Original Poems by me

Prince

He came bounding over the threshold –

His skin was rich, plush, warm to the touch

Under the sumptuous velvet of his coat,

I closed my eyes and caught

The scent of a waterfall: rising sky,

And a cloud of oxygen filled me:

I hardly breathed

Soul-shaken: winded, bass notes blown

So softly I was not aware of music

Only the drowning depths of the sea

Resounding echoes in the vast dark.

Gently he said: “This can be trusted, but

You have only one taste.” The tang was blood salt

Vital.  It healed my tongue so

I could speak, and from my idiot throat

Came a song I had never heard

Speaking and singing I was free,

Amazed

And shaking with newfound laughing.

Of course I searched for him in vain;

After sightings in various locations:-

Brighton, Sydney, Berlin, Bangkok:

I sold my pearls for tickets and information

Tracked him to the giggling denials

Of princessy boys prancing on a Phuket beach.

In Tijuana I scented his fresh presence

In the dressing-room of that snake-hipped dancer

Who lisped his lies, laughed mockingly

While I cajoled, beseeched, despaired,

Finally shattered my glass heels

Stamping on his stupid sombrero. 

 Scarlet dancers

Scarlet dancers, imperfect in your pointed petals,

You unfurl and dangle your pollened parts

so gracefully, and your bright arms are sturdy

postured prettily to shield your skirts,

as the rain patters, and the chill wind

brings down the dull brown leaves.

You have no choice but to wait for

Some rare late bee, bumbling softly

Brushing at your delicate bunches

Your vivid little toes. But the cold

Keeps him, or he fell, lumbered

By a plenitude of days. He will not come.

So I put you in this vase, be warm.

It’s November.

The river

I come from the wide flat Thames flood plain

It’s fertile land that yearly drowned in silt

A century ago a flood was a valued gain,

But then the meads were sold and houses built.

It’s the stockbroker belt and the green belt

And there are pretty towns, pubs and churches

But you haven’t known the land until you've felt

Part of the river: swum on its depth, tasted its wet

Waded in it and felt silt jelly your toes

Netted the water-boatmen and nymphs,

Caught a one-legged frog and forty minnows

Stood watching in a humming quiet reed patch

The shining needles of dragonflies hover

Inspected the nets of the fishermen’s catch

And when black clouds have gloomed the river over

Dread comes to you, and all your mind is pressed

Tense against the glass, for when the river’s anguished

Nothing can prosper. I was a river-child. Possessed.

Chiswick Bridge by Rob Adams
see painter's website