The Blackbird, the Dunnock and the little Blackcap
All share the green lawn out in the back
Garden with stonewalls, bushes and bluebells,
Jasmine, Camelias , with bountiful Wisterias..
Robins and Magpies, quarrelling Jackdaws…all
Peck and snatch the bread and the seed
‘Til a Squadron of Seagulls devours all the feed!
– Illustration & Poem: Hazel Brown
The Summer Day
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean–
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down–
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?
– Mary Oliver
The Good Pud Day
Who made the whorl?
Who made the toast, and the tea cake?
Who made the please pudding?
This please pudding, I mean –
the one that has pleased itself onto my plate,
the one that is forking “like-me” into my mouth,
that is wobbling me fat and forth instead of tight and slim –
that is cream crimed with amorphous and overinflated size.
Now it plies lies, calorifically noshes my face.
Now it gratifies, waves goodbyes to what I weigh.
I don’t know exactly what a dessert is.
I do know how to accept exception, how to belly down
into a pud, how to revel in a pud,
how to be bone idle and gross, how to bloat through my meals,
which is what I’ve been stewing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have sponged?
Doesn’t every puddy expire so fast, all too spooned?
Tell me, what is it you aspire to chew
With your plate piled in sticky slice?
– Mary Golloper
Bye for now!
As your last smiled-kissing lips, sighing body fusses
To leave the house in fast-flustered— missing buses,
Echoes of those last- passing paths of unsaid words declare…..?
To drift… On the air and fall on un-made bed and chair.
I gather up cup and plate, taking time to contemplate
Our loving, coupling-lip-kissing Sunday to Friday date
And know, now, over time, your body has woven into mine
With fine spun threads of spit and twine…..a Chrysalis
Wound ’round an energy as divine as joy, with blisses
Unbounded. Our bodies bond in liquid spiralling kisses
spinning us up! And out—-around, around and around!
Each golden chakra full- filled, flung upward without sound!
Into a white-bright…white-light of breathless Peace!
– Hazel Brown 19 Feb 2017
Why do I love you?
Poem inspired by Emily Dickinson.
using the first 2 lines of “Why do I love you?”
“Why do I love”, You Sir?
The breath does not ask the air
to be there –
To find a word to fill a heartbeat’s
Because I know – and
Do not you – and I in
In Wisdom feel the same?
Thunder – never asks a cloud
Declaring soul struck
Promises – so loud
It just knows.
You, Sir, touch my body’s mind
With soul-breath joining –
Lip-tipped fingers who find
– Hazel Brown Feb 2017
Inspired by Gerard Manley Hopkins poem Windhover
This morning, morning’s sungold shining joy brings the
Blackbird’s gold-beaked bosom-bounteous song
to fall and thaw the frost-iced grass and worm
crept early dawning from night’s silent grasp.
In anxious slumbering dreams I glide, through
Woods of owls, wave-riding, full-sail, prow-proud.
High octane heart, blood-bursting on the wonder
of day’s dawning before man works!
From this highborn, high-flown, high-blown careless bird;
Add a murmur of silent starling droves drenching
the sunset in dun-cloaked shapes of, night.
A portent? A wondrous-wonder of in held breath.
They fall, – full-falling-flutter to roosts in fallow fields.
Night and chill fill every copse-land, corpse-land,
wood-weary moor and mound.
He listens, that Fox, seeker, survivalist – the nether-hours ghost.
But wait, dawn whimpers through eyeless mist, decides,
with confidence to meet the sun, and play this endless game – once more!
– Hazel Brown, Feb 2017
This Amazing Day
i thank You God for most this amazing
day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
~ e.e. cummings
A well known poem from a well loved poet.
But did you know that Mr e.e. had a cousin? And that this cousin – Mr i.i. – was also a poet?
Not just a minor poet it seems. For a whole drawer of astonishing poems by i.i. cum. minge has been recently discovered.
And nearly all of i.i.’s poems bear a striking resemblance to e.e’s.
It appears that i.i.’s poems were written several years earlier than his more illustrious younger cousins.
This has prompted many learned critics to speculate that the poems originally attributed to e.e. might in fact be copies of cousin i.i.’s poems.
Several critics have even suggested that e.e. may have plagiarized i.i.’s work as a result of a fatal family vendetta.
It’s now possible to compare and contrast every poem e.e. supposedly ‘wrote’ to see to what extent they are a complete rip off of poor cousin i.i.’s oeuvre.
Read the poem below ‘This Dimmest Day’ and see if you can detect any striking similarities with the poem above (‘This Amazing Day’)
This Dimmest Day
i damn You Bob for most this dimmest
day: for the bleaking meanly friggits of freeze
and a grim skin squint of sky; and for every fing
er which is numbed which is inwithered grotesque
(i who have flued am i rate again today
and this is the slums serfday; this is the dirth
day of strife and strewth and curse; and of the grey
ache snapping unbareabearably worst)
how should moaning groaning woeing whining
behinding any shitted from below
of bald noggin-moron merely breeding
louts clout unincredibly You?
(now the bits of my balls break and
now the knots of my nuts are broken)
– i.i. cum. minge
It is uncannily like ‘This Amazing Day’ is it not?
And I’m sure you would also agree that ‘This Dimmest Day’ is by far the superior version of the two.
Hopefully, one day soon, Mr i.i. cum. minge will get the long overdue recognition and respect he undoubtedly deserves.
Poem: Ian Nisbet
Over the last month little ‘Dave’ Dunnock on the right there has been a daily back garden visitor.
He got a bit snitty when a pair of blackcaps (‘Barry’ being one of them on the left there) turned up to share his territory.
But now everything seems to have settled down into a delicate detente.
Barry flew in again today
He plopped upon the wall
Dave returned, to shoo him off
Gave out a warning call
Barry really wasn’t fussed
He wasn’t phased at all
He’d blackcap this durty dunnock off
In a beak-off birdie brawl
Dave didn’t fancy it
He didn’t have the balls
Better back off acting big
Resize to being small
So Dave and Barry call a truce
No need to fight and maul
Peck instead at snippy seeds
And share that huge fatball
– Illustration: Hazel Brown; Poem: Ian Nisbet