I started writing poetry when I was around 13 or 14, once my dad had shown me the wonders and the possibilities of it all. By its very nature, poetry is extremely personal and the worth of any piece really is totally subjective. I would encourage anyone and everyone to write as much poetry as they can, from a dashed off note to a loved one when leaving for work:
‘Just a few short lines or so
To say ‘goodbye, mind how you go’.
I hope you have a fun-filled day.
Please feel free to throw this away!’
To the more considered and ‘literary’ attempts:
‘Be you my pearl Venus, I’ll be your russet Mars;
The Earth, it floats between us, as our love amidst the stars.
A grey rock slowly rounded, cleansed by clear, cool brook,
Beneath the willow-drips and the old oak’s weathered crook.
A knight for a fair lady; bright day to my cold night;
Hot sunshine on cold moon and the dark against the light.
On craggy castle wall strides the white, wild Queen
And nigh the sable rook, proud-perching peregrine.
Soft dappled sunlight on earthy-green, wet grass;
Discovered vital vision, seen through a mask of glass.
A contrary marriage of our parts-opposite;
Blending those fine elements that within each of us sit.
All love is a merging – emerging true and strong.
So link your hand with mine and we’ll dance long to our song.’
Anyway, below is a small, random selection of poetry, in alphabetical order by title; written to varying degrees of success and at different stages of my life, but always with enthusiasm and from the heart!
I want to wear armour and wield a great axe,
Lead pretty maidens along moonlit tracks;
Quest for great truths and stand up for the meek,
Defend law and justice, be strong for the weak.
Swords, horses, damsels in distress,
Coats of arms, barding, helmets with crests.
I live in a world without chivalry or honour –
I shall take these things
And they will be my armour.
Magical Goddess, this Circe divine;
No Falco Naumanni, in mine eyes the fairest.
Whose weaving looms love’s weft and warp into mine;
‘Gainst storms and grim clouds, guides souls that fly lost.
My high Vedfolnir, atop Yggdrasil,
All-seeing and proud with powerful call.
Feather-cloaked Freya of far-travelled skill,
Garments unruffled, most lovely of all.
Moly protection? I have none from thee –
Soft Circean songs befuddle my brain –
Nor would I wish to otherwise be;
Intoxicate me with your dazzling refrain.
Your great mind and beauty are beyond reproof;
Lush forests your home, skies star-lit your roof.
The two of us;
She leaning on me,
Her back against my chest.
‘Muscley,’ she said, ‘with a forest of hair.’
‘You’re a man, And.’
Even at that young age.
So we sat,
Sharing a cigarette,
Looking out of the open window at the bright summer’s day,
Listening to the breeze and the children playing.
Wrapped up in the duvet.
And our comfort.
A flier afar, glimpsed green then gone, whispers of warning winds anon.
Eye’s visions fade and fall away; my mission gleams and guides the way.
Foreboding doubts of future dreams o’ershadow wise wounds’ sutured seams.
Must I prepare myself pre-pair to wait and wonder when and where?
Trust to declare ‘pon open air the woeful weight my back does bear?
Yes! Of her grace and poise I’ll stammer; her face and voice, my heart a-hammer;
Whose mind so bright, azure adorned, doth set alight this poor soul, shorn
Of any but this dragonflier love, iridescent in the sky above.
When I make my entrance,
First to select and hit my mark,
The dressing room is dark and cool;
Quiet and lifeless as the stage.
I leave the lights off, sit at the mirror
And breathe the greasepaint of home.
Huddled between comb, script and wedding ring,
Downstage of an unlucky ‘Good luck!’ card,
Mascot grins with a corpsed face.
Other players arrive on their own cues;
Bring the lights up,
Laugh at asides,
Plant flowers in vases
And apply their own masks.
Fear and excitement,
Two feet from myself,
Challenging this stranger through curtained eyes.
Focus. Gabble and focus.
Calls count down as orchestra tunes up,
Seats creak and bang within audience buzz.
At beginners, the me-not-me in the mirror tips a wink;
Turns away silently and leaves the light.
We both bustle quietly
Into the dark embrace of the wings.
If our lives were a garden, I would be your oak;
Protecting you, my sweet, pink rose from weeds that bind and choke.
If our lives were a desert, my spring would be you;
Preserving life and bringing hope and making old things new.
If our lives were up in space, then you would be my moon
And I would be your sun, my love.
I hope I see you soon.
In my eye there is a doorway,
It towers above, below, around.
The doors are old oak and a metre in width
And when moved, they make not a sound.
Yet they lead to a world even greater, it seems,
Where whatever you think can go to extremes;
With lasers and dinosaurs side by side,
Wind-surfing monkeys who ride on the tide,
Where a snail can climb on the Tour Eiffel
and break it in two with the weight of its shell.
This is the place where pain doesn’t hurt,
You don’t fall ’til you see there’s no ground;
Where cars chase dogs and cucumbers talk
And big buildings with gargoyles walk ’round.
This is the place you can blast into space
Whenever you cough or you sneeze;
This is the place where you don’t have a face
And mad people DON’T talk to trees.
This is where giants are just garden gnomes
And amoebas live in small mobile homes
But although it is fun to go there and hide,
You must be wary – don’t get trapped inside.
It belongs to me and I belong to it,
No-one can enter (of their own accord).
This is the place where I like to sit,
Relax, and with its contents rapport.
Yes, in my eye, a doorway is there
And to this you should give some pause;
That on the oak door a red sign says ‘BEWARE’,
Do you have the same sign on yours?
When I went to bed I was thinking of you
But my dreams had something else in.
Does that now mean that I’m unfaithful?
Have I just committed a sin?
‘The thought’s as bad as the act.’ they say
But that’s a load of shit –
‘Cos then the thought of doing good
Is as good as doing it.
So I think it’s fine and not important,
Just my mind having its fun;
It simply can’t be a serious portent –
That giant apple with a gun.
Into the Black
Joints and fibres loose yet taut,
A body lies stretched in the dark.
Eyes closed, it pulses each muscle lightly in turn.
Thinks of the Black. Going into the Black.
If more than one muscle flexes at once,
It must recommence
From the start.
Thinks of the Black. Going into the Black.
A spark in the void,
Disconnected from shroud,
Consciousness floats on nothing.
Into the Black. Going into the black.
Orientation lends perspective
To senses other than physical;
It moves forward.
Going into the Black. Into the Black.
The sparkling mote reaches deeper,
Further and deeper into the Black.
Going into the Black. Into the Black.
The chest of the shell on the floor lifts…
Dark is surpassed by oblivion.
In the immense Black, the tiny light rises…
I Wish I Was a Dragon
I wish I was a dragon…
They are noble, I wish I was.
They are intelligent, I wish I was.
They are beautiful, I wish I was.
They have scales, I wish I did.
They have claws, I wish I did.
They have wings, I wish I did.
They can breathe fire, I wish I could.
I’m an arsonist.
My love is like a ring o’bells – ’tis hardy, strong and true –
And every time these squills do nod, I always think of you.
If left unchecked, ’twill only grow to cover ground, unseen
And prettify our harebell wood with flowers blue and green.
A potent cure for spider bites or giving dreamless sleep,
Bellbottles are what my heart wears
And our love’s forest, keep.
A sign of my humility seen by falcon up above,
My constancy and gratitude and everlasting love.
With eyelids shut, the world seems red,
The light is bright and glorious;
His hands soft-crossed beneath his head
The mood is high, harmonious.
Against his back, the grass feels soft
And buzzing flies flit past his ear,
As birds caw lazy cries aloft
He drifts in drowseland, comfy here.
Faint calls from children as they play;
A snuffling dog whuffs gently by.
He dreams there were no end today
To the sun’s warmth – his lullaby.
The Musician & the Poet
A toast to their creative spark, for long years may it flare;
‘Tis not the sole glow in the dark that they shall ever share.
So, toning each phrase carefully and placing life in tune,
Their twin minds move up-tempo and between the lines attune.
Each stanza, clef and harmony their romance underscores
And joyful tears come to the eye which to their love implores.
Her soul is the guitar and his lyrics are the strings;
The notes her heart imparts sing his writing to its wings.
Apart they are artistic and their audiences delight;
Together, this pair makes a whole and bathes the world in light.
My Mum Doesn’t Like My Poetry
My Mum says my poems are horrible;
Surrealism just makes her fume.
She thinks I should write about swimming pools,
Brandy, family and perfume;
Chocolate, photos – things like that –
Cigarettes, flowers, friends and cats;
Eating out and reading books,
Little houses with lots of nooks,
Candles and balloons, things favoured by her;
Take all her likes and write them on paper.
Then she will find my poetry great,
Not ask me about my mind’s poor state.
If I include these things for Mater,
She’ll save the poem and read it later.
So here you are, Ma, all your faves in a stew.
I’ve written a nice poem, just for you.
Moon, bright as mourning;
Surviving stars tears in the night.
Breeze strokes cheek like the sorrow of parting.
The dawning chill, pain and delight.
Loneliness cradled in the palm of solitude,
Pocketed fist, warm power;
Softly clenched in cruel solicitude,
Loving and loathing this hour.
Heart mapping mind through the rustle of leaves,
Grounded through a striding soul,
Eye sees only shadow where ear hears the lives.
Yet a part of the whole.
While wand’ring through this wond’rous world
I ‘low my dreams to guide my course,
Astride my steed, standard unfurled,
Seek’st I my heav’n-sent will’s true force.
Visions of love, engulfed by flames
And loved ones’ screams from nightmare holes
Sound in my head as ‘cross the Thames
Our small ship sails to save their souls.
‘Midst crowding men and sleek, sharp blades
Slash I my sword through flesh and bone;
Sending all to death and Hades,
Struggling to defend hearth’s home.
Thus, do I wend my way through life
And fight for light through dark and strife.
Copper-striped silver ball amongst emerald blades,
Fur wafting gently in the breeze,
The cat curls small in drifting shade,
As golden orb passes over trees.
The Purple People
The meaning of life is to laugh and to belch,
To eat, drink and have a good time;
To have parties, get pissed,
Love God if you wish
And make all of your own poems rhyme.
If you want to.
The hypocrisy of this democracy
Is not a shock to see but is a mockery;
False government doesn’t deserve to be
Supported when it should serve the people
But instead makes fools of you and me –
Takes fleshy pounds for their high society
And gives chains when it should let us be
Not serfs nor slaves but humanity, free.
Supposedly ruled for the greater good,
We find that there’s no Robin Hood –
No Che Guevara to be our saviour –
No instigation or resolution
To our desperate desire for revolution;
Though sorely needed, bad seeds aren’t weeded
And our cries for just change go unheeded.
Where the needs of the few trump the needs of the many
And the rich steal by tax the poor’s last penny.
When we feel on our necks the legal crime
Of fattened, false government’s grinding heel,
It’s time to climb up from the grime
And break the cage of their stealing wheel.
All writings the property of Andrew James Deane and cannot be reproduced in whole or in part without express, written permission. Copyright 2018 Andrew James Deane.