Holst in Cheltenham

He stands, an island in a pond
And waves his baton like a wand,
Conducting passing spirits who
Played for him before and knew
The way to please was to respond
To the commands of his left hand.
Yet most who pass don't hear the band
Of ghosts, or think they can't be true.
An island in a pond
Is an unlikely place for sound
Of any sort. Yet from beyond
This world, comes shimmering, pale blue
Music of the spheres in a few
Familiar bars, and there he stands:
An island in a pond.

Perigee and Perseid

Pale porcelain plate,
The supermoon at perigee,
Closest to the earth and full,
Shines brightest to illuminate
The Perseid, the meteor shower.
Not plashing through the galaxy
But flashing silently; its fate
To flash unseen. For Phoebe,
Cannot contemplate
Competition from the stars
As she must keep her earthly date,
Shine, glare, blind, obliterate
The thought of Pluto, or of Mars,
Leave only Venus on the mind,
Of those who watch the sky this night.

But looking out to Perseus,
To Cassiopeia and Cepheus
Turning from the lunar pull,
One might discern the sparks of light,
Fireballs as clear as planets
Sparks of gold and points of white,
That trail behind Swift-Tuttle's comet.
And witnessing this heavenly sight,
In the sparkling constellation
Of the city sacking fighter,
Of a mythical man and wife,
Feel that there is something greater
Than this transient human life.

An Antidote to Wilfred Owen

I feel alive at last and full of joy,
Last night I killed a German boy,

I didn't know I had until I had,
But when I knew I had my heart was glad,

This is the work that I came here to do,
The point of all the training I went through,

The point of digging trenches in the mud;
The point of bloody war is shedding blood.

I know the conscripts hate it and I try
To cheer them up, talk sense and when they cry,

I tell them why we're here, and tell them jokes,
It matters we should win, the other blokes

Are human but they're Hun; the killing 's fun,
When you do it from a distance with a gun.

The great thing is to put your mind at ease,
Imagine that they're cattle with disease.

Don't think of them as friends or as your brothers,
Don't think of their poor sisters and their mothers,

Just think of how much sooner we'll be back,
If we get stuck in, don't give them any slack.

Some Thoughts About Thinking

Ideas expressed as statements aren't made true,
By adding qualifying adjectives.
Ideas must stand alone, but very few
Can.   And do we question our objectives
When reading, listening, thinking or is each thought

Coloured by our moods, by what we think we know?
Has questioning become a last resort,
Where, in infancy, it was our first, and does this show
That wisdom grows with age or the reverse?
We should shake ourselves to our foundations
Every day, see certainty as quite perverse,
Examine all our real motivations,
Know ourselves and come to understand
That thinking's best, when thoughts aren't second hand.

Good Friday Givendale

A porridge hill which curves to meet the blue
Horizon, marl increasing light but glare
Reduced by texture; lumpy. And the hue
Is butter cream, not white, so as I stare
My eyes are not made tired by the scene
But rather open wider to take in
The panorama as a whole, serene
And lovely, still and silent yet the thin
And cold fresh air in contrast to the heat
Of April sun is not a metaphor
Quite sufficient for the day.  And the neat
And sloping fields, the long, forked road before
The azure air are just the old psalm
But I'm walking with the righteous - it's an organic farm!

Morning

Downhearted, miserable and full of gloom
Morning has appeared in the room,
But first has stressed and startled me awake,
And left me lying all a quake.
With racing pulse and hormones which
Make me act like a vile tempered bitch.

Music and Movement

When you're ready, at your leisure
Find a space, by turning round:

Small and plump in navy knickers,
Pulled up over cream wool vest;
And rubber plimsolls smelling slightly,
I hear the harp and do my best
With arms outstretched, a dizzy dolly,
Pirouetting like at ballet
And moving lightly,
Or I hope so,
I'm following the strange commands,
And I become a tree.

I know
That I'm a bendy sapling,
Waving hands and full of grace,
Feeling free and un-self conscious,
No expression on my face.
And the gold-brown parquet flooring
Patterned in its endless blocks
Becomes the leaves I've cast about me
In the wind that I heard roaring
From the Radio Phonic Workshop
Whose endless, electronic stocks
Of sound effects
Will keep us busy in our places,
On our mats,
Until it's time to move the benches
Back to the Formica tables,
Ready for our well made lunches.
And this time of private playing
Running silently and swaying
Thinking little, mostly nothing
Will be shut away again.

And all of us back in our clothing
Mostly solid farmers children,
Will remain
Silent on this recent passtime,
Can it really be a lesson?
Though we know we all enjoyed it,
Still there seems but little reason
To discuss what just went on.
What's to say, about such nonsense?
Curling slowly, now unfurling,
Growing upwards from a seed,
Blowing backwards in a gale,
Shedding leaves right out of season.
Seems it was a guilty pleasure.