Joy in the beck

I've dug up an old poem that maybe says something about the joy of wild swimming, although it's about other stuff too!

Joy in the beck                            

                Over tough rock and through soft earth

                                the river creates her own course

as she runs and rests by turns

                                                from her tiny bubbling source.

                Where the pool of ideas whirls

we are suspended in her being

                                feeling only the bliss of the swim,

                we twist and spin without seeing.

Know the thrill of the stream in flood

 --  deep, dark and endless.

                                Hold faith in her safety as

she falls and bends,  grows careless.

Feel the water-silk embrace,

                                the power of the raging torrent

                                                The river is the breath we seek

as we run in the race of the current.

                                To dive, to swim

                                                to dance in her flow

                 is to trust all the dreams

                                                                we ever seek to know.

 

Oil man

1934. Dad is on the left of this line-up.

In memory of my Dad, who died 40 years ago today.   

Walter Biggs, 27.7.1912 – 24.6.1978

Oil man

No one understood engines like he did.

He’d stand there, listen, and he knew,

he always knew what to do.

He was the car doctor.

They came from miles,

or called for him to come if they couldn’t

   get started.

His large strong hands with hairy backs

could shift the toughest nuts and bolts,

yet with those same fingers

he’d fix the finest needle in a carburettor.

So deft, so sure of his actions.

The best sight in the world was seeing

his legs sticking out from under some car;

or bent-backed, head under the bonnet,

brown overall flapping,

baggy trousers billowing,

feet in slippers (if Mum didn’t catch him first).

The pungent scent of engine oil

 seeped through his skin.

It was the driving force in his veins,

working silently

to make everything work.

He had it all for us:

ignition, timing,

he was our shock absorber,

our brake,

our strength.

The oil in all our works.


and here's a link to a video of me reading this poem at the launch of my new collection of poetry, 'Breakfast in Bed', October 16th, 2019:

https://youtu.be/0yOb1BDtnHw

After the killing

i.m of Jo Cox MP
 

After the killing

The day after that man killed Jo Cox

I ate strawberries

for breakfast

because they were fat

and red

and ready with the sweetness of joy.

I walked to the top of the hill

and saw the sea, grey and cold

but breathing, below,

all the while

on its incoming tide over endless sands

rolling always and forever.

I sat on a seat above the beach

in the sun

and emptied my mind

watched the waves –

sheets of steel

rolling on.

I listened to Bach played on guitar

massive concertos

pitching

in six stunning strings.

I spoke to a young woman

who I had known when she was a girl

and we talked about her glorious baby

due soon

on some happy day.

I bought a new novel

to read later …

That anticipation

that it is there

the words waiting

for me

when I am ready

sometime

this summer.

I picked herbs from the garden –

mint and parsley

and watched the cat rolling

in the catnip

quite off her face.

I saw the swallows

scything over the fat meadow

to gather food

for their young.

And, just to make sure

that you were there

I sent you a text

on a pretext.

Still there.

I read a poem

on Facebook

by a friend

who said

we have to do this

because

however bad the world is

there is love

and light

and no-one can take that away

from us.

So I wrote new poetry

about love

because that is all there is

and I thought of life

this life

how we

have to keep breathing

over our own endless sands.

First published here: https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/

This poem was read out at a memorial event for Jo Cox in Canterbury in July 2016, and at Big Get Together events in July 2017 at various venues in England, and on Bardsey Island, Ynys Enlli.

For more info on events  https://www.jocoxfoundation.org

She's the reason I wear pink shoes

This poem is for a friend of mine from way back, who I have lost touch with. Always remember her when I wear these.

She’s the reason I wear pink shoes

You should have seen the shop –

deep marine blue all over the front.

If her tan was good

she’d wear bright yellow

to make the contrast with the blue.

And she’d make sure her hair colour

was the correct shade of red,

real red, not auburn.

She sold teapots,

all white, with coloured dots –

blue, red, yellow, green.

And jugs for milk, butter dishes to match.

Cups, saucers and mugs in primary colours,

with spots and stripes.

Even her scrubbing brushes had colours –

red and green bristles shone out of willow baskets.

There were throws in autumn garb –

rust, Virginia creeper scarlet, acer and beech brown

and cushions to scatter like falling leaves.

Candles in all colours

some even rainbows,

with holders to match or contrast.

Customers touched things,

they couldn’t resist

picked them up

put them back askew.

A tight smile

a taut thank you as they left.

She’d wait until they had gone,

the door closed behind them

and she’d put everything back

where it should be

perfect

it was her favourite word.

*First published in The Writers’ Café Magazine, April 2018:

 https://thewriterscafemagazine.wordpress.com/2018/04/16/the-writers-cafe-magazine-issue-7-shoes/