The manifesto is
tentatively named 'Pausa' and basically reflects my desire to enjoy and
experience the moment, recording my perceptions in poetry.
PAUSA
Stop the world, I need to get off
Most of my current poetry is on my blog, Nights Full Nine, here.
PAUSA
Stop the world, I need to get off
In the rush to get there,
I’ll miss the weeds on the railway
The spider on the wing mirror
The bird in the chimney
Fluttering, clamouring
Gasping for space
Avoid the gaps in the pavement
Walk around ladders
Never look up.
Stop. Rewind.
Carpe Diem
Step into the gaps between the moments
Attune the ear
Refocus the eye
Synaesthetic: taste the colours, feel the sound.
Watch for the texture
Of time, passing -
Invisible starfall
-telegraphed in strokes and flecks
Etched into the soul
Most of my current poetry is on my blog, Nights Full Nine, here.
SAVE THE WALES
The joneses having been left behind
As the industrial estuary bloats
A concrete stent forced through the head
Neatly trepanning the prominence
commerce’s darning suture drawn tight
all the way to the Druids Isle.
Channelling traffic along the coast
past the empty beaches and shuttered shops
vacant castles and the rusty rides
Eire beckons coyly from the sleek flanks
Of seacats ferrying tourists away from this
Once mystic land, to a new Celtic frontier
waiting to be diluted and tamed by a commodifying tide.
Wales has withdrawn to the hills
treasures stowed in caves of slate
as her borders and byways are blurred and absorbed
Not by covetous kings or expanding nations
But at the hand of bannered modernity
With conquering flags branded across the land like sheep.
Longbowmen raise fingers in defiance
Yew hewn and gut strung
Shouldered aside by the concrete crennelations
Dry stoned and graffiti decorated
As the expressway glides by,
services one mile.
As the industrial estuary bloats
A concrete stent forced through the head
Neatly trepanning the prominence
commerce’s darning suture drawn tight
all the way to the Druids Isle.
Channelling traffic along the coast
past the empty beaches and shuttered shops
vacant castles and the rusty rides
Eire beckons coyly from the sleek flanks
Of seacats ferrying tourists away from this
Once mystic land, to a new Celtic frontier
waiting to be diluted and tamed by a commodifying tide.
Wales has withdrawn to the hills
treasures stowed in caves of slate
as her borders and byways are blurred and absorbed
Not by covetous kings or expanding nations
But at the hand of bannered modernity
With conquering flags branded across the land like sheep.
Longbowmen raise fingers in defiance
Yew hewn and gut strung
Shouldered aside by the concrete crennelations
Dry stoned and graffiti decorated
As the expressway glides by,
services one mile.
