Posts tagged ‘Trapped’

13/10/2013

Commuters

 

I’ll see her standing in the rain.
The place, the time: they never change.
She hugs her bag in front of her,
Her toes are on the yellow line.

It’s rare to see her raise her head.
On days like this her hair is wet
And darker than its usual brown.
She stares on to the tracks, unmoved.

For years we’ve shared the same routine:
She stands, I wait – anticipate
Her being there, existing there –
A confirmation of our lives,

And how our lives are drifting by.
Her toes are on the yellow line.

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going collaboration.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

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13/10/2013

Broken

 

He broke his journey on that day.

No reason why, no thought before,

He simply picked his bag and left,

Four stops before the usual place.

 

And still without a question raised

He left the station, walked into

The town whose name he’d always seen

But never thought a real place.

 

He wandered on without a goal,

Just looking at the streets and shops,

And people on their way to work,

And none of it made any sense.

 

He stopped and stared up at the sky.

Same sky, same day: different life.

 

This poem was written as a response to the photograph by artist Cheryl Garner. It is part of an on-going collaboration.

The photographs, with poems, can be found at:

www.thecheesewolf.co.uk/category/vicarious-journeys/

the work of Cheryl Garner can be found at:

http://cherylgarner.squarespace.com/

 

09/06/2013

Night Birds Calling

 

In other times, on darker nights,

The ones who carved the stones would quake

At forest howls, at spirit streams,

At shadows flitting through the trees.

 

But us: we see the lights of planes,

We hear the distant hum of roads,

We search the nightjar – tick that box –

We walk straight lines of forest tracks.

 

Oblique we stand – their world breaks through –

There’s distance here that we can’t know.

We hear the birds, we sense the fear:

Religion, science, mean little here.

 

Our pride and indolence are new,

These creatures scream from something true.

 

 

18/05/2012

The Seam

 

The seam runs through the field, beneath

The wall, beneath the house, beneath

The fear of darkness and of loss.

The seam is deep and rich and wide.

 

Around the Earth, throughout our time

The seam is dredged and scraped and blown.

The fires it lights explode the night.

The dressing floors are never still.

 

Beneath the moor the tunnelling spins,

Beneath the wilds made wilder still,

Beneath the need to feed the fires,

The need to feed the landlord’s will.

 

It merges, weights and drags us down,

Malformed we’re trapped: part beast, part god.

07/05/2012

Mirrors of the Labyrinth

 

They’re sacrificed to autumn flights.

Enslaved by time or caught in light,

They’re made to turn ten thousand times:

Reflections of the world below.

 

The distant skylarks trapped by song,

In endless spirals through the blue,

Must sing and sing and not be done.

Their songs mean nothing to the sun.

 

The tack and flick of wheatear’s white

Along the crumbling Yarnbury Dam,

Are calls of spirits bound in lead,

Compelled to fight their pointless fights.

 

And way off by the Grinding House,

A buzzard wheels above the waste.

30/04/2012

The Minotaur’s Freedom

 

In here the fields are lush and warmed,

The dew is soft, the light is gold,

In here, within this head of mine:

This wasted, wicked, murderous head.

 

I’m free to wander where I like,

To trace my family heritage,

Parade around the castle walls,

To fly: if egrets take my thoughts.

 

I’m cut adrift of time in here.

I sometimes think I hear the sea,

And other times the hooves and herds,

Then once a year I’m paid in blood.

 

The ones out there seem full of dread.

They seem so trapped, they’re better dead.