Ophelia's Nun

FinsburyParkCarrots · July 2004

Come closely to this market stall. Wind thumps
its battered canopy. Its scaffold poles,
rusty to the touch with gritty bumps
of blue cement protruding from their holes,
seem to keep this grey old frame upright,
bolted at the feet between the stone
cobbles of the market square. The bright
summer day has drab things look undone.

Come closer, now. Red peppers on display
roll full bright oval curves of rounding skin
between deep contours. A reflective play
of light upon them shines, concave, a busy spin
of people fussing in a market sky:
Greyframed hearts displayed, passing by.

FinsburyParkCarrots · July 2004

Patroklos advances
in profile like a K in the battle
thrusting his swordmastering arm
outward, into
the hissing throat
of a poor young soldier:

Another gentle lad of Ilium,
mouthing for mother
with wide sapphire eyes,
a worth of life in the dust of war,
a broken youth whose flower

drops down

shattered

and whose hopeless limbs
die flailing and shuddering
with a bright silver clatter
on black bloodgurgling sand.

And Patroklos
in his cousin's faceless mask
stalks the blooded plain,
chopping down breaths,
thoughts
desires
ambitions
doubts

and gentle pointless fears of little things

whirling on, driven by the whirr of a sword
forced from behind in a
deliberate frenzy, a
western wind.

Behind him, watching him,
Nestor screams out
spittlebearded, old grey
from the benched ships,
at the back of the man
whose gung ho aristeia
blisters history with the folly
of lust for kleos of kleoi:

"Fool! Fool!
Kill them all,
There's no glory, no body,
nobody to call you victor,

Kill less, conquer more!"

Patroklos hears,
Feels the weight of Achilles' breastplate
bows as shadows line the sand
and knows now
It is better then
to fall
for glory
before the enemy's champion
than to king nothing
for another king.

Onward to Hektor.

FinsburyParkCarrots · July 2004

River pulsions lap the landscape kerb
of public ground; geese waddle through in twos,
nodding forth like winged pharoahs. Herb
sweetnesses between bloom pinks, full blues
and dancing reds, envelop two who drift
closely, strangers, man and woman, now
Remarking on their perfume. Sunplays shift
Brilliantly on the river flow.

Man and woman. Standing now. A bee
hovers low above a honey chance.
Sun sapphire, gold and blue. Near, now. A free
rush of water sound. A mirror dance
of glances, pulses, nearness. Now. A kiss,
a river flood, windmagic, scented bliss!

FinsburyParkCarrots · July 2004

shranamonragh bridgesongs sing ringing shoaljumping salmon splooshing along the owenduff in the black ford river that negotiates the hunting lodge in broadfaced bigchinned liplapping drinking of an erris atlantic that's just a pretty jut crag turnaround

now I make threesixty observation and in that spin I see bog brownrush and fat summer red mosquito winds, midgetoothed ambling low loping six o' clock summer evening posied marsh orangewater and rivulets in the cutaway

and peat boreens

green

overgrown

and bog survey sky

and croagh patrick

left

and yet slievemore ahead

and backrock
sea horizon blue

and shimmer glaze silk otter movement from the muddied rise

to the green

and

the green

to the green, with

ottersong

a new notion
of animal bridgesong

Shhhhh .....

shranamonragh

these are
bridgesongs

shranamonragh bridgesongs
shranamonragh bridgesongs

Barroom Hero · July 2004

I love the Celtic influences in your poetry. One can tell that the life of the British Isles is an important subject of your poetry.

FinsburyParkCarrots · July 2004

Originally posted by Barroom Hero
I love the Celtic influences in your poetry. One can tell that the life of the British Isles is an important subject of your poetry.

Well, I live where I live and try to live everywhere else in my words, if it suits the reader.

FinsburyParkCarrots · July 2004

In the corner of the living room
lived Mrs Diamond's spider. He had great
hairy legs, with muscles. He could zoom
across the floor so fast that he would eat
the first fly that came buzzing through the door
and run smugly to his corner, back again
before you knew a thing. But more and more
the spider, who'd been useful now and then
for keeping that big noisy fly at bay,
that one that hovered near the garden pond,
began to feed on all that passed its way:
the budgie; cat; then Mrs Diamond,
First her legs, and then her head. My fable?
Swat your own flies if you're good and able.

FinsburyParkCarrots · July 2004

' "He's been our visionary of today
and now he's gone, we've nothing coming up
To follow him. You could say, in a way
He went too far in what he did." Pure crap,
of course. By what this chap is saying,
You'd think he speaks of Mozart or of Bach
or even Hendrix. Maybe it's just my greying
head and deafing eardrums that dictate my lack
of eagerness to clap the latest fellow
to write a song then die before his prime.
Age changes me but I can't say I'm mellow;
I scorn the chap. There's nothing in this time
That hasn't been done many times before.
It's all derivative, and quite a dreadful bore. '

FinsburyParkCarrots · July 2004

They each handled a slice of his brain, not caring for gloves
or niceties, here. MacKenzie stood under the lamp
turning a piece back and forth. "You know, fellows, one loves
Trying to guess what the chap here was like." "Ah, a bump
on the head sort of person, MacKenzie? Phrenology now?",
quipped O' Farrell, a lump in his palm from the right hemisphere.
"I suppose, yes", MacKenzie agreed. "I feel one can know,
with his swollen propensies, this man was quite mad, or damned near.
For, there was distension; imbalance was likely, and yes,
I would say that the man was a poet, who thought far too much
of himself and his work. With no balance. At least that's my guess:
The temporal lobe feels like sludge, does it not? Ah well, such
is our job that we spend our days cutting up heads with a neat
precision, then wondering what kind of life killed this meat."

FinsburyParkCarrots · July 2004

I was inspired for this poem by a memory of someone who used to live in my Halls of Residence in college. People would flee and lock their doors when he patrolled the place looking for poetic inspiration from dirty skirting boards and rusty fire extinguishers.
I hope he's well. He's probably a bank manager by now.

He skulks about the hall dressed all in black,
sucking in his cheeks to look more wan,
and clutching at a book, poised to attack
each passer by with treatises on man
and how the heavens all turn filth begrimed
shining dark millennia of vice
when he plods underneath them. In unrhymed
canticles that ramble imprecise
existential vaguenesses, this clown
impersonates Prince Hamlet without skill,
but captures something of the overblown
self interest of tragic heroes. Still,
Prince Hamlet found his laugh with Yorick's skull;
but this man skulks, lifelong, in postures dull.

olderman · July 2004

medicine can't be taught without sum forms donors bodies
lie on slabs while students relieve the tension poking the rubber-like skin with first scalpels and transplant body parts
if ever widely known
few would ever done again

PJfaninmaine · July 2004

Have to bump this!
Excellent , Excellent, Fins and olderman, thank you!

FinsburyParkCarrots · July 2004

Inside the open thurible, half crumbled,
a litter of bright dying, orange fire
camps on a beach of ash after a humbled
incense battle blaze of just an hour.

Stained glass light falls on a surplus gown
draped long upon a chair. Sun fades the fine
robes, deep symbol stitched. Left on his own,
an altar boy sneaks down the cruet wine.

olderman · July 2004

ritual is to some
as like forms cotemplate their mating
and so burn a stick
to offset some scent
or regale in the musk of
a woman's being

to those who would aspire
to feast upon her beauty..

suckle the luciousness
taste the love..

taste the love of life's gift which surely must be lust..

anOmis · July 2004

Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots
Patroklos advances
in profile like a K in the battle
thrusting his swordmastering arm
outward, into
the hissing throat
of a poor young soldier:

Another gentle lad of Ilium,
mouthing for mother
with wide sapphire eyes,
a worth of life in the dust of war,
a broken youth whose flower

drops down

shattered

and whose hopeless limbs
die flailing and shuddering
with a bright silver clatter
on black bloodgurgling sand.

And Patroklos
in his cousin's faceless mask
stalks the blooded plain,
chopping down breaths,
thoughts
desires
ambitions
doubts

and gentle pointless fears of little things

whirling on, driven by the whirr of a sword
forced from behind in a
deliberate frenzy, a
western wind.

Behind him, watching him,
Nestor screams out
spittlebearded, old grey
from the benched ships,
at the back of the man
whose gung ho aristeia
blisters history with the folly
of lust for kleos of kleoi:

"Fool! Fool!
Kill them all,
There's no glory, no body,
nobody to call you victor,

Kill less, conquer more!"

Patroklos hears,
Feels the weight of Achilles' breastplate
bows as shadows line the sand
and knows now
It is better then
to fall
for glory
before the enemy's champion
than to king nothing
for another king.

Onward to Hektor.

am amazed of yer knowledge in mythology
patroclos and hektor are the symbol of true freindship
amasing writting once more mister FPC...

ISN · July 2004

ritual

ritual is to some
as like forms cotemplate their mating
and so burn a stick
to offset some scent
or regale in the musk of
a woman's being

to those who would aspire
to feast upon her beauty..

suckle the luciousness
taste the love..

taste the love of life's gift which surely must be lust..

we don't have language to describe it.....we must in that case just imbibe it.....

FinsburyParkCarrots · July 2004

One lunchtime in the playground came the word
that pretty Prima'd dated grey boy John,
the nerdy one; all knew that she'd preferred
Smithy, suave and charming, but he'd gone
to some good school in Scotland. So, the chase
was on between two rivals: Tone, thin, sleek
with shiny teeth and sheeny baby face;
and Gordy, who'd the curse of looking bleak

with those big hangdog jowls of his. They made
a pact to try to win sweet Prima's love;
on good proviso that they each obeyed
this rule: The winner would make sure to move
aside, after a while, and let the other
have their chance of joy with Prima. Tone
said "Gordy, how I love you like a brother!
Of course I promise that this deal is done!"

Tone had winning playground ways. He wore
his school tie loose. At lunch, he played guitar.
He said he'd get the tuck shop bullies: more
and more dear Prima noticed him from far
and she, it was, who came to him one day
when drama class had finished. She said "Tone,
I'm yours forever." That good day in May
the two walked home from school. Standing alone,

Gordy said "Tone said my time would come,
He promised." Gordy wiggled both his thumbs,
harrumphed a bit, and mused while walking home
How Prima would prefer a lad whose sums
were always right in class, when she got older.
But weeks went on, and Tone and Prima still
kept walking hand in hand. Now Gordy, bolder
in his playground stomp roared "I've my fill!",

and rounded up his chums, stood around the yard
behind the bikesheds. Gordy shouted "Tone
promised me a date with Prima!" "Hard
luck!", one shouted back. "Yeah, that chap's one
two faced smiley rotter" said another
"He promised you you'd get your turn with Prima,
Saying how he loved you like a brother.
I've always said that fellow's just a climber."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

On Tuesday pub nights they meet up for darts,
counting down the 501s. Now, Gordy,
through his pint glass spies those loving hearts
kissing in the corner. When a bawdy
whisper from a mate, on Pri and Tone's
fabled "noisy neighbour" love life hits
his eardrum, Gordy makes these little moans
and growls "I'll win her yet" before he spits.

FinsburyParkCarrots · July 2004

Old Frank, the college porter ends his shift
at dawn; these summer months he likes to bike
out from the Tudor grounds and greet the lift
of morning mist along the Cam, and hear quick pike
streak shearing slits in water or the tweet
of blackbirds in horse chestnut flowered trees,
trees he sees in pink cone bloom. His feet
push his pedals faster. His old knees
creak, but as he speeds upon the long
river towpath, he feels young, and sings
a snatch from last night's choral evensong.
He rides to Bait's Bite Lock. His fishing things -
His rod, his maggot tin, his sandwiches -
are balanced on his basket as he steers
along through Stourbridge Common, past the Bridges
at the Dragon and Fen Ditton, till he nears
His spot. He leans his bike down on the bank
and sits down on the river kerb, and stares
long upon the dawn red river. Frank
takes out his fishing gear, prepares
his rod and hook, then holds his maggot tin
and opens it. He sees the little pink
curls of thriving life shining within
His silver box. He always likes to think
Just at this moment how these maggots seem
Quite like the bright young things he's had to keep
all night at work. He loves the river gleam
about this time. He stares for pike. There! Deep!

exhale · July 2004

you are the greatest painter of scenery, prof. Fins,
and your words most delightful colours.
it is your poetry that stimulates the nervs in my brain and makes my mind draw beautiful pictures.

thank you for sharing

FinsburyParkCarrots · July 2004

Originally posted by exhale
you are the greatest painter of scenery, prof. Fins,
and your words most delightful colours.
it is your poetry that stimulates the nervs in my brain and makes my mind draw beautiful pictures.

thank you for sharing

Thank you so very much.

Ophelia's Nun

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