I wrote this rhyme when I was young, and sometimes I say it to the moon…
*
Glide high, my glimmering crystal moon
Across the mirror of the sea
Mother of water and blood
Watch my soul for me
…
Curve, pendulum, clock of the night
In your swing, in your sway
In your shadow of light
Watch my soul for me
*
© Gail Foster 1980 something
Simon Griffiths at The Round Tower, Frome; a poetic review
Images may not be reproduced without the express permission of Simon Griffiths http://www.simonjgriffiths.com
*
I went to The Jester’s Tea Party
In the tower with the winding stair
Frida Kahlo manned the door
And God and the Devil were there
The artist was stood in the shadows
Silently summoning me
To stand with him like a tiny child
At the edge of an innocent sea
He showed me the sadness of circuses
And the violent colours of night
Swept by the brush of his sorrow
Upon canvases heavy with light
He showed me the bones of roses
Strewn on a luminous land
Yama and Dali and Karma and Kali
A heart in a mannequin’s hand
He showed me a skull full of sinister dolls
The ink on a baby’s skin
The wild provocation of beauty
And the unsubtle presence of sin
He showed me unusual clichés
Arranged in original ways
Dudes in the gloom of a glorious doom
Rocking the Ancient of Days
He showed me a girl with an earring
A boy sat alone with a scream
The mischievous mosh of Breughel and Bosch
Through acrylic satirical dream
He showed me the judgement of jesters
The torments of transient lust
The whirling of dervishes whipping up wind
The imprints of pride in the dust
As he showed me his rainbow emotions
His passion, and bright neon grace
Solemn tears came tumbling down
His secret and hidden face
When I asked for the key to his magic
To his powerful mystical prayer
He turned
In silence
And pointed to
The lonely clown on the stair
…
‘Tis time to face the darkness
The words of the flyer had said
In Simon Griffiths’ art I found
The light of his soul instead
*
© Gail Foster 2016
*
I had a racist boyfriend once, we’ll call him ‘Racist Bloke’
I dealt with the whole ‘racist thing’ by making it a joke
I used to call him out on it, and then I just gave in
Discarding my morality like fag ends in the bin
“Never argue with a bigot” I would laugh, and make the tea
“I’m not a racist” he would say “it’s witty parody”
It just got worse and worse, until we couldn’t watch the news
“Dirty Muslims this,” he’d say, “those filthy effing Jews”
I’d leave the telly off in case the sight of one black face
Would flush his chain and cause him to start ranting about race
And start blaming all the women who had ever given birth
In the dry and deadly desert, for the failings of the earth
He’d read up on the history of Jews throughout the ages
(it took him quite a while as there were quite a lot of pages)
Liked to rant about the Rothschilds, thought he’d got me with their riches
Expecting me to then agree that Jewish girls were bitches
“Women” he would say, “just shouldn’t have to wear the veil”
As if veil equalled jihad equalled every Muslim male
He was bad enough when sober, but when drunk it was profound
He’d be pissing venom down the pub like urine on the ground
He’d reduce a room to silence, and could empty out a bar
With his verbal racist violence, going further than too far
And then he’d order curry, oh he liked a bit of that
“Hey, did you know Mohammed was from some dark clot begat”
He would say as he was waiting for his naam bread and his bhaji
Like some hungry little Hitler rocking ‘rat arsed and Faragey’
It was painful, and embarrassing, it filled me with dismay
It was always, it was everywhere, and every flippin’ day
And yet really, to be honest, was I not as bad as he
All smug in my self-righteousness “I’m not a racist, me”
Sticking proudly to my principles in public mass debate
Whilst I broke bread with the shit and chose to zone out all his hate
In all that sick scenario ‘twas me that was the joke
I was the girl who sold her soul because she loved a racist bloke
*
© Gail Foster 2016
Scatter me there where the winds are sweet
To the blue of the sky and the sun’s bright heat
On Oliver’s Camp where the dragon lines meet
Scatter me there on the hill
Scatter me there where the waters flow
Where the weeping mourners come and go
Down by The Wharf where the ducklings grow
Scatter me there on the bridge
Scatter me there where the earth sees all
When the pond is lit by a moonbeam’s fall
Where the children play and the drunkards brawl
Scatter me there on the green
Scatter me there where the griffons play
Where the waters pour the hours away
In the pool of the fountain on Market Day
Scatter me there in the stream
Scatter me there with the silent dead
Where ages of souls have been buried and wed
And the angels cavort among coffins of lead
Scatter me there by the church
Scatter me there where the townsfolk cried
And strew flowers on the steps when Diana died
On the stair where ’tis said that Ruth Pierce lied
Scatter me there on the cross
Scatter me here and leave me be
On every street, under every tree
Until I am dust and memory
Scatter me here where I’m free
by Gail
*
Oh, when they were alive we never said
The things we say about them now they’re dead
Too far away now, too far gone to hear
Gone, never to return or reappear
Too late to say how much they meant to us
Just hollow words, and funerals, and fuss
And sorry tears, and memories, and pain
And wishing we could see their face again
That gaze exchanged by eyes when last we met
That lingered a split second, we forget
That precious image, vague, so hard to find
In cupboard corners of unconscious mind
*
Why didn’t we just tell them they were great
Too late today, too late now, all too late
We had that thought that day, we didn’t call
What if we never called that much at all
Or when we did, droned on and on and on
No chance to listen now they’re dead and gone
And our last words, a blessing or a curse?
A dirty joke or elevating verse?
*
And what if it was bad, so very bad
Unreasonably difficult or sad
Too late to shake hands now, forget, forgive
For they have gone and we have stayed to live
To reconcile our difference alone
With icy wind and cold unyielding stone
With questioning, with anger, fear and prayer
And all the time just wishing they were there
*
They change us most, our dearest kith and kin
Lay waste the landscapes that we dwell within
Leave shattered palaces in ruined wake
Leave with that part of us they chose to take
Make waves rise up on ponds in silent glades
Blast particles of light through sunken shades
Part oceans with their leaving, break the sky
Leave fish upon the shore line high and dry
*
And even those we never thought we knew
The ones we thought were simply passing through
However long the number of their days
Do change us, in small subtle little ways
Make dust prints on the table in the hall
Leave crumbs on plates, and scuff marks on the wall
Blow gentle breezes soft through window crack
That whisper ‘I am never coming back’
*
The more we loved the more we miss, the more
We yearn for some strange loophole in the law
Unwilling to concede the battle lost
To pay for love, and ever count the cost
We search in dream, in lonely mountain walk
For one last touch, for one last quiet talk
And briefly, in the corner of our eye
We see them come, and go, and wave goodbye
*
At every funeral we stand and swear
That next time we will say how much we care
Say that we love them, call them on the phone
To let them know that they are not alone
And every time we fail and forget
That well intentioned heartfelt course we set
I loved you, did you know that, tell me true?
Unanswered echoes coming back at you
Dark holes within the soul and endless night
Bright angels lost in distant blinding light
The empty vase, the upturned empty chair
Deep lesions of the heart and songs in air
*
by Gail
Kevan Manwaring, in his book The Bardic Handbook, suggests that we
satirise ourselves in order to see how it feels…
With satire comes responsibility
Thus spake the bard, regarding cosmic law
‘Tis true that thought and act and speech are free
But heed the truth learned by the bards of yore
What goes around and round will soon return
To that dark human place where it began
And pain shall be the lesson he shall learn
Who points his pen in anger at a man
Lest he forget, we none of us shine bright
That are not sullied by some silent shade
And he who seeks another man to slight
May curse the pen that bore the words he made
For what we see in others, we have known
Some simple human neediness or greed
The weakness we perceive is like our own
Who knows a tree that has not seen a seed
So satirise yourself, so spake the bard
Before you dare another man to mock
And turn upon yourself a light as hard
As that with which you wish a man to shock
Unshadow your shortcomings, write them true
Or fall upon your failings like a sword
For this is what you would to others do
And thine own self hast thine own pen ignored
Now weigh the pain you draw like blood from light
With cut of blade, of swift and vicious pen
Look down upon yourself from lofty height
As you would fain look down on other men
What do you see, but merely flesh and fear
A naked frightened soul that cries for love
All sorrow bound and clothed in darkness drear
With eyes up turned in hope to light above
Have pity, spake the bard, for every word
You wield will have the power to wound or heal
Remember what you here have seen and heard
Think twice before you cause a man to feel
The lacerations of your jagged wit
The schadenfreude of your savage ire
Lest you be made to join him in the pit
Lest you be so consumed in that same fire
He snuffed the candle flame, picked up his book
And left the poet, wise from sorrow shown
An unveiled mirror’s face in which to look
At imperfection that was his alone
With satire comes responsibility
For what goes forth returns, of that be sure
And you are that which you in others see
The naked frightened soul the poet saw
by Gail
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