I was unhappy with the final two lines of the previous post. I did not think that they worked as well as they could have and here is a revised draft of the poem.
At The Leechwell
Did
we believe less?
Was
your faith the greater?
You,
who turn away,
make
the sign of the cross
at
the sound of the bell
as
we walk to the well,
burdened
as we are
by
the double negative
of
disease and The Fall.
Cold
water,
cold
morning.
No
cure,
no
change,
no
blessing from above.
So
we turn back towards the lazar house,
moving
slowly through the spaces
that
our lives once occupied.
I think that it is more effective than before. Here's Anna Terheim.
For a week or so the line: cold water, cold morning, has been knocking around my head. A friend, AlisonWilson, sent me some photographs of The Leechwell, in Totnes and suggested there could be a poem in it. All last week all I had was that line. The rest evolved from reading that from the 1500's it was claimed that the well could cure leprosy. At that time if you contracted leprosy you were said to have died, your partner was officially a widow and could remarry. You were consigned to a leper house or lazar. Once I had established the scene the poem fell into place over the usual multiple rewrites.
At The Leechwell
Did
we believe less?
Was
your faith the greater?
You,
who turn away,
make
the sign of the cross
at
the sound of the bell
as
we walk to the well,
burdened
as we are
by
the double negative
of
disease and The Fall.
Cold
water,
cold
morning.
No
cure,
no
change,
no
blessing from above.
So
we turn back towards the lazar house,
moving
slowly through the spaces
that
used to be our lives.
I wondered how the disease would affect your faith. Would it cause you to doubt? Also the fact that your life had been taken from you, or you have been removed from your life. Strange how some poems present you with a perspective, a life experience that seems to come from somewhere else. Thank you Alison.
Another friend, Rex, sent me a link to this song. It's Neil Young and REM playing Ambulance Blues. Fantastic.
I've been working on this poem for sometime and I fear it could be overworked. This can happen. I wrote it last year and put it away. As I often say: distance grants perspective. However, here it is.
The
Year of Travelling Backwards
Afterwards
he called it his year of travelling backwards,
because
someone, sometime, told him
sitting
with your back to the engine robs the body of its Chi.
That
vital energy seeps out.
It
wasn't actually a year but nine months of directionlessness,
of
being able only to understand events once they had happened.
Unable
to make sense of where he was,
until
he was somewhere different.
The
latest economic slump had dictated
that
he reapply for his own job,
which
of course, he did not get.
So
he was shunted round the organisation,
slotted
into every interview,
in
front of panels of resentful faces,
who
did not want him either.
These
scenes were interspersed
with
hospital silences, his father,
trapped
between starched white sheets,
slowly
leaving his life.
Than
before he knew he was:
unemployed,
at
the church,
burying
his father.
From
some things you don't bounce back,
perhaps
as you age the spring goes,
and
once you've seen it all before
fake
enthusiasm is never an option.
He
had been in a carriage facing backwards,
then he was off the train.
He
left the station.
I am not going to say much about it. I still think I am too close. I started from the line: The year of travelling backwards, and it evolved from that.
Here's someone I am sure of - Ryley Walker. He is live with his wondrous band, 38 minutes of sublime music.
A poem about tea to begin with, actually it's a poem of thanks.
the
first sip of tea this day
I
give thanks
for
the time I have to savour
green
liquor in a white bowl
no
haste
well
rested
thank
you Lord
This poem began with the line: classify the day by the taste of the morning tea but I realised that if I had the time to ruminate in this way I should simply give thanks.
Next a love poem.
another love poem
that
hotel you booked for me
was
on a loser from the start
the
reception cluttered as it was
by
grown men in black and white football strip
who
should have known better
who
should have out grown that sort of thing by their age
but
then look at me
pulled
by my heart across europe towards you
I haven't really got anything to say about this poem. It is what it is. I leave you with a poor quality video of an amazing singer/songwriter. Here is Laura Nyro.
