1480
Pompey
And once more
That Pizza Express
Moment.
But,
Will this
Ever be
As Valuable
As a few lines
By Picasso?
One thing I do know
This won't pay the bill.
Brian Hick July 2015
©copyright Sally Hick 29.6.26
The Pizza Express moment occurred while waiting for the next course, with the extra napkin enticing Brian to write something on it. Sally
1477
I wait until the train's announcement stops
When only the tap of laptops and the click
Of iphones can excuse the hesitation
Before the first ideas begin to tick.
But words lie scrambled somewhere in my brain
And only as they spill out on the page
Shaping themselves into familiar forms
Can I begin to see what they might mean.
Six lines to go after the first quatrains;
The end's in sight and now I must display
A pithy couplet to ensure the tag
Will capture all I really wan to say.
There, it is finished, but I doubt you'll find
Any hint of what's deep in my mind.
This poem is about nothing;
Writing poems is easy -
Saying something is hard.
Brian Hick June 2015
©copyright Sally Hick 22.6.26
1468
Five years ago these notebooks all were full
Of poems and the comments in between
Far less substantial than the teaming verse;
But now creative notions are more lean
With pages full of meetings and the terse
Reflections on directives, new reports
On better ways of filling up our time -
As if that really mattered - when the curse
Of work is draining all the daily joy
Which comes from letting new ideas flow
And writing for its own sake seems to pale
Before the need to let the minutes grow.
So I write this in hope for better days
When verse won't need excuse to sing your praise.
Brian Hick June 2015
©copyright Sally Hick 25.5.26
1443
Southampton
Town Quay, 4pm
Sun breaking through the clouds
My pencil's shadow poised across the page
A pint of Red Cat from the Dancing Man
The Solent silvered in striated light
Red Falcon loading for the Isle of Wight
Prose turns to verse as beer and sun combine
To turn these passing moments into wine.
Brian Hick March 2015
©copyright Sally Hick 25.3.26
1432
Jean de la Fontaine
Don't write about the rhyme scheme, make it work,
Sort out your ideas and don't shirk
The task in hand as if the need to rhyme
Were more important than the need to say
Something that's of value and to sway
The reader who has taken her own time
To contemplate your thoughts here on the page
The mysteries of image and the rage
Which only a true poet can set down
Within the confines of an antique form
Cajoling it until the verse it born
To acclamation, credit and renown.
Brian Hick February 2015
©copyright Sally Hick 26.2.26
1431
I need to find a form which is my own;
Not any form but one which can flow free
As if I wasn't writing poetry
But simply paring language to the bone
So that it said exactly what I think
And you would understand in simple terms
The depth and the complexity which yearns
To be transformed, changed from idea to ink,
Until, as if osmosis had occurred,
Nothing stands between the latest germ
Of an idea, and translation's worm
Cannot withhold the power of my word;
But here we have another Sonnet, penned
As if pentameters were their own end.
Brian Hick February 2015
©copyright Sally Hick 24.2.26
1429
knowing the rules
To write of Joy this form needs to explode
Yet, like the Masters, I'm bound by the rules;
Each sonnet, roundel, every type of mode
Encases all my verse as if the tools
I need to write have all been handed down
Unchallenged, unconcerned by what might change
Assuming what has been has won the crown
And I must keep my lines within their range.
But oh I long to cut the corset's laces
Swap pen for laptop, sonnet for simple line,
Throw out the narrow way, embrace the spaces
Sans iambic metre and sans rhyme.
I wish - but as this frenzied outburst shows
To give up form, I might as well write prose.
Brian Hick February 2015
©copyright Sally Hick 18.2.26
1426
My glass is empty, the sadwiches all gone;
And still the page lies blank - a silent threat
As if it knows my pen simply won't write.
The radio drones on, time, lengthening,
But still nothing comes and what's worse
My mind is like a gnat at summer's end
Desperate to keep busy out of fear
That if I stop I'll have to face the truth
That though I want to write much more than this -
Am desperate to ensure that I still can -
The blank page stares me out until I blink
And it has won again...
I reread these lines and realise
This dull dross is not fit for your eyes.
Brian Hick February 2015
©copyright Sally Hick 11.2.26
1403
A week away and nothing on the page.
Walking in the Cotswolds has been full
Of images and moments which could be
So easily transformed to simple verse
Yet singularly failed to turn themselves
Into a single idea worth its while
To try to set it down for you to read.
The days were full, the walks not over-long
But even harvest home at the Woolpack
Did not illicit a single brief haiku
Let alone a sonnet or roundel
And, somehow, I am not inclined to try.
No poem could be so beautiful and true;
It was enough I spent the time with you.
Brian Hick autumn 2014
©copyright Sally Hick 27.10.25
1387
'How shall I put so many words
Into one little book?'
She said, in all seriousness
To her father on the train,
Puzzling over summer homework tasks
Epics for a six year old's young brain
Is there any difference
Between her and me?
Wrestling with the words that fail
To say what I intend;
Sitting upon the page they seem to sneer
At my poor attempt to shape the bend.
For where she writes with simple ease
Letting each sentence fall
With little thought for what will come
Till it's on the page,
My efforts are more often rubbed from view
Reducing me to impotence and rage.
Oh that my muse was a little child
And not a lecturer
Free to invoke the strange and wild
Rather than provoke
The fretting of an aging man who yearns
To free himself and throw off the yoke.
Brian Hick August 2014
©copyright Sally Hick 25.9.25
1275
Call yourself a writer?
Where's the proof?
Or does it simply mean
There's not one thought
One flash of inspiration
In all this time
That might be worth recall,
If only by yourself,
When all the dross of life
Is heaped on your forgetting?
Is your life so shallow
That each hour brings you nothing;
As if, an aging sloth,
You grope from this to that,
Unconscious of the outcome,
Unaware of what has been
Or might be, just because
You acted as you did?
Meanwhile the thinking never stops;
Words whirl incessant,
Uncontrolled, irrational,
Far beyond all hope
Of pinning down
Each specimen
Before it flutters, wounded, off to die.
Brian Hick April 2013
©copyright Sally Hick 23,5,25
1263
If I'm a writer, why can't I write?
For the last few days I've felt no need
Or rather, every time I've tried to find
A reason to do so, my mind is blank,
Nothing inspires or drives me to set down
Ideas which might have meaning just beyond
The trivial accidents of daily life.
And so I wait, but increased frustration
Demands I set down something, even if
It only fills a space upon a page,
Adds another number to the list
Which will be ignored eventually
As I try so sift the meaningful
From amongst the reams of meaningless.
The snow has gone, the sky is clear again.
Swans drift past like a corps de ballet
Waiting for their entrance in Act Two;
Geese are wary but the ducks ignore
The aquine aristocracy as they
Squabble over bread the tourists throw
Or early shoots along the river bank.
Brian Hick March 2013
©copyright Sally Hick 21.4.25
1243
Brake failure
Do I give thanks that I'm stuck on this train
With not a clue when it will start again,
Given the brakes have jammed and they don't know
How or when we're liable to go?
We could be here all night, which might be fun,
But I'm already hungry and I've run
Out of things to read, or things to do
Except that I am writing this for you;
Because you gave me this brief interlude,
A little test, knowing I could be rude,
Blaming the driver, guard, demanding why
They're forcing our blood pressure far too high.
Then, just as this sonnet has no more to say,
The driver says it's fixed - we're on our way!
Brian Hick January 2013
©copyright Sally Hick 31.1.25
1336
New Year 2014
The New Year promises a world where care
Is offset by daytime TV
More Dr Who and cookery
To fill the hours and turn us from despair,
While I look back at all my numbered verse
So carefully catalogued; some printed
Years ago, some newly minted;
All neatly paged, the good beside the worse,
As if the very act of printing off
Each numbered poem, page by page,
Good or ill, bland or sage,
Would validate their purpose well enough,
But will a finder after many years
Sense their virtue as he reads
Turning over all the leaves
Impressed by volume, rather than ideas?
Brian Hick January 2014
©copyright Sally Hick 27.1.25
1328
Write a roundel just to prove your worth,
Given it's been seven days since last
You scribbled anything that looks like verse.
Write a roundel.
There; you've made a start, the dye is cast,
And words are trickling out as if the birth
Of any poem were as slick and fast
As calling for a burger or bratwurst
To ease your appetite, knowing it won't last
Beyond the eating - but that's the poets curse.
Write a roundel?
Brian Hick December 2013
©copyright Sally Hick 9.12.24
1325
Bella Italia
Blank pages do not worry me one bit
For words flow easily enough
And though the going may get tough
The verse will form and everything will fit.
Behold the poet's scintillating art.
Between putting my order in,
Pouring the wine and consuming
My starter, we've two verses in the cart!
But now, before the Pollo Milanese,
Can I complete stanza three
With equal equanimity
And ne'er a hint of verse that makes you queasy?
Of course I can, for doggerel will survive;
Like kittens on a calendar
Or doylies laced in lavender
Daily reminders that we're still alive!
1326
Bella Italia;
New menue - so much better
Than Pizza Express.
Brian Hick November 2013
©copyright Sally Hick 27.11.24
1321
I am writer, because that's what I do.
No matter whether you read this or not
I write on and trust that it is true.
I am a writer,
But all the words on earth aren't worth a jot,
Be they Milton, Wordsworth or Shakespeare,
Duffy, Johnson, Heaney, Elliott,
Until they lift the heart above what's mere
Normality, above the seething rot
And stench of how things may appear.
I am a writer.
Brian Hick October 2013
©copyright Sally Hick 18.11.24
1320
George Herbert had a way with simple words
Realising that the working man
Doesn't have much time amongst the herds
Of cows, his flock of sheep & goats to scan
Profound ideas, theology obscure
Even to those scholars of his age;
Also so he wrote for us, in ideas pure,
Unsullied by the wisdom of the sage,
Yet speaking to the heart because he knew
The Holy Spirit burns its fiercest fire
Within the breasts of those who love what's true
And seek it with unquenchable desire.
Brian Hick October 2013
©copyright Sally Hick 8.11.24
