Everyday Poetry

Phil is doing well at the fishing festival, despite the downpours today.  As luck would have it, his peg was 20 yards from where I was sitting outside the caravan when it came time for his catch to be weighed in.   On the Bank voices drift over the hedge: friendly rivalries fuel the banter, soften the reckoning of the scales.  each net hauled from the lake offered up for judgement: "two hundred, easy". enough to win the section, maybe win the lake; enough to move him up the league, to win the approbation of the crowd. © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

We're in the Midlands at a fishing festival.  At least, my husband is at the festival. I'm enjoying the warmth of late summer, reading, writing, sharing poems.   The wind chases across the surface of the lake, Dances through the forgiving willows' branches, Lifts the corner of my page, Steals the warmth from my skin.  The wind is a fractious child, Demanding full attention Before moving on to the next thing.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

Our final stop on the Iceland cruise was Lerwick in the Shetland Isles.  I was keen to explore these islands, made familiar from watching the TV series Shetland, and took the obligatory photo of the house where Jimmy Perez lives. But sadly, Douglas Henshall was nowhere to be seen.   Shetland I thank this old fisherman's family For setting a memorial bench at Eshaness, Where I rest, whipped by a wind Screaming fresh off the Atlantic, Watching kittiwakes ride its currents Above iron-stained sea stacks, And lulled by the music of the sea.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

I loved the sparse emptiness of the Icelandic landscape, its dramatic but somehow understated beauty. Iceland Cottongrass blows in the wind that scours The flatlands edging the coast.  Sheer basalt cliffs rear, black on green, Glacier melt rivers leap abruptly in their fall, A grey asphalt ribbon unwinds through town Past metal-roofed houses hunkered low, Turning their backs to the drama, Towards the sustaining sea.   © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

On our Icelandic holiday we visited the Langjokull glacier, and actually got the chance to walk on the ice.  It's 200 metres thick, but last winter didn't bring the usual snow and there are concerns about climate change shrinking it.  Ice Melt Through vast flatlands of moss-covered lava, Past the mountains of Mordor, The monster truck trundles onto black-flecked ice;  No pristine alpine glacier, this, Its surface laced with volcanic ash, Blackened like city sludge.  Tentative, crampon-fitted,  We step onto the glistening ice, Stamping our spikes into the honeycomb, The brave striding off like Arctic explorers, Cowards keeping close to the truck.  Striations crisscross the ice into a checkerboard, Carving deep moulins, sinkholes, tunnels, And slowly the glacier flows,  Grinding the rock far below, As we are warmed by the sun and hot chocolate.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

I always want to go on a whale watching trip whenever I get the chance,  and this trip off the North Coast of Iceland did not disappoint.  A comment from a crew member stuck with me: You watch the whale, but it also watches you.   Whale watching The joy is in the anticipation, The hope that this time they will come to us: That's what we tell ourselves.  But when the dolphins arrive,  Mob-handed, with their toothy smiles, Enthusiastic clicks and squeaks,  Racing in the bow wave, leaping,  Diving under the boat, giving us all a front row seat,  Performing for the hell of it, We know the joy is in the encounter,  The exhilarating meeting of a species So familiar, so unknown. The fleeting sighting of minke whales, Distant, black shapes, aloof, stand-offish, Is almost an anti-climax.  Almost.   © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

One of the places visitors to Iceland are encouraged to visit is the Gullfoss waterfall,  and no wonder.  It's a magnificent two tier fall of foaming glacier meltwater, as breathtaking as Niagra or Victoria Falls, despite its smaller size.   Gullfoss How to explain our love affair with waterfalls?  With the rush and bluster, the fuss of the fall,  The draw of the cliff edge, The milky foam, the mist that drifts Above the sculpting water.  We flock in droves to view the spume, To find the rainbow's arc,  To capture the uncapturable, To make the constant flow stand still.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

The main focus of the cruise to Iceland was to witness the total solar eclipse, but the weather was causing problems for the astronomers on board who were responsible for advising the captain where to position the ship.  It was touch and go for most of the afternoon with clouds obscuring the sun, but satellite images had predicted a break in the clouds along the coast of Greenland, which thankfully we found. We were very grateful for the skill involved both of the prediction and the navigation to the exact spot we needed to get a clear view of the heavens as the moon passed in front of the sun, exactly on time.   Time stands still The moon is eating the sun, Nibbling slowly from the right,  Taking its time, no rush,  What's an hour on its path through the heavens? Just for an instant, at the point of total eclipse, It seems to pause, its shadow Allowing a glimpse of a wispy corona Dotted with pink Bailey's Beads,  Then moves on with a flash of brilliance....

I was very excited about cruising beyond the Arctic Circle, visiting the Denmark Strait between Iceland and Greenland, so I don't know why I was so amazed to see an iceberg floating by, other than I'd witnessed the humpback whale performing for us only an hour before! Later we experienced a total solar eclipse - a magical day indeed.  Denmark Strait The captain's announcement cuts through the morning lecture: An iceberg visible on the port bow. Impatient we sit it out, fidgeting for the briefing to end,  Rush out on deck, gaze dumbstruck As the block of blue ice and dirty snow slides past, Shrinking our ship down to size.  Mobile phones outnumber long lenses,  All capturing the moment We were humbled by raw magnificence. © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

I could hardly believe my eyes - on my way to a lecture on astronomy something caught my eye out of one of the windows - unmistakably a dorsal fin. This was followed by the most extraordinary display by a humpback whale,  really close to the ship. It flipped onto its back revealing its white underside,  and began flapping its long pectoral fins through the sea like it was doing a weird kind of backstroke! The ORCA team on board had never seen behaviour like it and thought it must be a juvenile, just enjoying seeing our ship and playing alongside. It was there for several minutes and we all just watched, delighted to share the moment with this enormous creature.  Humpback   Black dorsal fin, white blow against grey sea,  A ripple of excitement rolling along deck,  A wave of people standing for a better view.  It rolls; a long white fin, two, Slapping the surface of the sea Again and again, playfully, As if posing for photographs. An omen, presaging fine...

It rained today after a dry spell of over a month, so I sat and watched as it rolled across the valley, and began to soak the pots on the patio.   Rain slides down the fuchsia branch Balloons on the underside of a leaf Till gravity pulls it earthwards,  Each drop followed by another Answering the call of the parched earth. © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

One of the poetic forms I decided to try this year was the Nonet, a form where each line decreases by one syllable.  It seemed to fit the theme of leaving port. The captain bides his time; he must wait for each check to be completed.  Once everything is shipshape,  and all are safe on board,  moorings are cast off; his ship leaves dock,  finds its home on open sea.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

This summer we went on a cruise to the Arctic circle,  visiting the Faroe Islands,  Iceland and Shetland. This poem was inspired by the rugged beauty of the Faroes.  I Houses huddle on treeless hills Following basalt strata, following the road,  Grey, black, red, white, Unique, hard-edged, all stand alone Facing the inlet, their backs to mist-draped hills. Roads follow contours, skirt lakes,  Tunnel through grass-covered mountains,  Delve under the seabed to link islands,  Serve up salmon farms, Faroe horses, dark, woolly sheep.  II Cormorants half-submerged, bob between sea stacks,  Witness the probing of sea on stone,  Where waterfalls rush blindly over sheer cliff walls,   Tumbling to the sea past narrow ledges Where razorbills patrol and puffins bodge bumpy landings.  This land where the strongest thrive.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

I was impressed by Dundee's waterfront, even if the gulls weren't.   Herring gulls hang in the Tayside wind Dipping and soaring in a shrieking gang Unimpressed by the architecture of the V&A Looming over the mainmast yardarms  Reflected in the shallow pool Where their chicks bob in safety. © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

On the east coast of Iceland,  in a remote glacial valley,  the author Gunnar Gunnarson had a house built of laval rock in 1939. He lived there with his family for nine years before donating it to the nation in 1948. I loved its atmosphere and its beautiful location,  but then,  I was visiting in the summer.  I could write here Sat at this desk, with that view, The mountain before me,  The glacier feeding the river.  It's quiet here, the air fresh and clean,  Just pink-footed geese and a dog for company.  I could grow old here,  Sat in this garden with the sun on my face,  The mountains dotted with snow -  If I could join the geese And fly south for the winter.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved.

I came across a prompt posted on Instagram by Todd Dillard, and thought I'd give it a try. He gives the first part of each line plus a prompt or how to finish it - why not have a go? I've changed the second line in my poem as it was too stark in the prompt.  Living Am I alive or am I a suitcase waiting to be packed? Am I asleep or am I a dormouse waiting out the winter? If love isn't a robin cocking its head in hope of worms, then let it be a greasy slice of quattro formaggi. Let it be a light linen dress skimmimg over my skin. Let it be brushstrokes of watercolour seeping onto the page. As the jaunty sunhat waits on the bench in the porch so too tomorrow waits for me to cram it onto my head.  © Copyright 2026. Chris Auger. All Rights Reserved. Here's the prompt if you want to have a go:  Am I alive or am I [description of a chore you keep putting off] Am I dead or am I  [description of an animal you think is neat doing stuff] If love isn't [description of something...