1049
Five o'clock and it is almost dark.
From the train the sun rests on the trees
Evening clouds run up the river
Grey against a fragile moon.
A flaccid pumpkin and a vampire
Trot past unperturbed.
At the hotel desk
A smiling skeleton signs me in.
From the mobile I hear squeals
New phantom visitors
And pizzas on demand.
Halloween in Southend seems quite dull
Compared to Hastings.
Brian Hick autumn 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 30.11.23
1049a!
So
Why nothing
For three days?
1048
Claude - The Judement of Paris
Who are those two lurking up above
Staring down as Paris takes
The apple, just before he makes
His choice of naked goddess, and the love
Of Helen? Don't they realise the cost
That will follow from his choice?
Can't they call out with one voice
'Don't do it, Paris, or we'll all be lost?
But at that distance, simply passing through,
They've no idea what they have seen -
It might as well have been a dream -
And, after all, what can mere mortals do
When faced with gods who're not required to care
Or condescend to others' needs,
So that our inaction leads
To their assumption of the Lion's share?
Brian Hick November 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 29.11.23
1047(B) Oxford Fragments
The Bodleian Library might make me afraid -
But seeing Owen's first attempt
At Anthem for Doomed Youth I scent
A mind, like mine, wrestling each shade
Of meaning, weighing up each word, he tries
Until from nowhere they appear,
Strange answeres to an atheist's prayer
Perfecting the verse as they arise.
------------------------------------------
Ask have got their autumn menu in -
Thick, chunky minestrone,
Ravioli ai porcini -
On a chilly night it's just the thing!
- or not.
----------------------------------------------
When I'm alone existence turns to verse
And every second thought becomes a line.
How dull my mind must be if all the worst
The world can throw at us ends up in rhyme!
--------------------------------------------------------
Two days away and verse explodes like puss
Escaping from an un-lanced boil
Gushing forth without the toil
Of squeezing it or making any fuss.
Brian Hick November 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 28.11.23
1047(A) Oxford Fragments
There's rain in Oxford - and I'm unprepared.
Even though the forecast warned of rain,
I listened, but it seemed I haven't heard
There's rain in Oxford.
The buses are re-routed yet again
So getting back may raise a naughty word,
While, just as likely to make me profane,
Both Ask and Bella Italia are immured
By Whoopie Goldberg groupies, all insane
For Sister Act - and I am not insured
For rain in Oxford.
--------------------------
Is the Trojan War a Bronze Age fight
Which the later Homer simplified
To mythical events, taking the side
Of Iron Age barbarity and might?
And should we read a real nobility
Into the Trojans as they stand before
The Mycenaeans' on a raiding spree
To smash and vandalise what was adored?
------------------------------------------
Overnight rain steaming in the sun
Glistening cobwebs on the gate,
Misty patches, lingering late;
Autumn's gentle magic has begun.
But a rat lies in the driveway, paddling air,
It's throat torn out by some night predator
And on the Oxford bypass, a dead deer;
No respite from nature's bloody law.
Brian Hick November 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 27.11.23
1046
Retired. So the dreaded day is here.
The work has stopped and suddenly the time
Is mine, blank, open ended, year on year.
Retired.
Given I have enough for bread and wine,
A roof over my head, friends living near,
I could give in and turn my thoughts to rhyme
Alone; but such a blinkered course I fear
Would seem like mere indulgence, as I line
The empty days with verse that fails to shine.
Retired.
Brian Hick November 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 24.11.23
1045
In watered gold the sun is dripping down
Behind the distant line of beech and firs.
The fields are cleared as the autumn frown
Nudges a hint of frost into the air.
The morning's lurid scars of deepening pink,
Lining the threatened rain clouds, have dissolved
Into a wash of flaccid blues which think
They're still in summer, but the lurking cold
Oozes with the evening wind which jars
The estuary flats towards the few
Shuffling head down among the shops and bars
Caught between their memories and a slew
Of hopes the morrow will bring something better
Than today, where none escape the debtor.
Brian Hick October 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 23.11.23
1043
How gentle the Bronze Age must have been
When I look at skulls and swords
Smashed up by the Iron Age hoards
And violence in every trench I've seen
From southern hill forts up to Hadrian's Wall
Where sites are littered with the dead,
Severed limbs and punctured heads,
A tribal arrogance imposed on all;
And art is limited to finding ways
Of ornamenting weapons to
Enhance the status of the few
Who use them to ensure their power sways.
Brian Hick October 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 22.11.23
1042
Marat/Sade
After fifty years chasing my tail
Trying to sort out what I should do
This reworking, even though it fails,
Poses the stark questions I eschew
In all my work and forced activity.
Can I make a difference? Or must I
Accept that violence and depravity
Will always out manoeuvre what I try
To undertake, serving a greater truth,
And the death of millions does not bring
Us any closer to real Peace or growth
In justice, while we obstinately cling
To principals we'd hoped would lead us to
A better world for all, not just the few?
Brian Hick October 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 21.11.23
1040
Autumn Fox
I saw the fox today crossing the square;
She came towards me, stopped and turned
Casually, as if she'd learned
To ignore me, almost as if I wasn't there,
And then you call to tell me she's asleep
Across the pots behind the shed;
I wondered if she might me dead,
But no, she's dozing, by the compost heap.
Two summers gone, since last had a fox
Treat our garden as her own
Careless of the cats and grown
Contented as she sniffs the hollyhocks.
I wish I could take life as easily
Ignoring all the stuff that just might be.
Brian Hick October 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 17.11.23
1038
Midwinter sun, crept up from the hills,
Strikes a ray into the ancestral tomb
Ravishing the dead upon its sills.
Midwinter sun.
For the rest, this silent darkened womb
Awaits the flicker of a torch which spills
Its unexpected light into the gloom
Of funeral chambers, where the dormant wills
Traced by generations in the gloom
Await the annual coming which fulfils
Midwinter sun.
Brian Hick October 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 15.11.23
1037
The shafts striate the distant river flow
Mirrored in the slow returning tide
As if the sun, not able to show
Itself, pierces the clouds which try to hide
The white heat of eternity we know
Resides above. How strange that all that power,
Enough to succour life within its glow,
Can be confused by just a passing shower;
So we become too rapidly depressed
Because today the weather is not fine
Forgetting how the earth and its prowess
Rejoices in the glory of your shine.
So easily our minds ignore your love
And your life soft flowing from above.
Brian Hick October 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 14.11.23
1036
Outside the Cliffs Pavilion all is grey
As cars arrive before the evening show;
But just above its roof the end of day
Splendours the horizon in a glow
Of amber sun behind thin banks of cloud
And mist, which heighten chimneys in between
The mud flats of the Thames and the loud
Bursts of apricot, transforming the scene
To captivate the spirit with its power.
As I watched it changes - all is gone,
The grey below turning the evening sour.
Too soon the daily miracle is run.
Ruskin watched the sunset every eve.
What better point for starting to believe?
Brian Hick October 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 13.11.23
1035
The hanging gardens at the Barbican
Bluster in the October wind
Lifeless as its force rescinds
The burgeoning that early Spring began.
Geraniums shrink into their pots
High above the flustered lake
Where thrashing fountains try to make
The tourists feel contented with their lot;
But it's too late, darkness has come again
And I must rise and go to sleep
Without the sunlight which could keep
My world from sinking back into its pain.
Brian Hick October 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 10.11.23
1034
Last week these lines flowed of their own accord
And the simple verse you read
Shaped itself without the need
To wrestle with each individual word
But now I'm back inside the Sumo ring
Lifting every word and line
Knowing if they do not rhyme
They'll be flung out before the bell can ring.
Brian Hick October 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 9.11.23
1033
Whatever we decide there will be pain
For there is no hope here of compromise
And hurt feelings will all be in vain
Faced with principals on either side.
Oh to be back upon that Holy Land
A million miles from here, where simple praise
Flowered as the waters running across the sand
Dissolving in the distant autumn haze.
But I am here, and problems must be faced
For what they are, not side-stepped as if
All could be eased away or just erased
Like some teenage-lovers' single tiff.
Sometimes Love demands a sacrifice
Where sentiment prefers us to be nice.
Brian Hick October 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 8.11.23
1031
The south bank of the river seems as far
As Holy Isle across the strand, but I
Am back in Southend where the memories jar
Against the traffic noise. For though the sky
is deep as any that we saw up north
And the evening breeze upon the sea
As crisp, the something missing from it all
Is the Spirit which has set it free.
Surrounded by oil terminals and shops
Eternal roads to nowhere, endless streets
Of cash-fixated types content to hop
Between the pub and someone else's sheets
Your silence, Cuthbert, shouts out to my heart
And calls me to a life that's set apart.
Brian Hick October 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 6.11.23
ST CUTHBERT'S WAY - POEMS (130)
This is just a trial verse to say
That this meter is enough
To support the cut and thrust
Of a longer poem on our way.
1
Caedmon sang his hymn to Praise
Creation, in St Cuthbert's days,
So I too must find new ways
Along the Pilgrim Path
To meditate upon a world
Where rolling hills and rivers curled
About bright ruins are unfurled
Along the Pilgrim Path
As from Melrose on to Holy Isle
We walk each vale and climb each style
Day by day and mile by mile
Along the Pilgrim Path
Until we come with staff in hand
Across the tidal flooded strand
Up to that gentle Holy Land
Along the Pilgrim Path
And there with eighty miles now done
We'll celebrate a victory won
Giving thanks to God, the Three in One
Along the Pilgrim Path.
2
Going to Jerusalem was seen
As the pinnacle of faith
The laurel for the victor's race
For those who lived the medieval dream.
And even if you couldn't go abroad
A British Pilrimage of Grace
To a somewhat closer place
Was fine, if that was all you could afford.
And as for us the Holy Land's unsafe
What better for Pilgrims today
Than walking in St Cuthbert's way
In search of God's tranquility and Grace.
Brian Hick late September 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 3.11.23
1028
Accident
A should have been at the National
For Jonathan Miller's St Matthew
But thanks to delays on the trains
I had to come straight to Southend;
So here I am on the terrace,
A pint of cider in hand,
And the glow of an autumn evening
Streaking in from the west.
Sometimes, the unexpected
Can prove a turn for the best,
Brian Hick October 2011
©copyright Sally Hick 1.11.23
