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WaterborneThe writers - each on their own island,
Marooned socially in a sea of others,
Writing from private lands,
In darkened rooms,
Cup after cup of coffee,
(And - later into the soul-seeking night - shot after shot of vodka)
Watching the sea from afar
And dreaming of it
And dwelling upon its backward waves.
Dreaming of the gold-rimmed ambitions
Of spirit after spirit after spirit,
And also wondering if the other writers -
Those far-off islands each so solitary -
Experience the same waves,
Or, for that matter,
The same sleepless nights,
The same shadowy undereyes and the same creaky limbs,
The same level of drunkeness...
For each are alone,
Drawing varied inspiration from the same surrounding sea.
And the most frequent writer's meetings
Could never tear us from the longevity of she.
Ashcombe RoadDon't forget – Ashcombe Road is deceptively long.
there's something about the symmetry of railway lines,
the sameness on both sides of that overbridge view;
And, nearby, the wet indication that dew is underfoot,
as grass tickles barefoot players into a frenzy of kicking;
Or, in the same park, a spliff is smoked, and a can of cider drunk,
before attempting that frightful drop-in from the metal ramp;
Also the notable absence of concrete
(on grass the children skip, but further afield young infants engage in tarmac tantrums);
Or people here might sit and talk upon the view of the descending sun going down over that small town
(which from such vantage point seems but a mist – a piece of cardboard pasted on the hills);
In impatient, doped-up scatters, the chavs of Dorking town sit ironically
(or not so ironically)
on a small child's playground plaything;
Whilst nearby are the ducks, which have been fed often by she and I
and with a young companion on her knee;
Walking through pavement next
SelfishIt's been over two years,
And from your distant waves,
It has grown upon me with fear,
There was no life for I to save.
And save for few mentions of you,
In lines of prose, poetry too,
I have repressed, forgotten,
You were not my father - who were you?
Sorry, your sister died today,
I'm so sorry, it got her too,
And as the wind with balding head plays,
All I think of is you.
Your other sibling I spoke with,
For a sulking, broken hour,
She married, but had a tiff,
Her surname - no longer ours.
"I have no hugs left!"
Was your joke sometimes,
And as my Auntie wept and wept,
I try to repeat these lines.
I hate to think how you stumbled,
To a hospital floor, suffering.
It makes me ill - makes me crumble,
How her demise was no less fading.
How do you live,
when you live not at all?
Who do you bug me,
and make me cry?
Why is it your essence,
is in it all?
Is there anyone,
who can say goodbye?
I'm sorry, Dad, your sister died today,
And I'm sorry for being selfish:
For her death to me i
WeptRaging for the waving,
The waving all the time.
Raving, yes I'm raving,
But I have wept for thine.
Inflate, my sweat leaks,
Darling, it's the end of time.
Wait, until this place reeks
Of - I have wept for thine.
You hate my sweet jealousy,
It's all gone now, I'm fine.
In due time, come and see me,
For I have wept for thine.
Shall I Compare TheeShall I compare thee to a winter's day?
Thou art sworn to sea and the waves irate:
Rough winds do stir the ripples all the day.
And winter's Heath hath all too long inflate:
Sometime to spot the rides of winter's tides,
And often in this cold inflection dimm'd;
And every hair from their underarm sides.
By chance or, later, hating hoarse untrimm'd:
But thy ethereal winter hath laid.
For whose lesson learnt, frozen always, lest:
And how the icy Death grabs at life's wades,
When sin eternally tries to bereft.
So long as men can tease the shores at sea,
Oh, songs will be sung in winter for thee.
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