BLACKBIRD ROAD

Blackbird sings as the sun shines low,
Atop the pine tree planted long ago.

I think I remember you from last year,
All winter long you have echoed in my ear.

Yes, I recall you, I’m sure, especially when
You drop into our garden with your hen.

Your eye and beak bright, your dark wing strong;
Are you come again to honour us with your song?

On and off, you sing from dawn to dusk, then rest
In the darkness of our shrubs, hidden in your nest.

But one day we find one of your young, forlorn -
Crippled and dying in the middle of the lawn.

The next day, another has taken its exact place,
Far from nest and branch either side: an unsolved case.

Gone for a month now, you briefly return alone
And we wonder where your brown hen has gone.

Feathers now flecked grey and head almost bald,
Blackbird, are you sad, are you sick, are you old?

Is it for fallen fledglings that you come to grieve?
After pecking hopelessly at grass, you finally leave.

It warmed my heart to hear you sing from on high,
But have you gone now to wherever birds go to die.

Blackbird, come back next year and sing again,
Here to our garden, on this road that bears your name.


(2010)


A true story: The Blackbird of Blackbird Road. That’s him in the picture.

You have to be careful with rhyming couplets – that way doggerel may lie. Hopefully I’ve avoided that trap here – along with the other pitfall of bathos…

I read somewhere that an astonishing 75% of wild birds die before they reach six months old - but WHERE do all those billions of birds go to die? Apart from the odd fledgling fallen from the nest and the occasional casualty of cats, how often do you see a dead bird?

THE RAIN HITS THE CITY

Way up
High,
Spiralling,
It is waiting
And watching;
The Rain is gathering its forces,
Wild and whirling and whiling time
In its swarming, darkling orbit;
But wheeling
Without warning,
Down
It comes.

The Rain
Hits
The City
Hard,
Its hailish teeth mechanical as sharks’,
Hammer and rivet sky to street in a swooping lock,
Fast and cold,
And then the rain rains upwards,
Bouncing ravenously back at itself,
Insatiable,
Invincible,
The Rain roves
And threatens the fat banks stuffed with money,
Dins above the throb of the night-shift machinery
And the pulse of traffic is drowned by its drumming,
Making of its desperate wipers, a locust mockery.

With no abatement
The rain keeps on;
Dives off ledges and bridges:
Never dies
As it pocks the costive canal,
The Rain defies;
Stabbing the dark and lonely parks,
It batters blossom out of aching trees
And floods all routes of the shallow pipes and gutters.

Dust is thus turned into streaming scum
And holy gargoyles choke;
Drains spume,
Spate:
The Rain is swilling out the City’s mouth
East and west,
North and south,
Whilst behind blurring windows
Men cannot rest
As they shiver through these early hours,
Until suddenly the Rain
Stops.

The City is thrown into sodden black relief,
Left like some colossal Ark,
Awaiting some undeserved deliverance.
Daybreak
Over the towers and spires,
And a dark bird now flies out,
Bearing litter in its beak.
There is no rainbow.


(1983)


Even with 'free verse', almost always, some kind of form emerges as I write, though not necessarily or even usually, a traditional form. Most of the shaping of metre and rhyme in my work is of my own device. Even in a poem like this one, where the lines begin and end is vitally important, although there is no overall regularity beyond the typographical trick of making the print resemble a storm-cloud structure.

I had in mind here the financial district of London (‘The City’) with the rain as an elemental nemesis which periodically purges the obesity of the banking system. All these years later, it now seems very topical in the worst recession since The Great Depression.

A few years ago we went on The London Eye and, as we approached the top, a tremendous storm broke out – as you can see in the photograph that Lisa took of me. Below us, the city darkened and there was a real feeling of apocalypse in the air.

THE DILEMMAS OF TIME AND CHANCE

When it’s nearly midnight and at last you’re asked to dance,
Will you step into the arms of a prince or a dunce?
Do you seize the moment, will it only come once?
These are the dilemmas of Time and Chance.

Call it Kismet, call it Karma, call it Destiny or Fate,
Just be careful when you go out waltzing on a date -
That man of your dreams may be a nightmare full of hate -
So don’t turn up too early, but oh, don’t arrive too late.

So is it to be carpe diem or que sera sera?
Were you born under a lucky or an unlucky star?
Will you amount to nothing or will you go far?
If you miss the last boat, will you thumb down a car?

They say Time’s a healer, it will lead you by the hand
To follow the footprints leading away in the sand.
They say grief will pass when you reach that other land
Where life goes on and you must finally make a stand.

Now those vows you made for better or for worse,
Will they deliver the blessing or do they bring the curse?
But Chance is the dealer and you may win or you may lose -
Are the aces played low or high - which of them will you choose?

And it is said that what goes around will come around
And for everything lost something else will be found,
But listen to that sound, that awful, grinding sound -
Can that be the Wheel of Fortune breaking down?

Now you see you’re caught between a hard place and a rock
And the hands are a blur on the face of the clock.
Is there still enough time to reflect and take stock?
You find the key, but no guarantee and there may not be a lock.

Back at the ball, see the mysterious masquerader advance;
That swirling of his magical cloak is meant to entrance.
Will this be your very last appointment with romance?
These are the dilemmas of Time and Chance.


(2011)

Started a while back but only licked into shape now. It’s really just an exercise in compressed rhyme and having a little spooky fun with the basic idea of coincidence.