Everyday Poetry

I'm reading Dream Count by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and was struck by a question at the end of one of its passages: where does love go when we stop loving? It was enough to make me put down the book and start scribbling notes in the notebook I keep by my bed! Here's what I turned those scribbles into.  Where does love go when you stop loving? Does it float off into the ether Like dandelion seeds, ready to burst Into bloom whenever recalled? Does it refuse to let us go,  Skulking silently in dusty corners, Apologising for still taking up space? Does it transform into a soft blanket, To comfort us with memories on cold nights When we find ourselves alone? Love that once quickened our pulse, Stole each breath, gave us such joy,  May be lost, but can never leave. © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

My Faber poetry diary has a beautiful poem for this week: Stories by Julia Copus. It begins "think of a night in midsummer" and goes on to describe a scene from her past.  It brought up some memories which led to this poem.  Childhood You remember the long days of summer -  because aren't all memories brightly lit - with the smell of cut grass, and sparkles of water splashed up from a paddling pool, the bubbling laughter of friends and the wet nuzzling nose of a collie dog. You remember how the days were filled  with the promise of nothing to do but claim the street with friends on bikes, chalking hopscotch on pavements, playing two-balls up against the alley wall. You remember how you stretched out the hours  as taut as you dared, denying the dark, before your mum came to the doorway  to call you in.  These are the days you remember first, before the days when friends were busy, or the days when the rain stopped play, trapping you inside with your Sin...

I've always admired the skill of Brian Bilston poem Refugees, which gives a reversed interpretation of its message when you read the lines in reverse order.  I've often mulled over the prospect of doing it myself, but found it far too hard. It is incredibly hard to make it flow, but I think I may be nearly there. No AI was used in the creation of this poem.  AI is the future These clever men have done it! AI has been given all the power it needs - Accurate answers take mere moments! Human error is a thing of the past! When intelligence is seen as electrical impulses  The bounds of possibility are infinite Without mellinnia of scruples to hold AI back. To be free from the drudgery of mindless repetition, To be free of the mundane, To see themselves as cats, as superheroes, as saviours, To reap the rewards of being the best, These clever men wanted it all. In the race to be the first, Each agent has been gifted the power  Over systems for human safety, weapon deli...

I'd been mulling this over for a few days, then something clicked on my way to visit my son and grandchildren.  It's annoying when phrases come to you when you're driving along a busy A road, but fortunately they are used to me scribbling notes frantically after I've parked, and during conversations!  Making a Home The fair haired girl has waited through rounds of dates, the passing of chocolates and nuts, while aunts and uncles exclaim over sets of Avon talc and soap, socks and ties,  until - at last - it's time for her parcel to be pulled from beneath the tree.  The colourful wrapping -  sealed with care in the dead of night scant hours before - rips open, falls to the floor: "I got Lego!" Her excitement caught on cine will make the family laugh for decades to come. Her dad shows her how to build a house overlapping the bricks for strength saving smaller ones to fit round the window frames, how to overlap the sloping roof tiles.  No one can know the hund...

I've always been better at French in my head - I can make a good stab at understanding it, and can form a coherent conversation right up until the time it comes to actually open my mouth.  At this point all communication seems to break down.  This hasn't been helped by the attitude of certain individuals I've met on my travels!  Je voudrais des timbres, s'il vous plait My hesitant French teeters on high heels Into a sudden lull at the post office.  "Quoi?" shrugs itself out of the bored cashier, Reluctant to keep my words company.  I repeat the phrase, with even less confidence, And it ricks its ankle in shame.  "Pour Angletterre?" I take a small step forward, Panicked at the distance opening up between us.  "Oh, English! Tenez." And just like that,  Without any need to click my heels, I vanish.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved

I love the peace and quiet of a relaxing holiday, but always miss my grandchildren. Having said that, they take a bit of getting used to when I get back!  What are you doing, Granny?  Just let me sit for five minutes to do this sudoku!  I'm taking time out from the noise, the chaos Of much loved grandchildren. The same grandchildren, that for four straight weeks I've thought about fondly, bragged about, Bought puffin-patterned socks for, Picked special stones up off the ground for, Was so pleased to see, a few short hours ago.  Just give me space To fill in nine-numbered boxes, Restore order to my thoughts, And I'll be back - with a smile And a hug all round.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved