community of poets
Copyright Philip Bennetta
the online poetry journal of Philip Bennetta
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community of poets
Copyright Philip Bennetta
the online poetry journal of Philip Bennetta |
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vines
(I have trodden the
winepress alone
...and my
fury it upheld me
Isaiah 63 ref. vs. 3,5)
i watch him
on the lane
cross the
village boundary
his
half-weight solid
on a heavy
stick
bearing off
into a
distant copse
and beyond;
now hidden
two rows of
ancient vine
spirit from
the rocky soil.
i watch his
return
everyday
straightening
at regular
halts, to look.
the
invaders� now return
silently; as
tourists.
we shake
hands at my gate
unspoken
stains redeem us and
a sprinkling of loving kindness our
daily observance
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| MORE POEMS |
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Acknowledgements
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Some of these poems have previously appeared in Community of Poets Magazine and other publications including Connections The Journal of Management Education and Development Pause Platform 'approaching and' and "poetrypf "website cinosargo.bligoo.com revista
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poems
by post
posting
a poem
to
himself
everyday
most
return
next
day
some
take
some
arrive
in
two�s or three�s
today
an
envelope arrives
with
a broken seal
he
is stuck
with this ariel thought forever
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utopias
(in memory, Francisco Melo Santos)
we spiral away through the years then pencilled in, your faded name spinning webs now winter is here
dust embedded in my fingers across the world we are the same we spiral away through the years
you help light the fire, without fear then retire to your home, in pain spinning webs now winter is here
you turn the tap, intentions clear and why extinguish that one flame? we spiral away through the years
i find your book again, so near utopian plans seep through, untamed spinning webs now winter is here
anninversaries are forever your poems, authentic, now reclaimed we spiral away through the years spinning webs now winter is here
Philip Bennetta from his new pamphlet Those Marks So Deeply Scored, 2010
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scrapings
(the barrel's empty, not
even scrapings, Ted Hughes)
empty caves the
aching sinus
hungry
for the rush
empty
tables
the
reservoir is low
and
yet...
in
a cosy bunker
fat
gushings flow
and
some still play
with
pebbles on the shore
a
new song rises on the day
like
surface water
it
does not count as winter rain
the
barrel�s still empty
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to be continued
we speak at dinner parties, supermarkets and on the street. today no superficial chat this invitation given or mistaken starts a story... two women, one old one young. outside a poetry bookshop one stroking her own arm shouldering her neckless head imagining safety for a while ... tells her story then leaves damp around her eyes the other comes inside ... |
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long since gone
we were four hundred then i don't pretend to have known everyone but even twenty five years on you'd think i'd know one ... where have they gone? black polo neck sweaters the rolled umbrellas - i should have written - reunions never turned me on i never wrote to anyone except, thanks for the ten embassy mum. then one day in the park i didn't like to wave or shout again later there you were in sainsburys looking serious and mooching about around the spice re-fills or campbells soups in an overcoat the short military kind - apart from the beard i go incognito now- a camel crombie to keep you warm in winters and life away from home. we all had one then mine long since gone... i have an old duffle a later addition hangs quietly in the wardrobe, cinnamon with one cigarette burn, tight squeeze i wonder if you have some dreadful disease greasy hair strange shade you catch my gaze no heavily laden trolley at the checkout - recognition long since gone - peeping out between epaulettes and ashen face the striped colours of that place everyone had one, mine long since gone... |
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