End of an era

I love to see examples of Nature taking back/breaking down the works of humankind. A poem in my book, Towards Humanity, deals with this very subject: the poem is called ‘Roofscape from Manchester Art Gallery’. However, here is a wonderful example that is just around the corner from where I live.

You might be pleased to know that the post box is still in use!

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It’s all over now

no more calls

and ivy climbs up the bloody walls

 

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deserted road, not even a tree

Just recently my poetic output has almost dried up. However, on seeing this stunning image by Rod Higginson (inspired, incidentally, by a similar one by the great photographer, Don McCullin), I was myself inspired to write some lines in response to it. I simply allowed the words to arrive through my pen on to the page, and have tweaked it just a little over the last couple of days.

My thanks to Rod for allowing me to use his photograph as a creative springboard. The poem is in no way a representation in words of the image, but an imaginative ‘reaction’ to it.

road to the grey horizon

 

 

deserted road, not even a tree

 

 no one is waiting

on this long hard grey road

to nowhere

which is maybe somewhere

everywhere is somewhere

and nowhere

it’s beautiful

steel clouds billow

their bellies hang heavy on the horizon

the unattainable destination

charged with a dreamy light

but an engine is approaching

from behind

foot hard down on the throttle

too crazy to turn back now

or stop

unseeing eyes

screaming

towards

our

vanishing

point

 

 

© David Urwin 2017

Posted in landscape, poetry, Uncategorized | 6 Comments

October poem

Here is a poem I wrote just a few years ago. I love this season in all kinds of ways; but, however beautiful, there is no escaping the ugly goings-on of life, out there somewhere.

From a poetic point of view, it can be difficult to decide whether ‘splash of slanting sunlight’ is better than ‘slanting splash of sunlight’! Having started with the former, I decided on a walk around the fields this evening to opt for the latter. Ah, the agonies of being a poet! It reminded me of a story I once read, suggesting that Leonard Cohen would writhe around on the floor in an agonising attempt to find a rhyme for ‘orange’. (Not that it was meant to be a true story…) (And I don’t think there is a good one, anyway – a rhyme for ‘orange’, that is).

 

 In the silence of October sunshine

 

In the silence

of October sunshine

distant from the seething cities

beneath the gentle mantle                    sunlight in woods

of the down-drifting leaves

and bathing

in the splash of slanting sunlight

on floors

in fields and forests

he watches the world curl up

to sleep

spiralling down into somnolence

letting  every  thing  go

but its looming fears

its anxious

restless

autumn leaves sunlight

dreams.

 

© David Urwin

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The Price of Flight

The issue of refugees is worldwide and one theme in my poetry is the contrast between our priveleged, mostly comfortable lives in the West and those of the poor and often exploited (for our benefit) in the Third World; and indeed often exploited and mistreated by their very own leaders, goverments and military. It is important that we are reminded of this and that we attempt to address the issue through our own lifestyles.

This poem has been published on the webzine, I am not a silent poet: https://iamnotasilentpoet.wordpress.com/2017/09/01/the-price-of-flight-by-david-urwin/

Please go to this site to view more poetry that addresses abuse of all kinds.

 

The price of flightrefugees on road

 

Kasim is nine years old.

The rebel soldiers cut his mother’s throat

in front of him.

They also kill his little sister

and his big brother

while he watches.

He flees his village.

When he is hungry

he asks people for food.

If they give him something, he eats. Otherwise

he stays hungry. He sleeps on the street.

 

    At the peace conference

    wine glasses shimmerrefugees

    on the starched white cloth;

    smoked salmon canapes

    nestle in neat circles.

 

Nosiba is sixteen.

She has four sisters and three brothers.

The soldiers kill the brothers

in front of her.

They rape her sisters

and they rape her.

They shoot her father for trying to stop them.

Those who escape have to pay a broker

to cross the border.

She doesn’t have enough money

so sells her body

to the broker.

 

    White limousines gleam

    and cruise through the capital’s streets,

    the generals’  uniforms creased

    to a precise command.

 

Zahia is fifteen.

The soldiers arrive in her village

line up and shoot all the young men.

The houses are set alight.

She does not know where her parents are

or if they are dead or alive.

She escapes from the village with two other girls.

They walk barefoot through thorn scrub

for three or four days without food.

She wants to go home.

 

    Beaches of gold and cities of culture

    beckon from brochures and magazines.

    The food is exotic. The flights are cheap.

    Select your paradise.

 

©  David Urwin 2017

 

Inspired by the photographs and stories of Iqbal Hossein in New Internationalist 502, May 2017.

 

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this imperfect life

Having written this poem a few months ago, I now find myself wondering if it gets anywhere near communicating what I was trying to say. Did I even know what I was trying to say? Sometimes an idea is floating around somewhere in the space of the head, but trying to properly grasp it and then elucidate it in words seems near impossible.

How do we or should we deal with the ‘mess’ that is life, especially if one does not believe in the simple notions that religious doctrines offer, for example that all ‘good’ people will go to ‘heaven’ and the ‘bad’ to ‘hell’, or that a god will ultimately intervene in the mess and absolute ‘good’ will reign. I tend towards the Taoist view that all is relative, that there cannot be good without bad, and vice versa. And yet – how are we to deal with, in our heads, this negative stuff that is all around us? Is it ever possible to simply ‘accept’ it?

The American poet, Carl Sandburg, said that ‘Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.’  Someone else said that ‘a poem is never finished, only abandoned.’ Hmmm.

 

What else would you do with this imperfect life

but push the spade deep

into the sacred earth

to lift the glorious fruit,

having laboured

through the spinning cycle of seasons,

having lowered

your head into the driven hail?

 

but be mindful of each moment

after moment after moment,

knowing the impossibility of it,

and pretend thathomeless-person-asleep-in-doorway-in-mayfair-london-england-uk-bfmak9

all shall be well,

as you pass the sleepless girl

on a cardboard sheet

in a Swansea doorway,

the beggar on the streets

of Mumbai, Paris, Buenos Aires,street beggar

hear of another hopeful refugee

drowning homeless in the Mediterranean Sea?

 

but in those rare moments of clarity

remain grateful for the buzzard’s slow circles

on the rising thermals,

the first appearance of the primrose in spring;

attempt to breathe out the insistent grief,

sweat through the work of days,

getting mind and hands dirty?

 

© David Urwin 2017

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Advice of a May evening

This is really advice to myself, although if any reader wants to take it as advice for him/herself, then feel free. Once a poem is released into the public ‘arena’, then it belongs to any and every reader to draw from it what they will. I have written a few poems in the past that were pieces of advice to myself, the result of a ceaselessly reflective and self-critical mind.

The photos were taken in the field behind the cottage I live in. How lucky I am, and yet it is also the result of personal choices made over years.

Advice of a May evening

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Walk out into the broad, open field

of a May evening, look up

and consciously see how

the sunset cirrus clouds echo

themselves and rhyme

their indefinable threads of grace

in the azure void;

stand under the shower of birdsong,

seek no word,

pursue no thought,

lay down your burden,

and inhale a deep breath

of nothing

and

everything

and be whole

a while.

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©  David Urwin 2017

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No particular reason

We live in a society and culture in which the ‘powers-that-be’ favour the haves, the go-getters, those who inherit wealth and privelege, profit-motivated big-business, and at the same time largely ignore the underclass of struggling, disadvantaged, ‘ordinary’ working (or non-working) people, because favouring the haves, the priveleged etc. inevitably creates this very underclass by means of hoarding wealth and privelege rather than sharing it out. All too often the struggle becomes too great for some people at the bottom of the heap. This is the kind of situation my poem seeks to highlight. A dark tale: be warned. ( If you have seen it, you might remember Ken Loach’s film, ‘I, Daniel Blake’ here.)

It is the second ‘specular’ poem I have written and put up on this site; that is, where the second stanza is a mirror of the first. See also my poem, ‘Dresden, 1945.’

 

No particular reason

 

There was no particular reason                                                                     traffic on flyovers

that made him slice his wrists open.

It was just another routine day,

the scent of lilac from suburban gardens,

the taste of traffic fumes assaulting the lungs,

the woeful world in its cage of steel and glass.

The children were in school learning to fail,

his wife was in hospital, scrubbing the floors.

Another limp trudge to the Job Centre,

all of the windows screaming money and sex.glass skyscraper

Every slick promise was on special offer.

Under the thundering concrete bridge

the ravenous river ferried him down,

as the shard of window glass opened a vein.

 

As the shard of window glass opened a vein,

the ravenous river ferried him down

under the thundering concrete bridge.

Every slick promise was on special offer,

all of the windows screaming money and sex.

Another limp trudge to the Job Centre.

His wife was in hospital, scrubbing the floors.

The children were in school learning to fail,

the woeful world in its cage of steel and glass,

the taste of traffic fumes assaulting the lungs,flyover and river

the scent of lilac from suburban gardens.

It was just another routine day

that made him slice his wrists open.

There was no particular reason.

©  dave urwin 2016

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