Image by Eveline de Bruin
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth
UP THE WALL
Toe curling, will he get a grip
or slip, through sweat and gravity?
It drives their parents up the wall,
preferring trees, or rock with ropes,
but scrapes required to lend a hand—
bricks bind with mortar, fingers, limbs—
trust plaque for artist, not life lost.
What is the driver coursing blood?
As goal itself, to summit mount,
a challenge, testing other’s strength;
rehearsal for a parkour life—
where gaining height, the land surveyed,
the ground where folk must work it out,
perspective on the earth below?
A shortcut, trespass, something worse—
sure not, if street-art in the park—
an interactive sculpture path—
a good defence for courtroom brief,
if hauled up, answer for the beak.
This image speaks—no need for words—
it’s netted all around the globe,
and ‘naughty’ one of many tags.
Since when adventure, risk, a sin,
this regimented adverse world?
So hope the boys will grow in hope—
say ‘no’ to Babel towers, lads—
that sign of pride, almighty fall,
a myth, whose lore remains for all.
Toe curling, will he get a grip
or slip, through sweat and gravity?
It drives their parents up the wall,
preferring trees, or rock with ropes,
but scrapes required to lend a hand—
bricks bind with mortar, fingers, limbs—
trust plaque for artist, not life lost.
What is the driver coursing blood?
As goal itself, to summit mount,
a challenge, testing other’s strength;
rehearsal for a parkour life—
where gaining height, the land surveyed,
the ground where folk must work it out,
perspective on the earth below?
A shortcut, trespass, something worse—
sure not, if street-art in the park—
an interactive sculpture path—
a good defence for courtroom brief,
if hauled up, answer for the beak.
This image speaks—no need for words—
it’s netted all around the globe,
and ‘naughty’ one of many tags.
Since when adventure, risk, a sin,
this regimented adverse world?
So hope the boys will grow in hope—
say ‘no’ to Babel towers, lads—
that sign of pride, almighty fall,
a myth, whose lore remains for all.
Image by Khadija Saye: Tééré (2017)
SOAR ABOVE
How sad, it’s strange,
this binding of the eyes;
do we blame a culture gap
or does a mirror intervene?
What is this handed on a plate,
with cracks and poor exposure laid,
as if unwilling to explore
the negative portrayal made?
An image still and frozen held,
instilled, our mind’s museum piece,
but still displayed, as if excuse.
How limited our sight has been,
how primitive horizons scanned,
and slaves to what we always thought.
This strange conjunction in one life,
as if congruency mismatched,
unsettled questions of report.
Gambian peers through cladding,
masked by cheap and cheerful,
that will do, a Babel tower,
don’t understand, diversity,
we’ll pile up there.
Palazzo, far pavilions,
diaspora in Venice met,
Bienalle, art celebrate,
high rise above expected lore.
Near fifty I last Kettle’s Yard,
her work at home, re-opened doors;
near twenty five, Saye, when she died,
floor twenty, Grenfell, soar above—
sore reach from tackling Rugby fields.
At least her will, a testament.
MONKEY FROTH
By machine I often slumped
to watch the swirl of wash,
captured by the airy soap
child squint the mixing froth,
lump-powder knots dissolve.
The toy given, as a tot,
which made a monkey climb—
steps stayed firm, but when chimp dived,
and shattered kitchen tiles,
I squeezed the ladder still.
When plopped beside the porthole,
the glass to peer the swish,
imagination scaled heights,
I tried to reach the spume—
Dad clouded in wi-fi.
At early school I learned names—
anvil to herring bone,
the alto, without singing,
the stratus far from rock,
the a, the o and us.
Later liked plane window seat,
so I could foam the puffs;
I learned meteorology,
became a forecaster,
the scuds misleading most.
Hobby, water-colourist,
the fluid of the sky,
though feel crouched, canvas circle,
fingers stretched, though not touch,
where dreamt of handing suds.
By machine I often slumped
to watch the swirl of wash,
captured by the airy soap
child squint the mixing froth,
lump-powder knots dissolve.
The toy given, as a tot,
which made a monkey climb—
steps stayed firm, but when chimp dived,
and shattered kitchen tiles,
I squeezed the ladder still.
When plopped beside the porthole,
the glass to peer the swish,
imagination scaled heights,
I tried to reach the spume—
Dad clouded in wi-fi.
At early school I learned names—
anvil to herring bone,
the alto, without singing,
the stratus far from rock,
the a, the o and us.
Later liked plane window seat,
so I could foam the puffs;
I learned meteorology,
became a forecaster,
the scuds misleading most.
Hobby, water-colourist,
the fluid of the sky,
though feel crouched, canvas circle,
fingers stretched, though not touch,
where dreamt of handing suds.
CLEAR OUT
The past, retrieved, is cast away
to make more space for life today;
as crusts of dust would overlay
that kept, or found down underneath;
consigned to dust sounds better way
to move in present, not delayed
by retrospect left on the shelf.
Beneath, my roots lay undisturbed,
till tapped, so network rose, emerged,
the source from which my genes were drawn,
some grave, the markers, milestones passed,
some fripperies, trifles composed,
that made the harsh more bearable,
the mingled story, episode.
Investments, passion, time with space
now fuel for rude consuming flames,
a burning shame, rewarded tasks,
the tokens now gone up in smoke.
Is it the point that loss is null,
for death no longer far recedes
and offspring have no room for such
as daily tasks predominate?
The allies in this blitzkrieg raid
prove isolated my concern—
achievements garnered by my seed
are windblown, gone, without record.
So write despite that creeping sad,
convert the mourning into words
and recognise last works are done,
no witness but fade recall stands.
My story never counted much,
but now seems even less than that;
dementia prompts have left the stage,
and I’ll be left alone, adrift.
I did feel touched, grandmother’s glove,
a tankard, supped, once father’s froth,
but he like me has come of age,
and brutal proves the landing stage.
The past, retrieved, is cast away
to make more space for life today;
as crusts of dust would overlay
that kept, or found down underneath;
consigned to dust sounds better way
to move in present, not delayed
by retrospect left on the shelf.
Beneath, my roots lay undisturbed,
till tapped, so network rose, emerged,
the source from which my genes were drawn,
some grave, the markers, milestones passed,
some fripperies, trifles composed,
that made the harsh more bearable,
the mingled story, episode.
Investments, passion, time with space
now fuel for rude consuming flames,
a burning shame, rewarded tasks,
the tokens now gone up in smoke.
Is it the point that loss is null,
for death no longer far recedes
and offspring have no room for such
as daily tasks predominate?
The allies in this blitzkrieg raid
prove isolated my concern—
achievements garnered by my seed
are windblown, gone, without record.
So write despite that creeping sad,
convert the mourning into words
and recognise last works are done,
no witness but fade recall stands.
My story never counted much,
but now seems even less than that;
dementia prompts have left the stage,
and I’ll be left alone, adrift.
I did feel touched, grandmother’s glove,
a tankard, supped, once father’s froth,
but he like me has come of age,
and brutal proves the landing stage.
HIEROGLYPH
See wolf and vulture, headdress clues,
Anubis, hieroglyphs laid bare,
but core I see is symbolware.
So many want to claim that ankh,
as gripped in hands, as tipped to lips,
that cross, its top bar, loop of tear,
held gift to pharaohs, deities.
So culture, pagans, sub of Goths,
and Africans who’ve left their shore—
tomb raiders in a flatter guise—
though imitate, sincerest praise
A Unicode as for it alone
triliteral, three consonants
in sequence, unsuits western tongue.
So what a leap from those of Nile,
to data, qwerty, hex and codes,
like hieroglyphs, unless you know.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
What we once have enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes part of us.
—Helen Keller
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for another poetry banquet—and for whom, truly, his last works are NOT done…
See wolf and vulture, headdress clues,
Anubis, hieroglyphs laid bare,
but core I see is symbolware.
So many want to claim that ankh,
as gripped in hands, as tipped to lips,
that cross, its top bar, loop of tear,
held gift to pharaohs, deities.
So culture, pagans, sub of Goths,
and Africans who’ve left their shore—
tomb raiders in a flatter guise—
though imitate, sincerest praise
A Unicode as for it alone
triliteral, three consonants
in sequence, unsuits western tongue.
So what a leap from those of Nile,
to data, qwerty, hex and codes,
like hieroglyphs, unless you know.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
What we once have enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes part of us.
—Helen Keller
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for another poetry banquet—and for whom, truly, his last works are NOT done…
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
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