The Poetry Bus 27th. December.

The prompt that Muse Swings ask writers to address is
"The Unwanted or Unwelcome Gift."

Leaving Present

When I left school my science teacher said
"You won the Physics Prize because you learned
the formulae and stuff we get from books.
Well done, of course, well done, but Lucy - look,
take this away with you, and make it work."
This was a wind-up clock that didn't go!

Ever been gobsmacked!  But my whole class knew
method was never far below his madness.
Unkind! Not mad for wearing a bow-tie
and being not so tall  as he might like -
- that man could teach most colleagues out of sight.
"Er . . . thanks, Mr.Wills." He smiled "You will be back."

Nearly three months before I started Uni.
I got some books on clocks. I learned the parts.
How springs store energy, how ratchets work,
how the escapement keeps it all in check,
why clocks with pendulums must level sit -
even learned where the tick and tock come from.

When I was sure, I took the thing apart,
cleaned all the cogs of years of grime and dust,
marvelled how all those little teeth were made
precise, so every hour and day ran true,
marvelling at what men have learned to do
to get some measure of their Universe.

See - when I found the offending broken wheel
and knew I'd got it right I fairly danced.
I used the Internet to source a spare
(amazing what you find!). Then - fit the key.
And turn. And wind. And now .   she goes! She goes!
I called the School. His quiet voice said "Well done."

No need to ask if I could keep the clock.
In lodgings, bedsits, flats it's graceful tick
has kept me company. It separates
gone by from yet to come, reminding me
of patience, care, a gifted teacher's trust,
things beyond physics, never learned from books.

Poetry Bus 20th. December.

Weaver of Grass offers STAR as a one-word prompt

“Astronomers at Caltech Noted a Large Object 

 that Moved 4.6 Arcseconds in 3 hours”

Their earthbound lenses found and followed me

at the far and coldest edge of nothingness,

where their own Sun glows listless.  Yes, they saw,

and thought to know me better if they named me.

Ha! Sedna, they chose, though by another

I would be no more known or understood.

They say a frigid Ocean’s where she dwells,

this Sedna, this mythic sea-goddess,

mistress of the deeps beyond Poseidon.

So, plucked from voids of space and placed amongst

mythologies and icefloes, they mark out

my nearest and my farthest helions

as if this helped them know me, or my track,

only compounding all they do not know,

hoping sea fables absolve mysteries.

Well, if they wish I’ll play the Innuit maid,

combing my raven hair with carved sea-shells,

unknown to any man, swimming alone

as planets swim unknown across their lens.

And if I play their game will they be helped

to know my origins? Did I distill

from their Sun’s protoplanetary disc?

Am I a captured comet hurled by Jupiter’s

perturbing gravity out into this

oblivion, this cold, this ocean cold,

cold such as hacked poor Sedna’s fingers off

for seals, hacked off her hands, creating whales?

Tell your creation stories. Scan your skies.

Measure my vanished dust, my swirling path.

Am I your fabled seamaid - or mere stone

confounding your math, your wisdom and your eyes?

Magpie Tales#44

Willow's photograph of this "runner" sledge got me thinking about another pastime - skating

How Skates Work

Sixteen. It seemed to skate was sorcery

on glacierblades, on  icekiss hissing

strips, I spun and swished like quicksilver,

breathing the rink’s chill fragrance. Salchows! Speed!

The ice a sheet for tracing circles on.

Physics seemed far away.

                                          One day I asked

“Why can’t I skate on glass?” That would be

lump, bump, lumberclump and getting nowhere

fast. No showers of snow on stopping, maybe

a sound like fingernails on chalkboard. But

glass is surely just as smooth?  Puzzled,

I asked in school. The science teacher,

Mr.Wills explained. The secret’s in the way

the pressure on the skate-blade melts the ice.

This melt-water, like an oil film, lubricates.

I asked, “You mean, I skate on water?”

I never will forget his answer. “Yes,”

he said, “and no. You skate on grace, control

and strength and heart.  ‘On water’ or ‘on ice.’

It makes no matter. Just remember this.

Behind the things you wonder at, lies physics.

Beyond the physics that we learn, lies awe.”

Thirty.  And when I read of icecaps melting

I think of skates, and when I skate I think

of Mr.Wills, his skill, his water-films,
the way her never put us down for asking,
which meant he loved us, though we did not know.

Magpie Tales#42

Willow's picture prompts this little poem.

Untitled Poem

You were the cup that cheered

that poured cheer into me until

my cup ran over. Yours were

the fingers cupped under my chin,

to raise my face to yours, to kiss.

Yes, you were my kissing cup,

my loving cup, and I, 

your flower cup wherein

I let you nestle, nestle.

And I was in my cups

with love, of love, in love. How

was it, when was it then I -

became your poisoned chalice?

Poetry Bus Challenge. November 29th.

From a triplet of prompts from The Bug, to be found at: http://danabugseyeview.blogspot.com/2010/11/poetry-bus-is-driven-by-bug-buckle-your.html
I offer a poem on "Leafless Trees"


WINTER POEM.

The stars sank westwards, slipping calm as tears

through nets woven from leafless winter trees.

There was no wind to stir their branches

stretched up like supplicants resigned, asking

the night for blessing. The risen Moon

made her slow exploration of the sky,

as someone brooding, seeking company

might wander friendless, staring far too long

at Venus sinking green towards her set.

Under these arcs of night, I slept,

safe from the trees, the Moon, the looming dark,

alone, with dreams alone for company,

slept for a while and woke to find

the tangled trees’ beseechings answered.

It was the silence told me, and the light,

a paler light absorbed into the dark

that earlier shadowed my closing eyes.

Beyond my pane, winter’s first snow had come,

had settled on each branch, each fork, each twig,

clothing their nakedness in lace, in white,

falling with something almost tenderness,
without a sound, as kisses do, or should.

Monday's Child#22

The prompt this week  is the picture posted here. The task - to write a poem for children based around it.

Only Believe

If you believe in dragons, they will come

to your bedside. Dream them every night. Some

of them are timid and will hide behind

their mother's tails. Sleep quietly. You'll find

they'll let you stroke them just like any pet.

But remember!  They don't like getting wet!

They dry themselves by breathing fire. That's why

they eat your coals and firewood. They will fry

eggs and bacon for you every morning,

then WHOOSH! - they'll disappear without warning!

Take care of little dragons. Be their friend.

And this is where my story has its end.

God Bless all Little Ones, Children and their Dragons.


The Monday's Child site is at: - http://childrensverse.blogspot.com/2010/11/mondays-child-22.html

Magpie Tales#41

Willow's prompt this time bends our thoughts to clocks.
The prompt is at:- http://www.magpietales.blogspot.com/ and as usual, is a picture.

Between the Tick

a hawk drops on a hare,

the axe falls on Anne’s small neck,

or Catherine’s, or Thomas’s,

the Brutal strike bursts Caesar’s

heart. A wistful girl dreaming

by a fountain falls in love

her heart as surely bursting.

Sprung traps break the mouse’s back.

A huntsman at the first hedge falls.

A shark bites down. The first flake

falls on a frozen sparrow

tumbled from her twig. Between

the desire and the spasm

the beloved falls out of love.

drifts off like breath exhaled

while the girl by the fountain stares

after him, aghast. In other places

while goodbyes for now are made,

or a birthing cry is heard, 
or, or through more and more
and more unnumbered ors

an avenger’s hate tears steel apart,

steals life, tears lives apart. And

men declaim on these different,

small, indifferent fates from tick

to tick to tick through tick

and Tock