Real Poems

Midnight Slovakia

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 07:50:00 +0000

Tiniest flakes

spatter our windscreen;

moonlight catches

lumbering giant fir trees,

limbs drooping snow

and, as we clutch and gear change,

I swear a giant wakes

with an out-breath – sssssshh –

and a fulsome white heap

swoops to hammer transient glass.

Breakfast

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 07:31:00 +0000

Eating his breakfast
alone, young Andrew sits
and sings a shanty as he eats.
Shall we look and listen as he munches,

tears the air around
with Music of the Night?
Divisive toast and Marmite
- cut with sound!

No Star ever sang out from the heart
more truly,
or chorus-singer flowed with sound
so thrilling.

No blackbird called for light-on-earth
so earnest,
or wave crashed out from sea-on-rock,
calamitous.

Does it matter what he sings?
- of love or battles,
sorrow, loss or pain?
Does it matter?

Oh yes, it matters as long
as hearts jump glory in that song;
sincerity, exuberance, no care:
rare.

Hubbub

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 07:54:00 +0000

Noise inside this room is loud:
no voice seems ever quite as bold as Andrew,
my autistic son
- his voice is missing here.

He can sing – louder than a horn –
as long as loved ones standing near
listen to his rising tone,
resonate a chest, a core

and now I walk out through a door
to stand in rain, suck the breeze
and clock a waving tree;
beat my beating heart.

Phew

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 07:43:00 +0000

The moon’s a cube tonight
- so square I drop back in my
house – terrified by corner, angle!

I have another look outside,
pulling back my floral nets -
thank God the corners have revolved
- the moon become parallelogram,
a few new stars chipped off!

And, as the moon descends,
it turns and squashes
back into that perfect O
I used to know
and sinks, a lonely tear,
down into a slowly rising sea.

King

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 07:03:00 +0000

Here’s a hand from the right side
holding a tangle of cotton.

Finger and thumb from the left side
(turning before the wind catches)
take up the end of a blue one
and master it into the sun.

The sky of sixty nine

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 05:35:00 +0000

look up at a screen,
and the black and white sparkle:
Armstrong strides the moon.

On a train

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 08:35:00 +0000

it’s only when
another tunnel comes
that darkness falls
and her old face
reflects back in
the window pane
- smiles again.

When foreheads meet,
that moment’s when
she integrates
her eyes and ears,
mouth and nose;
blesses back
her misty angel soul.

Slovakia in Winter

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 09:51:00 +0000

‘Buy my perfume – BOSS – boss?’
asks a dapper at the station
- graffiti hits on every wall
(graffiti reaching carriage windows)
and desolate, slate-grey, the journey
out from the city, smoke hard as nails
until the ground rises and fields

heave in view and the river we follow
twinkles and sparkles, turns with our train,
and the mist in the valley
climbs to the hills with a first glimpse of snow
and the far distant mountains flume out a welcome,
tinkle my heartstrings in hopefulness,
amber and russet and black and then go.

Andrew Spice

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 09:26:00 +0000

When he dances

in a turn, a jump,

a killer smile,

he has a plan

more cunning than

a Broadway star,

more ancient than

a Stratford Bard.

Whatever they’re thinking

he’ll make them feel

more human, more real,

from the depth of a wellspring

‘Remember. Remember; yeah, yeah!

They will remember me!’

Superman

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 07:49:00 +0000

goes back to the wife and kids,
drives through amber on the way;
ready for his running club,
then a final drop of lids;
snoring like a dozy bear,
snorting like a horse in hay.

One day he’ll come back home and blub,
- wail - as every baby can:

missing sunrise, waving corn,
huddles, eyeballs, nothing more.

Pantomime

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 07:33:00 +0000

Granddads and grandkids,
bald heads and roundheads,
teenage cavaliers
snorting at the prospect.

Grandmas with twinsets,
princesses with crowns on,
teenage femme fatales
sneering at the scene.

Open featured actors,
passion of the children
clean our dirty heartstrings

and fledgling troubadours
cheer with all the action,
clap until they’re sore.

This train will stop at

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 06:32:00 +0000

seat or sofa, stop in bed,
stop for coffee, beer and bread,
stop at nothing, stop my head,
stop that nonsense, stop the blood,
stop the bottle, stop the spread,
stop the car, stop sign ahead,
stop all the clocks – my stopwatch said –
stoptap, stop light, stop off. Stop.
Stopcock’s stopped. Step off. I’m dead.

Hunting

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 07:39:00 +0000

On a train to London
he goes a-hunting
between coffee cups,
iphones, apps.
Outside, backwards, fly
- green fields – blue sky.

He’ll need a large pool of luck,
all his courage,
to look out - into
faces;
longing for eyes in the glass of a window,
hoping to catch a truth.

Vincent

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 06:36:00 +0000

Vincent, are you pretty matey?

Vincent are you beautiful?

Passionate as any pirate,

mad and wonderful?

How can throats not sadden

to think of how you showed

standing at an easel, dancing,

heart as pure as newly melting snow.

In the East,

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 07:01:00 +0000

one green blade of grass

far beyond the horizon

catches morning light.

Andrew

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 06:44:00 +0000

Over multiple years

of separated poles – alone –

the sun has melted Arctic ice,

Antarctic crackled stone.

But, tonight, when you stood there

using only quiet breath

to sing ‘I wanna be like you oo oo!’

a white bird flew out from the warmth

of dancing turns,

Elvis hips,

burning eyes,

waving hands;

circled on the verge

of waking sleep

and drilled a crevice in my heart

that only children reach.

Robert Frost wins at Scrabble

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 07:12:00 +0000

I walked along a farmyard wall and saw

a face that I had seen a place before

- as gnarled and wise as any harbinger

but when I turned and walked another way

his face had changed into a howling wolf

that forced me, pinned me, savaged me with love;

conditioned to the wordless bard I am

- the final piece – which letter to put down?

At dinner, after the world burst into flame,

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 07:27:00 +0000

pans bubble,

onions hiss,

all herbs and spices

have entered our mix

and the fire of a stew

will ladle and soon

be about us, surround us,

beyond us, within us;

warm as a life

that survives its explosion,

we’ll share what is here,

(never thirst for what’s not)

and shout out ‘Thank God’

that the garbage has gone.

Vigour

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 07:56:00 +0000

Scientists can prove

that fire is in the earth

except that - when I light a fire

it crackles up, transforms,

consumes the outer flesh

but earth-fire’s an invisible

inner craze that pulses

out volcano pores,

earthquake eyes,

tsunami tears.

And burning sun?

- a mirror - way - out there - that lights

our earth in warmth

and sweeter fruit.

Ishq Allah

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Mon, 28 Nov 2011 08:39:00 +0000

On Sunday morning all drops quiet:

sun turns up and rain ‘pit-pats’ to a stop.

Among such calm - silence lands

hard enough to feel another day.

Outside, gardens light, flags drop.

Autumn time is harvest time;

fruit and flowers, muddy roots

but I can move – my hand wags -

every finger independent,

coupled - separated - whole.

Now a thirst of longing - to be ‘Me’

and a deeper aching - to connect

(like rosy-cheeks of any early true love)

sweet and hurting, stirring up to climb

into my body, out, and find the fire.

Goodbye Summer

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 06:58:00 +0000

Goodbye Summer,

daylight’s getting shorter;

over my left shoulder

light is turning colder.

Will it turn me inward

shut away from contact,

will it leap to Fall,

will it spiral downward?

Will a stranger call me

outward into friendship

or simply turn out needy

sharing all his hardships?

Will he turn out pesky

needing my attention

when clearly my intention’s

to head off into Winter?

Will his name be Peter

asking for the answers

to the harder questions,

will his name be Thomas?

Shall I be like Samson

knocking down a temple

or crawl into my snow-hole

and pray for further sunshine,

tweet of birds home early

and drip, drip, drip of ice-melt

when Spring is in the garden

and I can stretch my bones out?

Or will I freeze by balls off

and Death arrive to take me

and will I finally get that

only Love sustains me?

Handle

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sun, 20 Nov 2011 08:53:00 +0000

I found a door

locked tight;

another door

tightly locked.

Behind a corner

- there – a door,

a corridor

and then – a door.

Mummy – give me keys!

Daddy – help me!

I’m terrified at staying put

(locked inside a boring zoo)

but when a keeper lifts the latch,

I’m scared of bounding through.

Double Word

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 07:34:00 +0000

Writing a poem’s

like playing Scrabble; letters

have shape and value.

Polarity

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Tue, 15 Nov 2011 07:55:00 +0000

If I had everything,

I’d want nothing.

If I had nothing,

I’d long for everything.

Everything, nothing

and nothing to everything:

a dot in a circle

and a sphere into a dot:

maybe nothing

fancies everything

so (under the covers)

they love each other

- spirit and form –

and then something is born.

Wordling Andrew

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sat, 12 Nov 2011 08:25:00 +0000

A funny word flies out before

they laugh – and springs towards the sun.

Let them chase it through a door,

pant and run.

Chortling, away it bounds,

giggles as it leaps along,

ringing like a bell, it sounds

a tinkling song.

Hightail as it flies away,

belly laugh – before they weep;

working magic through the day

and then we sleep.