Poetry

Welcome to the non-humourous part of the site... no, wait, don't go! Oh, alright, leave if you like. If you were expecting funny poems, I'm sorry. I only do moody and depressing - maybe that says something about my personality. A big thank you to my ex-girlfriend, Jo, for letting me put her poems on this page for the world to see - she doesn't do funny poems either, so don't get your hopes up. If anyone actually reads this page, I'd welcome any comments or contributions. You can email me by clicking on this link.

Haiku

Synaesthesia by Tim Kelby

Winter by Tim Kelby

Other Poems

Bus Queue by Tim Kelby	Butterfly by Tim Kelby
The Fleeing English Girl by Josephine Dingwall	Irish Poem by Josephine Dingwall
Survivors Or, Armageddon, and What We Did Afterwards by Tim Kelby

Haiku

Synaesthesia

You feel the caress
Of an orchid’s red blossom
Gently touch your eyes.

The delicate scent
Of the bloom, like fine perfume
Makes your mouth water.

The flavours of fruit
Burst like fireworks on your tongue;
So many colours.

Leaves feel green beneath
Your fingertips, soft and sweet;
You see their texture.

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Winter

Pale, pure, frozen gold,
Poured onto glistening white;
Sunlight on the snow.

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Other Poems

Bus Queue

Well, I won't apologise for the dark nature of this one - I wrote it after hearing about another suicide bombing in Israel/Palestine. Let me make one thing clear first - I believe that both sides in the conflict are guilty of terrorism and intransigence. To the hardline Jewish lobby, that probably makes me a terrorist myself - to the Arab hardliners, that probably makes me a Zionist. But there are moderate, sensible people on both sides who are sick of the killing, the anger, and the pain. This poem is dedicated to them - not to the dead, but to the living - and especially to those who have lost loved ones, whether to Palestinian suicide bombs or to Israeli gunfire.

Dust scours the busy street, The desert creeping, Quiet around the corners of the city, Sidling in on the dry wind. Dawn’s first fingers reach, Touching the shadows, Silent in the humming morning; The city is waking. At the bus stop on the corner, Men stand, suited, In commuter boredom, quiet, Sombre as a funeral. Women hold children; Their chatter rises, With laughter as soft as the dawn, And as commonplace. Watches glint uneasily, As time’s hands creep, Circling toward the appointed time, And on, toward nine. Men grumble in their collars, And the women twitch, Their conversation growing jagged, Irritated. Why does it not come? Why does it not come? Every other morning It pulls up in a reek of smoke, Blackening the dust. It is late; it is not coming; Like punch-drunk fighters, The women fade Into mumbled complaints. It is not coming, for today, There is no bus. A tangle of metal lies, To mark its tomb. A tangle of metal and flesh, Blood seeping, Crimson in the dry dust, That laps up great pools of it.

A blast of smoke and fire, Death blazing out Of an ordinary man, his thick coat, A little warm for the city. A thick coat, and a black parcel, Hidden anger inside, Buried in those everyday pockets Like mines in the sand. “They stole our land; Our homes, our lives. We have no weapons but these.” A battlecry in this dirty war. The injured must wonder, As the stretcher lifts them Above the tortured agony of the dying, What they have done. And the mother who holds Silence wrapped in black, Wailing as she cradles her slaughtered child, Must wonder why. And the men who stand, Silent in the bus queue; They don’t yet know the dead, Or if they must grieve. And so the wheel turns, And the wounded Heal in body, leaving scars, To fester in the soul. And victim and violator, One by one, Burn bright in their own anger, Afraid and alone. And while mob-ruled paranoia Votes in leaders, And armies drill recruits, Chains are forged. And today’s promises fail, Vanishing like dust As the innocent bystanders wait, For a bus that will never come.

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Butterfly

It may seem a little paradoxical, but this is a poem about not being able to write poetry. More specifically, about writers' block.

My keyboard is a fruitless pasture, A barren wasteland, An arid desert of jumbled letters Where beauty seems to wither. Words that flock in my mind like birds, Living and vibrant, full of joy, Sag to the page in agonies of dullness. Blossoming similes fall, rotten, As though my fingers, leaden on the keys, Have beaten the life from my words. Words build in a rushing torrent, Held back by a dam behind my eyes, Caught in the mind’s iron vice-grip, And black-and-white print leaches the colour From every phrase. The butterfly beauty of each word, Jewel-bright and many-coloured, Elusive, perfect wings of poetry, Fade, like a butterfly, Pinned between panes of glass.

How can I capture that fleeting instant, Stilling it in all its glory, And yet not leach its life with every letter? How to hold that swift sensation, A gentle touch, a single look, A laugh, a dream, A moment shared; How can it endure? One day, perhaps, I will know, And seeing with unveiled eye, Make words that dance, that sing, That leave the page and soar Through the eyes and ears, Into the soul, to rest and linger there. I will not forge chains of words, But form them into wings, Words that flutter on the winds of thought, lying freely, Like a butterfly.

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The Fleeing English Girl

She runs, as those who seek her pursue,
Eating up the ground with their clumping boots and harsh words.

She darts through the foliage, desperately seeking a place to hide,
As they, like dogs in the chase, try to guess her direction,

Their eyes red and piercing, waiting for her to stumble and fall.
To make a mistake, then they can move in.

All she wants is to be free, to scream her freedom to the clouds above,
And to shout her independence to the sky and his birds.

She spoke her mind to those who follow her,
And made the mistake of telling them how she wants to be free of them,

How she wants to break free of the invisible ropes that hold her,
And choke the life from her body, until she can breath no more.

She sinks, lost, on the edge of a fearful drop, and looks despairingly, as they come.
How can she lose them now, when they know her very thoughts?

They stop, gloating, willing her to give up and surrender to them.
Little do they know, she has a way out.

She drags herself up, and raises her head. They are puzzled by
Her expression of triumph. She turns, and jumps over the edge of the rock where

She lay, only moments before they found her, reconciling herself to her fate.
They try to stop her, but are disappointed, and have to leave her lying at the

Bottom of the cliff. What will they say to people?
“Death by Convention”, for they know that this is what killed her,

Though they were the ones who sought to snare her again.
Pity, she was such a good girl.

Oh, how proud to be English.

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Irish Poem

Can you hear the moan of the wind, ripping across the moors here?
Can you see the shamrock, that bears the ancient green here?

Can you smell the life, the vibrance, the sweet soul that dwells here?
Can you touch the treasures, the affluence of our lives here?

This is our culture, our heritage, our being.
This is the bond that runs deep within us.
This is what makes us one with our land, the rich green swells of wealth,
That call us to love them.
Ireland, our hope, life and future.
The reason we exist, and a soul unto herself.
This is us. This is Ireland.
This is me.

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Survivors

Or, Armageddon, and What We Did Next

Well, this is what I meant when I said moody and depressing. A poem about the aftermath of a nuclear war, told through the eyes of a man who was a child when the first survivors emerged from their concrete bunkers into the new, broken Earth their forefathers had made. Enjoy...

I remember the rain. I do not remember the fire, or the darkness, The crashing inferno that burned the skies, The star-light, star-bright, first and last star, Tonight or any night. But I remember the rain. I remember the rain. The silver droplets that quenched the parched land, Slaking, snaking through the cracked earth, Glistening gifts from a penitent heaven, Recompense for our suffering. We suffered for so long. I remember the rain. We dashed out into it, from shadow to shadow, Concrete sky to iron-dark clouds, Weeping with joy, our teardrops mingling, Earth’s and mine. We wept different tears, later. I remember the rain. The fire-brand burning, hot-fat sizzle, And acid bite of the bitter droplets. Tiny crystals, filled with flame, they were, Searing our flesh. I still have the scars. “Ashes to ashes, Dust to dust, If the nukes don’t get you, The fallout must.” So run the words of the children's chanting, Blood-soiled, bitter, terrible irony, Lost forever, buried, forgotten, Along with the mock-battles, toy-soldier conflicts, The children raising their plastic dead; They learned the truth too young, I fear.

Joyful, light-hearted, they sing in the sunlight, Never to know the creeping blackness, The rust-red, blood-red, sun-choking shadow, Or the dust that swirls and seeps in the silence, Around the edges of the forever-night; I still have the marks from the gas mask. I still have the marks where the gas mask chafed me, Scars like the black-jagged, knife-edged fragments, That scatter the land like shards of shrapnel, Splinters buried in the flesh of the world, Shattered monuments to long-lost glory; What use is glory now? What use to us is that bellicose grandeur, Who scrape and toil in the ashes of cities? What use to us those metal gravestones, Their finery burned away, stripped, defenceless, Like memories of the forgotten dead? We are the forgotten living. I can almost see, in the sand-washed wasteland, Bright where the shadows grasp and gather, Bright in the darkness, fiery words graven, On each piece of rubble, each ruined headstone, Each shattered remnant of dreams we once built on; “Look on my works ye mighty and despair.” Despair was our weapon, once. Now in place of that flame-wreathed dagger, That two-edged oppressor that brought us low, Where emptiness raged, and the void’s black hunger, Ravaged us once, Now we have hope. It sings in the sunlight, in the children’s bright eyes, Running and calling amid the poisoned earth; Laughter flowing, healing the broken land, Touching this sick, old, dying wreck, That was once my body. Like the Earth, My lonely decrepitude soothed by their voices.

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