Riddle

Posted on by estlh

I have been sorting through some old notebooks lately. Over the years I have written hundreds of poems, but only a small proportion have made it onto this blog so far. I thought it was maybe time to share more of these poems so over the next few weeks I will he posting a mixture of old and new stuff.

I don’t remember what exactly inspired this poem, but it was the first poem in a long while that I wrote with rhyme.

If I were you and you were me
Then who is that sat there?
If you were him and he were me
You really wouldn’t care.

I wonder if our quest for truth
Has stumbled off the trail –
We took the path least trodden on
and now our quest will fail.

I’m not sure even who you are –
I started out alone.
I think I might be dreaming now,
this truth I’ve never known.

If I were young and you were old
Then I would be quite green,
You’d fill my head with stories long
From days I’d never seen.

If I were old and you were young
I’d tell you then to hold your tongue.

Off Track

Posted on by estlh

Unfortunately, I am no stranger to the middle of the night. At a time when most people are slumbering, I often find sleep elusive. Some nights I will get up and make myself a drink. I sit in the lounge and read or re-watch TV shows in the hope that I will nod off, and eventually, I usually do. But other nights, I find myself hovering somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Stuck in a state where I am too conscious to be sleeping, but not conscious enough to get up; I am capable of dreaming, but unable to tell what is real from what is fantastic. I keep a notebook beside my bed with my pen in a blank page, so on nights like these I can reach out and start writing without putting on any light. The next morning I will sometimes find on the page unintelligible scribbles, or crazy thoughts that make no sense in the light of day. But every once in a while my scrawl will have a poetic bend and I can make something fanciful from the words that came to me in the middle of the night.

I knew twas not the path to take, yet still I chose to tread
Along the way that beckoned me with flowers of pink and red
I knew twas not the way to go for I had listened well
But still I chose to pay no heed and took my time as well
I dilly dallied up the path and gazed around in awe
Astonished by the blooms I saw – I’d never seen before.
The beauty that surrounded me full took my breath away
I lost some hours in marvelling this exotic display
Another chance soon came my way to get back on the trail
I should have taken from the first, but sense did not prevail
So still I wandered dreamily among the heady scent
Of blossoms green and blossoms blue until the day was spent
The darkened sky swirled fast around and I was thence afraid
And knew I could no more deny the mistake I had made
I knew twas not the path to take, yet I had chose to tread
The path that once distracted me and cost me now my bed.

Three times

Posted on by estlh

Often I will have inspiration for just a few lines of a poem. I’ll write them down and come back to them at a later date to write the whole thing. A while ago I wrote the first Stanza of this, originally about a very different matter. However when I came back to it the poem has gone in a totally different direction. So here, very different to what I intended, is the finished poem.

The first time I said no I meant it
The second I wasn’t so sure
The third time I said no I knew that
I’d bend if you asked me once more

The first time I said yes I waivered
The second I felt that I must
The third time I knew I had no choice
To say no would lose me your trust

The first time I walked out I tested
The second I still wasn’t sure
The third time I walked out I knew that
I’d never walk back through that door

The first time I felt love he meant it
The second he meant it much more
The third time 1 felt love I knew that
I’d always be scared and unsure

The first time he promised I questioned
The second I silently wept
The third time he promised I knew that
Once more and 1 might just accept

The next time he promised he held me
In earnest looked straight in my eyes
Whatever wherever whenever
He’d always be right by my side

And that time I really believed it
For once more my heart was made whole
With him by my side I have risen
And reclaimed the me that you stole

In the shadow of the volcano pt 2

Posted on by estlh

The people living in Pompeii in 79AD  had no idea they were living next to a Volcano. They didn’t even have a word for volcano, and the earthquakes that occurred before the eruption were not recognised as the warnings that they were. Yet today the people who live and work in this area do so in the full knowledge of what vesuvius is capable of. Towns and cities sprung backup in the area  due in part to the fact that minerals present in the volcanic soil make the area around vesuvius incredibly fertile. Also the hardened lava underneath is porous, meaning the area has it’s own built in natural irrigation system. Hence there has always been an abundance of food and agricultural jobs to provide for those living here. There are even varieties of grape and tomato that grow only in this area and have geographically protected status.

Vesuvius is still very much an active volcano. Over the last few centuries it has erupted in 1660, 1682, 1694, 1698, 1707, 1737, 1760, 1767, 1779, 1794, 1822, 1834, 1839, 1850, 1855, 1861, 1868, 1872, 1906, 1929, and lastly in 1944. With 80 years now having passed since the last eruption, volcanologists agree that  vesuvius is overdue one, and after an extended break this is likely to be quite large. Yet still plenty of people go about their every day lives with the shadow of the volcano looming over them. We only stayed in Pompeii for a week, but already by the end of the stay my initial awe of vesuvius was abating. It was still a spectacular presence in every viewpoint, but it was odd that I became accustomed to the proximity of such destructive potential.

So life just goes on
In the shadow of dire might
Fear long forgotten

In the shadow of the volcano pt 1

Posted on by estlh

On holiday in Pompeii, or indeed anywhere in the bay of Naples, it is hard to ignore the presence of Mount Vesuvius, looming large over the landscape. Although we are all familiar with the eruption of 79AD that destroyed the roman town, there have been many eruptions since. In the last 3 centuries, it has erupted 17 times, the last of these eruptions in 1944; and geologists and volcanologists agree that an eruption is overdue. This, combined with the number of people living in the ‘danger zone’ (approx 3 million), means that vesuvius is considered one of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world. Of course it is monitored 24-7 and there are detailed evacuation plans in place, but on our first night in Pompei, watching the sun set over an actual live volcano, it is hard to describe exactly what I felt. I was promoted to write a haiku.

Mighty Vesuvio
Such destructive power possessed.
Primed. Poised. And patient.

To be young

Posted on by estlh

A few days ago I was having a conversation with someone about attitudes towards young people. Particularly the judgement thrown at them purely for acting like they are young and inexperienced and know less of the world. We have all been there at some point  – we all learn as we travel through life. Admittedly, some of us learn better than others, and sometimes we learn the wrong lessons altogether. But being young is not inherently a bad thing, and is something an individual has absolutely no control over!

This conversation brought to mind a poem I wrote back when I was a youth and was feeling judged for being young. It took a lot of rummaging through old notebooks but I eventually found it. Written when I was just the tender age of 16, here it is

The dying hate us
For we are still being born.
As we laugh and joke
They shake their heads in disapproval;
We are living too much for them.
They love the life they are dying,
why should we live more than they can?

They try to take our life from us
They complain to everyone
And grumble remarks as we pass.
We can do no right.
If we try to live a little bit for them,
To rejuvenate their dying breath,
They do not want to know.
Our life threatens them,
And they are untrusting and suspicious.

Their birth was so long ago,
It is forgotten,
And they cannot understand those
Who live like they’ll die tomorrow.

At the well

Posted on by estlh

A few years ago I wrote a poem about the women in the bible who encountered Jesus. In my poetry journal today the prompt was to write a poem from the point of view of someone in a well known story. I chose the woman at the well.

He saw me.
I had come alone to draw, unseen, unjudged, from the well.
He spoke to me
Asking for a drink from one he should have ignored
He told me
That I should never thirst again – he would make it so
He revealed to me
The truth of who he was and why he came
He knew me
He knew the very worst but did not shrink from me

When previously I had felt judgement,
here I met compassion
And for the first time I felt free.
I found truth,
I found purpose,
And I felt beautiful.

Life

Posted on by estlh
Image from Vecteezy.com

I hold my life in my hand before me
My outstretched arm aloft in tremulous awe
As I gaze in wonder
At this emotionful entity that sits
In the unsteady palm of my hand.

A gift or a curse to hold such
A fine-spun quiddity?

I do not wish to crush it in my protective greed
I do not wish to put it down lest it roll away, or
To leave it somewhere safe lest I wander too far and lose its light
Yet keeping it safe is a responsibility that overwhelms me
A task I cannot be entrusted.

I would give it you for safe keeping
If you would take it.
If you would unburden me of this needful chain
And guard for me forever
The life I will never lead

The unfulfilled dreams of a coward.

At the end of the universe

Posted on by estlh

When people read poetry they interpret it in their own way. I know from comments made to me about my own poetry that if I write a poem about one thing, some people will read it as being about something else entirely. And that is fine. Like any art form, people view it through the lens of their own personal life experience and preferences; it means different things to each of us. That is one of the reasons that I often write a little intro to my poems on this blog – to explain a bit about what I was thinking or feeling when I wrote the poem. But sometimes I don’t want to share that much of myself, and sometimes I just want to throw a poem out there and see how it is interpreted without any hints from me. Today’s poem is not straight forward for me to explain so I’m just going to throw it out there. Comments are encouraged!

Weep with me for the forgotten boy who lies quiet at the end of the universe.

Exiled.

Expelled with such force that he can never find his way home.

And all for a misunderstanding that can never now be explained.

So instead he lies in quiet contemplation

of the injustice of existence.

Wishing he had at least done something worthy of eternal exclusion.

 

At the end of the universe all is clear.

He can look back at what could have been –

The sheer potential afforded to those who so oft neglect it

chasing after instancy instead.

Oh to be once again in the opportune abundance of those at the centre.

 

The tears deluged once, but that stream has now run dry

Futile waters washed away no part of his pain.

His resigned heart long torn in two.

Naive and trusting he yearned at the start for a vindication that never came

Reliant on the honesty of another with naught to gain from confession

and much to lose.

 

So alone he waits.

All angered out

self pity over

indulgent hope abandoned

Surrounded by stardust and cosmic redundancy

 

Weep with me for the forgotten boy who dies quiet at the end of the universe.