Real Poems

How to Train a Dragon

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Thu, 11 Feb 2016 16:31:00 +0000

‘Tied like a cur, damp-breath, from the egg

you whipped my tongue to whimper.

And still I stand and face you, chained to corners

and choked by diamond metal. What to do

when, baleful days, my skin flattens

onto bone and muscles work and harden?

Every hour I walk and walk my tether.

Oh yes, you need to tame me, flophead,

But I will never yield to your fat will,

My fate is to destroy in hot adventure

and your flab-hands can reach but know that soonest

they will burn!.

When your Hero came

to fetch me out, human, no doubt you thought

my training would be easy. Here I stand

and baleful wait. Bring on your taming, sweet-blood.

I long for pain and battle. To drink. Break me? Pah!

You have no skill, no will, no strategy!

I pace, I wait. Know that your unbending need

for me to yield will lead you to a longing

of your death. There is no key. Remember,

beyond blinking eyes, damp as dawn,

I tell you truth. There is no mercy in my stringy heart’

Dr. Jekyll and Hyde’s Eulogy

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 14 Oct 2015 22:27:00 +0000

He shoehorned his kids to indifferent careers.

He spooned little words into lady luck’s ears.

He fettled his tax return, filling a form,

and wetted the parched through the eye of a storm.

He lashed up a story to tell to the Boss.

He lavished a drink on that man on the Cross.

He braided the hair of his daughters and sons,

cried ‘Havoc’ in paradise, pulling a gun.

He swindled his brothers from plenty of cash

but sensed that salvation was not by the lash.

Utopia called him and, turning away,

he painted his life just a pixel a day

and threw fire and brimstone to get his own way.

Old men should be explorers (Eliot)

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Tue, 08 Sep 2015 14:30:00 +0000

Look up, look up, the sun is out;

an Autumn morning lightens.

The duvet’s warm a pillow soft

but birds are busy - piping.

Who cares how come a new sun burns;

sick of lectures, sick of dreams

I put two feet in humble shoes

and leave you to your sleep.

Across a moor,

giggling stream,

a lifting fell,

one step more,

listen, breathe,

time - our ticking time - will tell.

The Anti-Misogynistic Misogynist

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Tue, 11 Aug 2015 18:18:00 +0000

Women are the weaker sex

so don’t try to convince me

it’s part of a man’s job to listen

because, when you take a good look,

women talk too much

and

men are more intelligent

Also, it’s a falsehood to claim that

men and women are creative together

meaning that

both sexes are equal - with lots to offer each other

but it’s actually down to a simple truth:

men are stronger

and that

Women

can only create an illusion of having more power than

Big Men

it’s impossible for the two sexes to cooperate

and you’ll never convince me that

Men and Women are equal.

NOW READ EACH LINE FROM THE BOTTOM UP!

Clues

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sun, 28 Jun 2015 16:24:00 +0000

To sing

is such a little thing;

to shine

- across a spur of time.

And when I choose to shine and sing and laugh

I weave and warp a tapestry. Called life.

Friend,

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sat, 13 Jun 2015 06:05:00 +0000

our valleys jump from heather

and run their tiny way

apart - and then together

- towards the sand and spray.

Tenacious,

gracious.

hitting rocks,

catching brooks.

The roaring sea

calls ‘be victorious

in your glorious

dancing path to me.’

Fisherman

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Mon, 13 Apr 2015 11:44:00 +0000

Be back in Spring 1915 and head for the Dalesman in Sedbergh, North Yorkshire - nestling under green butresses. Drink 4 pints of foaming bitter ale and munch on some old bread before setting off up a track into the ever-crouching, trackless Howgill mountains. All snow has gone. It’s a balmy evening, still as boulders, and, although you’re traveling light, that rucsac is heavy and beer sweats out of pores like the chuckling white stream crossing from your left. It gets dark; air cools and moistens. A wind rises so you climb into a bag, using your jumper as a pillow. A few hours later, smell sweet wet grass and see apparent green spears in front of your pointing nose. Pebbles shine and a spider wanders across a real-world near your face. Stretch palms - there are many heavy steps to go before opening time.

Resurrect yourself again or, heaven help you, they’ll be right on your trail.

South

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sun, 29 Mar 2015 07:14:00 +0000

So my shoulder aches (the left one)

- it pokes incessantly and a sleepyhead

stays awake. This train is full of scruffy

shoes and bad shaves - travellers - and the sky

a springtime blue wash. A southbound chugger heads

down into another country. Andrew will be home now,

laughing more than most and feeling for rhythm

in a backbeat song or repetitive gearbox. He’ll be wearing

baggy pants and a bright shirt, chortling.

Perhaps he’s tickled by Angels or maybe doesn’t care

about death. When you choose such a fate, then you wouldn’t.

I fly backwards on this train, blind to what awaits

- and kind of not caring. People are reading screens,

papers, trendy magazines; all encoded.

There’s no conversation. Andrew will be getting ready to eat

with the full rhythm of a fine chew on every

forkful. Teasing the juice out. Maybe every

Angel needs a cascade of support. Choosing a

Down’s Syndrome lifetime will burn care

and levels of mercy sometimes unnecessary

for a warrior of the light. But mostly his ears

are cocked for music and the heart of life,

pulsing energy in a basket of moments.

He rocked as a baby - full bodied – certainly

more than I rock with my aching shoulder and forever

rigid attempts on the guitar. But it’s the connection

he makes in the smile and a twinkle that carves

heart-to-soul and the beat, beat, beat

of warmth in the veins - to go further and longer

than any old southbound train. And his gift is to keep up

the fashion of a smile - or joy - until the chuckling carriage stops.

Dentist

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Tue, 17 Mar 2015 07:49:00 +0000

2 receptionists - and the computer’s frozen.

Clear air hangs outside – so cold –

although these ladies wear their sandals open toed

as if on a beach. Consistent clothing;

browns, blues and greens, no red.

In the corner, dental videos

of procedures – without sound. For this,

we drove here, locked the car, afraid.

She tweaks the keyboard but - still a tragedy

in her VAT calc. The screen is numb. All

to pull faces – by a brief indignity.

She nods us through in the flash of a neon smile.

Is this my fate? – ajar, but strong -

I open the door, wait for the sun.

Register

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sun, 11 Jan 2015 10:54:00 +0000

‘Book of Mormon’ is rollicking hot,

two-by-two dancing, rude - but (like) fun.

Andrew and I absorbing the plot

- when a sweet girl starts a honeydew song.

Wide open – an innocent snowball

of pure hope and sun in the morning.

Every note touching bellies and throats,

melting jaundice, judgment, disjoints;

singing from heart in a little face

sweet as dates, light as a veil.

At the interval, engagement is deep:

a tie at the ball, champagne pops.

Andrew holds a fizzy lemonade

nodding around, clear as a cat

‘I’ll marry that girl in the pink dress,

She’s just like me – she is me!’

and I wring small tears ‘I see, my son, I see.’

glance away – too keen to agree.

Fourth Anniversary

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sat, 13 Dec 2014 17:33:00 +0000

First - a singleton -

a beaming sun

(one single leaf of grass)

but married then into a couple

completely satisfied

but how accelerated

into four whole years

as if the one has amplified

through sunny days and snow;

we grow, my wife, we grow.

Grey skies

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Thu, 25 Sep 2014 08:18:00 +0000

but, look, a turn of cloud for sunshine

winking – to submit a whole new word today;

vibrant, iridescent, unstoppable

with smiley face and no conditions,

bigger than the Himalayas (beyond desire):

a simple little single word, compressed.

My question - can I really trust it?

and ask – ‘if I inspire a fire inside myself,

will a tiny word flow back with water force

through chambers up from shimmering earth,

meet itself and melt?’ Under grey skies.

Singing

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Fri, 05 Sep 2014 06:44:00 +0000

South West England, Summertime.

The base and 6-string are playing

brightly one Monday afternoon

under a soft watercolour sky;

the base and 6-string are playing.

It’s not clear who started this throb

around tents and camping chairs,

teacups and painted starlight stones

but the base and 6-string are playing.

And, in the darker recess of a plastic tent,

one unwashed Down’s boy sings

across perfectly imperfect repetitive notes,

from a hopeful wet tongue laving for dinner

now the base and 6-string are playing.

Propose a new music, un-housed,

less predictable, in a strange tongue,

held by a deeper fret of purple sound

from a true gut; a resonant truth

laughing like a tambourine

when the base and 6-string are playing.

So Push

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sat, 16 Aug 2014 06:56:00 +0000

One o’ clock, North Yorkshire

and we cycle hard - cogs

chuckling into spurs and chains

on-and-around sprockets

oblivious to tops-of-trees parading

front-to-back and the Howgills

rolling more slowly

in parallax and majesty

until we hit a low dip

and start a long climb

feeling breath and thighs hot.

Looking far away to the left

(in a miracle of trigonometry)

a far mountain rises mysteriously

like in a cardboard theatre.

Pushing and climbing, an earth-top also climbs.

Cycling more easy, our summit stays and shivers;

a fine old miracle in time.

Now the road descends and our peak slo-mo’s

away; no longer fighting gravity

but sinking like a drowsy head

obscured by trees and foothills, green.

And it helps me feel the sun

and how she seems, every day, to light and rise

imperious - and how, if we all freewheel,

eventually her rays maybe wouldn’t

be bothered to rise either, and sink. A sigh.
So Push.

Health

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Thu, 17 Jul 2014 06:08:00 +0000

Empty now, my breakfast bowl

somberly thinking (‘What is Next?’)

of blue, green, yellow powder pills

and a brew of side-effects.

The Day After

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Mon, 07 Jul 2014 21:41:00 +0000

Twenty four hours

divided

into minutes, seconds (even smaller)

moments

but, looking back,
only by story, metaphor, simile

can I Feel-that-Day again

like the sunshine of an orange skin,

(or the journey of a train with volcano cans of beer)

the flesh soft and tangy, juicy as a sponge

dripping ocean sap

and a dream somewhere in between the story of a day;

the sense and the non-sense

warped by brainbox,

itself soft as ripe red melon

fragmented in memory at the end of the day:

pages, physics, juice, included.

Three Spitfires

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Thu, 26 Jun 2014 19:33:00 +0000

And it wasn’t the moving of curtains like breathing

or the clicking of buildings settling down for the night

but a distant loud roaring of engines and thunderbolts

and his name on the roll-call; insects and kites.

And it wasn’t the twitching of curtains like breathing

or the clicking of buildings in the night and the night

but the nearby quiet roaring of blood in the arteries

and the checklists and wheelchairs; halogen lights.

III

And it wasn’t the twitching of eyelids one evening

or throat-boxes sobbing defying the night

but the nearby quiet roaring of blood in the arteries

and inbreath – and outbreath; - emerald flight.

Oh Emily,

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sat, 14 Jun 2014 14:41:00 +0000

because the train had stopped for God,

it also stopped my breath –

the carriage held the two of us

- my fractal soul – and Death.

We both stepped down – ‘Mind the Gap’ –

and neither He nor I

looked back to see what we had left

inside the carriage aisle.

We walked along the platform edge

but dragged no suitcase there,

ignoring all the yellow lines,

already paid – the fare.

Our ticket passed through turnstiles

- we felt the tangy air

and sailed away – in Charon’s boat -

- On time – At Last – Aware.

Slow – our ark sank in the sea -

explored a wreck of pain

- until I saw a bait - and line -

- hopped on another train.

Friend,

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Mon, 26 May 2014 08:51:00 +0000

look across a forest glade at me.

Every green leaf in movement and a breeze touching.

From my side, I see multitudinous waving

and You.

You hear another voicebox

asking hard questions;

‘Would you like to join my dream?

Will you let me join your dream?

Why cross this glade?

How far can we reach?’

Look across a river at me.

Cold water spinning us far

if we jump together now.

But would you jump if I jumped

first and would I follow you?

“Would you join my flow?

Will I take your journey?

How far can we sail?

Can we swim upstream?’

Look across a caldera.

It’s hot in there and would kill us quickly

so let us walk anti clockwise.

But if you circle, and so do I,

we will not meet, denying heat.

‘So shall I stop and wait?

Or will you wait for me?

How long will we linger?

Or turn and slide away?’

Look from a mountain top back towards me.

Shall we drop the nonsense, friend?

Together. Leap. And fly!

At Easter, well

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 16 Apr 2014 20:17:00 +0000

I know it’s reckless

but

imagine you were God – not really God

but more a concept of a lamb and lion God

and sent a dove into a North-South earth-ice

and fished for men inside the East-West wind-fire.

How do you feel inside your spirit heart?

Would you turn out to become a little cross?

Book of Mormon

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Tue, 01 Apr 2014 19:42:00 +0000

The theatre safety curtain shows

a cloudscape reaching blue aflame

like fiery ascension

or manipulation by a politician.

From the melee, every face arriving

encounters programme, iPhone

or partner, with senses conniving

craftily before a Big Show.

A trumpeter is practicing scales

clashing with the theatre of buzz

but the war ain’t started yet.

Drums overcome that puzzling trumpet

with an all American grin, anticipation,

firepower. Shock and Awe.

On the plane to Marrakesh, a

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Mon, 10 Mar 2014 03:16:00 +0000

nine month old in nappies

played at peek-a-boo

reached out stubby fingers

wanted stranger touch.

Words were far beyond him,

contact made by palms

slapping all the tourists

getting fingers on.

We had sat in silence

‘til this terrorist

came upon our handsets

broke into our souls.

Magic

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Mon, 17 Feb 2014 05:49:00 +0000

Near to Jung’s Big Red Book,

a bunch of roses – multitudinous

splashing – not logical

but simply pressing the effort

of crazy existence with no collateral.

Magic is rare and difficult, colourful,

but impelled by gusto and stupidity;

voracity of jester, drunkard and clown.

We need to make room for fools because,

in the end, there is nothing to understand

as wind rattles a casement,

spilling a scent of arcing flowers

and reasonable and unreasonable stand

shoulder to shoulder, bow in acceptance.

The Dimmer

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sun, 02 Feb 2014 23:17:00 +0000

A Boy pens a sun like a smiley tangerine,

a Girl bounces steadily on her trampoline.

Mother makes tea and beams down on her family.

Father gives presents to them all on Christmas day.

A boy stays out late because there is a party.

A girl texts her mother and calls her new boyfriend.

Dad pens agendas and heads off for the Boardroom.

A boy fights mummy and father in the pantry.

Girl loves the heat of a smelly double poster

and sun shines light into cracks among the shadows.

A Boy gets his first job loading in a warehouse,

a Girl tries out loving with a few men and boys.

A Woman is married, settles into offspring,

a Man weds a girl with a single golden ring.

A new Boy is drawing a sunny tangerine,

a new Girl bounces on her Christmas trampoline.

Red and White

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 22 Jan 2014 23:11:00 +0000

White cells are warriors parading through the bloodstream.

Red cells are powering the big pump up to speed.

Red wine and forehead, furious as bumblebees.

White wine (by sweetness) settles into calm.

Red cells propel,

white cells ignite;

delegates in lubricant, security and thrill

dancing a quickstep around and around.

But why circulation of paleness, intensity,

angry, protecting, hurting and calm

but for tall stories of wellsprings and bonfires

granting my chambers their work another day,

sharing the real stuff in redness and whiteness.

Red wine and white wine are luscious today.