Everyday Poetry

When I was sixteen my boyfriend went away to university in Lancaster.  This was the 70s, telephones were prohibitively expensive,  so we kept in touch mainly through letters.  How could I resist Your letters full of teenage lust and longing Snippets of love poems sprinkled through Each densely packed envelope? I was hooked, Each walk home from school edged with the hope The postman would deliver a new instalment. Our letters kept us close Poetry standing in for kisses, Promises of undying love Made easy by the distance between us.  How could I say no, When you asked me to marry you At the age of seventeen?  © Copyright 2021. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved  

I speak to my daughter every week,  both of us hating to draw the phone call to a close.  Last night we chatted for nearly two hours,  sharing our lives.  During our conversation she mentioned she'd lost her 'mojo' - i know how she feels: since our visit in September life has seemed quite flat.  Do you think After a week in each other's company The sight of your island So clear in the Irish Sea Was too much for my mojo And she took her chance To jump and capture yours? Our mojos may be running free Along the wild beauty of the Sloc Through the dark shade of the plantation Up the craggy slopes of Snaefell In the gardens of Milntown. No need to chase them home; We'll get them back when they're ready.  © Copyright 2021. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved  

Next month at poetry group the theme is November - wide enough to give room for lots of interpretation. My son Adam was born in early November,  39 years ago - so it seemed only right to write a poem for him.   Slow to give up your safe, dark cave, A week later than expected, long days after than was hoped,  You were born the day before the skies erupted into light And all of England burned their guys on teetering wooden piles.  For years you must have thought it all for you: The donning of coats and scarves,  boots and gloves,  To go out from the warmth into the dark night,   To stand huddled in cold excitement, waiting For the screams of rockets, Catherine wheels, Roman candles, Sparklers writing your name in the sky.  © Copyright 2021. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved  

Not surprisingly,  travelling to and from the monthly poetry group I belong to often puts me in a poetic frame of mind.  This little one started on the way there yesterday and was tidied up on the way home!  Along slick golden roads, made messy  By a melee of russet,  ochre,  red and amber Brought down by last night's rain,  Each gust gilds the tarmac with leaves Torn from the grip of trees burnished bronze In the slanted afternoon light.   © Copyright 2021. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved