Thursday, 31 December 2020

THE STITCHING OF HISTORY


The year ends for me with the Shortest Day, the Winter Equinox. It heralds the coming light and the starting over of the cycle. This year it was too wet and overcast to see the sun rise over the horizon. 

Perhaps for you the year ends tomorrow? If it does I wish you the best possible for the new year.

This first small poem follows on from a poem from last year about a house being demolished. Since then I have watched something new arise on the site. Across the road another house was knocked down and now eight nearly completed houses await occupation.

Good Luck

They could not just be apartments, had to be luxury apartments because people don’t just buy apartments

they want luxury, executive,

like the bespoke gated community they are building across the road,

as if you could keep out the world.

I am baffled why new dwellings need to be exclusive, bespoke or executive. It seems to me to highlight a shortfall in imagination. 

This next poem arose from a line that appeared in my head and just would not go away.

A Prayer Before My Naming

Gift me the name of your favourite uncle, the family one

that needs to be passed on a generation,

even if you cannot say why it deserves to be.

You suppose tradition, the stitching of history,

something shared, constancy, but

before you speak the sounds that seal me

to that set of letters, listen and rejoice,

for I will not wear it as expected.

No one ever does.


If some poems write themselves, and they do, then this one was the opposite. It required much time bouncing round my head before debuting on the page. Do not be surprised if it turns up again in a revised form.

Here's Joy Crookes.

Until Next time.

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