The poetry blog: April 2020

Tuesday, 28 April 2020

Under stars

A bleeding campfire moon

roams the ashen clouds

steeping them in fire

at the witching hour;

Dying ember glow

juxtaposed with deep

charcoal-scented night

rocks my soul to sleep.

When dreams like aether flee

the stale debris of dawn,

cocooned in sanctity

your heartbeat keeps me warm.

- Ann Scarborough Moore
© Copyright 2020. All rights reserved. Image source.

Carbon copy

You’re in the groove

that crinkles in your grandson’s cheek

your essence moves
in the lightness of his feet

You’re on the ball

of his alert intelligence
and when they fall
his words re-echo your good sense

You’re in the loop

of hazel when he rolls his eyes
and when they droop
I look at him and realise

You’re in the pink

that creeps along his sleepy brow
and then I think
the best of you is with us now

- Ann Scarborough Moore

You taught us tolerance and grace –
the equality of the human race;
your faith was built on solid ground
but in old age, you turned around.

With outraged glare you slam the door
on kindness to the homeless poor;
your politics are quite unhinged –
wild declarations make us cringe.

I’ve tried to merge the one we knew

as children with the current you,
but the fear you failed to recognise
has left your spirit calcified.

And yet, your altruistic love
once taught us how to rise above
this change I cannot comprehend –
I choose to love you to the end.

- Ann Scarborough Moore

Poem of the Month #3

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds, - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there,
I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air...

Up, up the long, delirious burning blue
I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or ever eagle flew -
And, while with silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

High Flight (1941)
- John Gillespie Magee

Monday, 27 April 2020

The glaciers of Central Park

For Dick Mol

In New York there is an old landmark
Among the woods of Central Park;
And touching that ancient Rock of Old
One may sense the presence of its cold

And scratching their names, some lovers may

To aid in the impression of decay

As the glaciers that once carved its gneiss

Left only a memory of melted ice

So too, the bison that once ambled by

Before the proud scrapers touched the sky

Through the brook, and across some field

Beside the lake’s half-frozen shield

And if Time should once more turn the clock

Or our civilisation diminish beside this rock

We too, shall carve a monument of polished stone

As a reminder of a world once like our own

- Matthew Edward Scarborough

Sunday, 26 April 2020

Bluebell woods

Daybreak reveals her colours

To the call of a warbler’s tune

And in the dimness of the early woods

Shadows are pierced by golden plumes

The bluebells spring up beside the paths

Where they raise their playful heads

But in the autumn their bright blue colours

Will be replaced with blushing reds

The birchwoods are enchanted

When the evening starts to glow

Though nature cannot hide her grief

When you hear the westwind blow

But if you walk with me tomorrow

Through snow that’s soft and deep

You’ll see the colours woods abandon

And the promises they keep

There is an ancient myth which says the dashing young Prince Hyacinthus, when his blood was spilled on the ground, caused a flower to magically spring up in his place. Although Hyacinthoides non-scripta - to give bluebells their formal botanical name, did not belong to the same species of the ancient Greek script, they certainly share the same seemingly magical property of appearing as if from nowhere. In the United Kingdom this phenomenon occurs en masse in late spring, when the unique ecological conditions provided by shaded woods and increasing daylight hours signal the start of a cascade of ecological changes. Micheldever Woods - where the above photo was taken - is one of the finest examples of such a forest, although shady hillsides and hedgerows may also provide suitable habitats on a smaller scale.

Although dense stands of striking flowers such as in the photo above are usually a sign of mature or even ancient woodlands, bluebells in the vicinity of towns are actually often hybrids between the British and the Spanish bluebell, an invasive species with which British bluebells readily cross-pollinate. Widespread hybridisation has unfortunately resulted in a huge loss of genetic diversity among British bluebells, meaning that conservation efforts are now needed to protect this species. Many stunningly beautiful woods are still found throughout the United Kingdom though, and are especially worth a visit in the late springtime if you ever find a chance to do so. Should you be unfortunate like me however and live far away, a guided tour of a bluebell wood in season will hopefully still convey some impression of their beauty.

- Matthew Edward Scarborough

Wednesday, 22 April 2020

Old Spanish steps

For Lina Scarborough

Some steal their first kisses beneath old leafy oaks
Others on playgrounds, in Ferris wheels and boats

But I’d like to kiss you on the old Spanish steps

The lights are going out in the city of Rome

But spend a moment with me before you go home

Because you drown out the world, and all of its cares

When you tell me you love me on the old Spanish stairs

And though old steps wear with the passage of time

I rejoice anew when your hand reaches for mine

So let’s not trade one moment for the next

Nor be ungrateful; lest we forget to pay our respects

To all who have climbed on these old Spanish steps

Of the many beautiful places to visit in Rome, one of my absolute favourites are the Spanish steps, an eighteenth-century marble staircase which take you from the Piazza di Spagna up to the former Spanish embassy overlooking the inner city. From there one can make out the domes of St. Peter’s and the Basilica San Carlo al Corso in the distance, and a steady flow of people traverse the steps during the day to take in the view. At night the entire city lights up beneath the steps, and the view is simply stunning. On weekends, people occasionally stop to take wedding portraits, like the newlyweds whose pictures I snapped in the piazza.

Although many visitors are unaware of it, the Spanish steps also have a close association with a famous Romantic poet: to the right of the steps stands the former apartment where the poet John Keats first took residence in 1820. The young poet had moved from London to Rome at the advice of his doctors, in the hope that the warmer climate would help him recover from the tuberculosis he was suffering from. Keats unfortunately never overcame the disease and was cared for until the end by his friend the artist Joseph Severn, next to whom he is buried in the Cimitero degli Inglesi. Although only twenty-five when he died, in his short life the poet had completed a lively collection of poetry with a talent well beyond his years.

Today the old apartment houses the Keats-Shelley museum, in memory of Keats and his fellow Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley who also lived in Italy at the time. Shelley himself died tragically only a year later under mysterious circumstances, his body being found washed ashore on a beach in Tuscany. He was later identified by the copy of Keats’ poems he still carried in his pocket. Despite the somewhat limited attention Shelley had and Keats’ poetry received during their own lifetimes (Keats lamenting that If I had had time I would have made myself remember’d), both Keats’ and Shelly’s poems have endeared themselves to successive generations, and with time they have become the much-loved poets they are today.

- Matthew Edward Scarborough