Everyday Poetry

Early morning city My last "ready made" poem before the start of the Napowrimo challenge, is another one from 2005 written during my 45 minute walk to work.  It was inspired by an earlier than usual commute and can still take me back to the magic of that morning.  Leaving my flat early to catch a train I count twenty people between home and the station. The number amazes me - the number so low That I thought of counting. Birds are waiting to change shift Crows perch on the lamposts Not yet ousted by lazy sleep-abed seagulls. Rubbish bags litter the pavements Evidences of last night's excesses still visible Until the road sweeper's brushes return the city to respectability. It is strange to be about this early Before the Metro pusher's piles of free papers arrive And while streets still anticipate the hustling,  bustling commuters. People behave differently at this hour Rubbish carts dare illegal manoeuvres to cross the road People smile and

The view above I wrote this in 2005 when I was living and working in Bristol,  amd walked down Whiteladies Road and Park Street every day towards Temple Quay.  It was a lovely walk past the old buildings - see if you recognise any! Next time you walk down a city street Try looking up,  and not at your feet You'll be surprised at what awaits you there Whether you glance or whether you stare Look at the sky through a tree's branches and leaves See all the roof tops,  gables and eaves Window boxes full of summertime flowers Awnings put out to guard against showers Ornate Georgian mouldings around windows and doors Buildings much higher than their first two floors A chimney where a gull has stopped to rest Look once again,  is that litter a nest? Gargoyles look down at you with a gurn and a grin Pull a face back at them,  go on,  join in! Africa, India,  Canada,  Australia, with the world on their shoulders Are former trade Atlases,  now their stone moulders A g

Time passes It's funny how time seems to pass at different speeds depending on what you're doing.  On days that are dark,  and have no bright spark Time does nothing but drag,  and the clock hands lag, You become distracted at how time is protracted But time passes.  On days that are frantic,  spent in mad panic Each hour rushes by,  and the clock hands fly,  You declaim at how fast the day rushes past And time passes.  Oh but on days without care,  when you can simply be there,  Living every minute, and be fully in it Then you will find,  that you really don't mind That time passes.  © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Love the skin you're in.   To counter yesterday's poem,  this one is more body positive! Love the skin you're in Love your bones,  your muscles,  your fat Even if you want to change them They are now where you're at. Accept yourself as you are Cherish,  do not chastise Even as you travel towards Your target and your prize. Self hate is unproductive,  so Although it may feel strange Relax and enjoy your journey Your mantra: be the change. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger All Rights Reserved.

Disappearing act I wrote this poem in 2009 , but it could just as well have been today! I've had a life long struggle with my weight,  and I'm currently feeling a little too large after a 6 week cruise and family visits! It's strange but it seems The larger get,  the less noticeable I become. I'm sure there would come a point Where my increasing girth Would attract the incredulous states of passers by. Until then I hide Behind my cloak of invisibility. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Gateway It's extraordinary how a splash of colour in the garden can lift the spirits.  This was inspired by a clump of grape hyacinths. Intense indigo in leafy shade Lifts my spirits on the way out of the gate. How glad I am to have planted the bulbs last autumn My hope rewarded tenfold. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Equinoctial Balance I wore this at a time when I was thinking about going part time,  to give myself a better work - life balance.  Although I'd only be gaining one free day a week this meant I'd have more time to get into creative projects.  It so happened that it coincided with the beginnings of spring,  and the coincidence inspiredthis poem. I can identify with this time of year Caught between two states: winter and spring Not quite ready to give up the frosty chills Not quite ready to wholeheartedly embrace the warmth of sunshine And yet,  inexorably moving towards the promise of summer. Although I am certain of how I need to change And where I want to be in a few month's time I'm not quite ready to throw off my old habits Nor quite ready to turn over that new leaf But I am poised on the cusp; accepting the journey that lies ahead. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Vernal Equinox Come celebrate the Vernal Equinox The longed-for approach of spring When days at last outlast the nights And hearts and souls take wing. Give thanks that fireside afternoons Are behind us for a while,  while Winter blues are chased away By the sun in a blue,  blue sky. Welcome and exploit this yearly surge That accompanies each increasing day, Fling off your winter sluggishness Rejoice! Summer is on its way. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Spring My words cannot do justice To the surge of joy I feel Each year as days stretch longer And we shed those bands of steel. Winter's dark is now forgotten As green shoots peak through the earth I can at last look outwards And take pleasure in life's worth. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Roses I'm very rarely given flowers,  so the beautiful bouquet which arrived on Mother's day made my breath catch at its generous beauty.  Over the last ten days it has transformed from tight buds to open blooms, and while the colours have slightly faded, it still retains a delicate power. The soft satin softness Of ivory, Pink blushes, Fading into the merest hint Of tender green, Then dusky pink Pale,  and deep, Tight buds holding promises Of open faces. Green glossy leaves Separate the riches Of this bouquet, Thorns removed For Mother's Day. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

A thaw One of the surprises this year has been the arrival of snow in early spring.  Just when I expected to be out in the garden,  clearing away the last year's dead growth and looking forward to seeing new shoots appear, everything was covered in a blanket of snow.  I wake To the sound Of rain, falling Softly onto snow. A thaw, Freeing the frozen garden A promise of spring At last. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Disembarkation It's a very particular feeling,  the end of a cruise.  You're docked  and impatient to get on your way home,  but you're unable to get off the ship until it's your turn. Unlike the rest of the trip, it's pointless striking up conversations with new people as you'll never see them again. Waiting in the bar lounge of our cruise ship, I was doing my usual people watching,  and tried to capture the atmosphere. Small groups gather,  dotted around the ship Waiting to hear when they can leave. Newly forged friendships about to end Couples sitting silently side by side Checking they've got everything, Nothing left in the cabin. Newly coupled singles making the most Of every minute of their last hour together. Everyone surrounded by a pile of coats and bags, Ready for the cold again. Will we get off early? Will our cases be waiting for us? How long will it take you to get home? Last minute trips to the loo - Have I got time? Checking

My Capricorn Born under the constellation Capricorn One half goat,  one half fish One half stubborn,  determined,  inquisitive Up for a laugh Eats almost anything,  once, Vigorous,  insistent, Sure of himself He butts all opposition into retreat. The other half in love with the water With fishing,  with the flash of a fish Pitching his skill and patience against their evasion Hours spent waiting to hook and land For a moment of wonder at their beauty Before he gently releases them back to their element. My Capricorn, My rough, tough goat, My gentle fish lover. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Caribbean cocktail A simple way of getting thoughts about an event down on paper is to treat the description like a recipe. Take one large motor powered catamaran Drop into the Caribbean sea Add an attentive and handsome young crew Some passengers up for some fun Banging reggae rhythms And a day of tropical sunshine. Ferment for an hour or two Allowing the atmosphere to froth and hum. When it reaches flirtation point Add a generous splash (or two) of rum punch to taste. Turn up the music and mix together well. Dance until exhausted. On return to dock Allow to rest,  until recovered. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Iles du Salut The islands which make up the former French penal colony are a heartbreaking combination of beautiful landscape and a reminder of  the horrific brutality endured by the convicts during their stay there,  and even after death.  Walking round St Joseph's island shortly after reading Papillon brought the history of the deserted prison buildings to life,  and the ghosts of those who lived,  worked and died there made their presence felt very strongly. Deposited on St Joseph's island I climb a steep dirt track Away from the chattering bustle of tourists To a place of unexpected peace and quiet A graveyard, in a clearing. For a penal colony there are so few graves, The dates of birth and death too close together: The graves of children. Where are the missing thousands The incarcerated convicts,  banished for life Where do their bodies lie? A sudden voice behind me makes me jump "At the bottom of the sea,  the lucky ones. Those not so lucky left no

Inspiration from unexpected sources - The Unhappy Bride You can often be inspired by seeing something unexpected,  out of the norm. In this case it was a series of photographs taken of a woman wearing a bridal gown standing outside a locked church, walking by a river,  and finally wallowing in the mud,  ruining her dress.  It made me wonder about her back story, and i came up with this poem,  written in a ballad form reminiscent of the days when I used to go to a folk club.  The ballad form is written in verses of 4 lines,  with 8 syllables in lines 1 and 3, 7 syllables in lines 2 and 4, and a rhyme scheme of abab. The girl is young,  she meets a man Who tells her that he loves her They meet at night,  whene'er they can He soon becomes her lover. Oh sailor boy,  stay by my side Don't leave me here to moulder Please say that I can be your bride Before the moon gets older. The man agrees,  to keep her sweet, Meaning just to bed her The day comes round,  he fails t

Brazilian fable Fables are often told to children, who enjoy the predictability of rhyming couplets and a repeated refrain. This poem retells the Brazilian fable of how the hen got its speckles. A silly white hen once found A scrap of paper on the ground She put it in her basket.  "I shall bring This important letter to the king." On her way she found her friend the fox Who once she'd rescued from a box. "Little white hen,  where are you going?" "I'm taking this letter to the king." He jumped into the basket with the letter Until they found her friend the river "Little white hen,  where are you going?" "I'm taking this letter to the king." Into her basket then jumped the river Until they met her friend the fire "Little white hen,  where are you going?" "I'm taking this letter to the king." But, what a fright she had at the palace! The paper was wet,  and covered with ashes! T

Haiku  I wasn't aware there were different forms of haiku until I took the creative writing class on board ship.  They pose different challenges,  and create quite different results. I took the subject of leaf cutter ants and composed a haiku in each form. The Japanese haiku verse form of 3 lines of 5,7 and 5 syllables has no metre or rhyme,  and focuses purely on the subject of the poem, traditionally concerning the seasons.   It shares feelings of joy or sorrow,  painting a mental picture. On and on and on Each tiny piece of leaf carried From branch to ant nest. The Brazilian haiku has the same number of lines and syllable pattern, but in addition it has internal rhymes: the last syllable of the 1st line rhymes with the last syllable of the 3rd line; the 2nd syllable of the 2nd line rhymes with the last syllable of the 2nd line.  I found this quite complicated and less satisfying. Up and down the tree Never ending leaf cutter Busy industry. There are two forms

The Guama River On our last day in the Amazon we took a trip to the Guama river,  a tributary near Belem. It was really refreshing to hear our guide talk passionately about the importance of the rainforest to the whole world,  and how it was imperative to protect it against the threat of deforestation and development.  He described the clouds the rainforest generates as "rivers of the sky". His passion inspired this poem,  based on snippets of what he told us. Amazon to Guama (A-G) Announcements in the show lounge A tender boat to shore Air conditioned coach through Icoaraci Appalling poverty,  shanty shacks. Boarding a tub of a boat Blessed by a pink dolphin Breaking the water by us Belem shrinking in the distance. Clouds are the rivers of the sky China buys up all their soya Communication was by striking tree roots Cell phones nowadays. Deforestation is happening Disastrous for the world Desertification of the land Doom and gloom is threatened. Eve

Boi Bumba  Every June in Paratins, Brazil they celebrate the Boi Bumba festival in a 6 hour fiesta, where two teams compete to tell the story of a stolen bull.  We saw a cut down version performed for tourists from visiting cruise ships - it was so vibrant:  the colourful costumes, oversized puppets,  rhythmic music and energetic dancing took my breath away. Inspired by the spectacle this poem explains the fable and describes the show. The legend says a man and wife In order to preserve their life Stole a bull from a local boss Hoping he wouldn't spot his loss. Starving hungry they cooked it fast No intention to make it last They gobbled up the meat and bone In no time it had completely gone. But in their choice they'd been mistaken It was his prize bull that they'd taken. The slighted boss flew into a fit Vowed to find who'd taken it They must return it safe and sound Or else he'd put them in the ground! The thieves began to feel quite beaten How

Turkey vulture - Triolet The triolet is a French poetry form,  composed of 8 lines.  Five of the lines are repeated: the 1st line is repeated in lines 4 and 7; the 2nd line is repeated in line 8.  The rhyme scheme is abaaabab.  The meter can vary. When we were on the Amazon we couldn't help but notice the turkey vultures which were everywhere,  soaring in the sky,  or sitting on advantage points in the small towns,  alone or in groups. Turkey vulture 1 It soars on a thermal way up high While I stand here rooted, on the ground Wondering what it's searching for, and why. It soars on a thermal way up high Making me wish that I could fly Up in the air without a sound. It soars on a thermal way up high While I stand here rooted, on the ground. Turkey vulture 2 The vulture sits on a post and dries its wings Like a cormorant,  drying them in the sun. I stop and wonder at the synergy of things, The vulture sits on a post and dries its wings. An Auriole,  hidden,

Colours of the Amazon  One of the things that struck me,  looking at the rainforest from the deck of a cruise ship,  was how different it looked from what I'd been expecting.  Whenever you see TV footage of the Amazon rainforest it is an aerial shot,  a vast expanse of trees filling the screen. From the perspective of the river the trees form a narrow band,  a very minor part of the landscape.  This poem paints a picture of the view from the ship,  with the olive green rainforest appearing with the same significance as a washing line! Coffee au lait,  a wide watery expanse Dotted with black logs,  green weedy rafts, Olive green strips of land to either side Grey sky above Black clouds to top it all. White shacks perched on the shoreline, On brown stilts, ready for the rising tide, Red sandy beach,  and cliffs, Blue boats pulled up ready. A flash of colours on a washing line. Amazon. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Mythical Sea Monsters One of the challenges set by the creative writing tutor on board ship,  was to create a new mythical sea monster for the British Isles.  We looked at sea myths around the world,  and considered the psychology behind their origin.  As I visit relatives in Cornwall regularly I decided to set my monster there, to provide a fable explaining the area's history of shipwrecks and lost sailors. I am the Kernowpie A sailor,  shipwrecked On the Cornish coast Trapped in a narrow cave So long ago,  I can't remember when. I sit alone in the dark Longing for company Sobbing relentlessly in my loneliness Gasping huge waves in, hoping To suck in another shipwrecked shipmate. But they perish on the rocks Never reaching my cave And I sob the empty water out again In a barren rhythm: Hopeful gasp Fruitless search Despairing sob. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Fire and Water  Another poem written about sunbathing while I was on the cruise. It's fair enough to say I'm missing it,  after my return home to snow and biting wind. Sitting on a sunbed in the middle of the Atlantic Sizzling in the thirty plus degree heat Of a January morning My skin is on fire,  sweat running in rivulets, I'm a wax effigy, slowly melting. In a strange reversal Of an English midsummer sunbathing session I find I'm scanning the sky for the relief of a cloud. After three days at sea I've decided The best sky for sunbathing is a thin layer of cotton wool Stretched thinly over a blue,  blue sky Allowing brief moments of intense heat to punch through. Or like yesterday,  isolated grey clouds Bringing short, sharp showers Sprinkling cool rain onto too-hot skin. Drifting away in a heat - induced stupor I'm suddenly laughing at a memory: Each innocent cumulus cloud Can contain water droplets weighing the same as eighty elephants!

Sun loungers One of the nice things about being on a cruise near the equator in January is being able to sun bathe! I wrote this poem on a day at sea,  between Madeira and Cape Verde when it was warm enough to stretch out on a sun lounger but was still chilly whenever the sun disappeared behind a cloud.  It was prompted when the reappearance of the sun from behind a particularly large cloud was greeted with a collective sigh of appreciation.  A ship's rail  A gently swelling sea  Backlit clouds part To drench the deck in warmth and light. A hundred lounging sun worshippers  Stretch,  and smile,   Murmur unspoken thanks  In unison.  © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Listing to Port My first experience of rough weather on a cruise ship was crossing the Bay of Biscay this January,  in gale force 8 conditions.  Fortunately I didn't suffer any sea sickness but the force of the winds was very alarming, especially as the ship had a very steep list to port and we were not allowed on deck. Listing to port on the Bay of Biscay Gale force eight with six metre waves Crashing against our cabin window, Drenching the decks on levels 8 and 9. We stagger up the stairs,  leaning into the incline Smiling at fellow passengers,  walking like we're drunk Passing off anxiety with a nervous laugh "Isn't this ridiculous! My chair just slid across the bar!" The captain announces a change of plan, "We're not stopping at Lisbon,  progress has been too slow." A murmur of disappointment ripples through the ship,  until "We're stopping at Vigo instead" And we smile at the thought of a safe harbour in a stormy s

Amsterdam Onzin Another Dutch poetry form is the Onzin - much harder then the Elfje I talked about yesterday! It consists of 11 lines of verse,  each line has 11 syllables,  and the rhyme scheme is abcbcdcdaee. It certainly taxes the brain and has you feverishly counting syllables! Here's what I came up with,  following a trip to Amsterdam. Each grey waterway has its own character Some wide open spaces,  with pavements on each side Where bikes fight for priority over cars And pedestrians take their chances,  and hide In house doorways,  on steps,  coffee shops or bars. Others butt up directly onto the house fronts Which slope inwards towards their rooves and the stars Looking quite as if they toppled over,  once Their hoists had pulled heavy goods from the water. I stand on a bridge and watch the ripples spread Trying to capture Amsterdam in my head. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

The Elfje  I was recently introduced to a Dutch poetry form called an Elfje, which is used in schools to teach children how to write simple poems.  It's a good exercise to get you started if you have a mental block!  It consists of 11 words spread over 5 lines, as follows:- Line 1: 1 word - a colour or feature to set the atmosphere Line 2: 2 words - someone or something with this feature Line 3: 3 words: giving more information about the person or object - eg describe where/ who the object is and what they are doing.  The line usually starts with he/she/It Line 4: 4 words - something about yourself in relation to the object,  your conclusion. Line 5: 1 word - the "bomb" or essence of the poem. As I was on a cruise ship at the time,  it's hardly surprising I came up with this. Grey Choppy waves Rise and fall I stand in awe Ocean. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Hedges Hedges often get cut back in the winter,  to avoid the bird nesting season.  It's also easier when the branches are bare of leaves,  but it makes the ugly cut branches so much more visible.  I was driving home along a country road when I came upon a hedge which had been cut particularly brutally,  which prompted this poem. Winter, and rounding a bend The flailed hedges, stripped of bark Expose shattered white branches Like fractured bones, exposed, raw, Onto the roadside. In time the stumps will heal Shoots will repair, strengthen, bind Weaving the hedge together Hiding the shocking scars. Branches may learn to grow upwards Not outwards To avoid the annual carnage. For now I mourn The indiscriminate brutality of the flail. © Copyright 2018. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.