise travelled, spreading quickly, loud.

 

Did trout or salmon, channel, course,

or even coarser fishes there

sense spinning tales from waterwheel

through flicking tail, a fin or gills?

 

By gobbled worms and larvae laid,

detritus lying on the bed;

’mongst pebbledash and layered sand,

in crumpled sheets like widow’s weeds,

which tastes like gossip, pillow talk

in rising bubbles drowned in speech.

 

I heard them say, those river sprites,

like rainbows in the rumour mill,

without wait, using fishy scales,

the weight of evidence suggests,

and heard it from authorities,

reliable, so reel it in -

no better than she should be line.

A hook too popular by far.

 

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 https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com