Real Poems

A moment

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Tue, 21 May 2013 06:43:00 +0000

Stag foraging:

white forefeet

the work of

a master:

why would the hunter

creep through longer

grass to focus

your chest?

And where has the

doe gone, quartering

further back

in the green glen?

Until she wanders

out and touches

nose to soft nose

upwind

taking a chance

together and enticing

him back under cover

of high green shrubs.

The hunter’s finger stretches,

turns, determines now what

these two wastrels

will become.

Night Owl

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sat, 18 May 2013 07:28:00 +0000

Andrew, even as a young man,

leaves on his bedroom light;

brightly artificial

with an open door.

It’s not that light dispels

shadows or ghosts. No, no,

it’s to illuminate a way out

and wobble for toilet relief.

I, an older man, holding onto courage

know how darkness has wasted me,

yawning like a zero

with deep sleep a matter of

snoring and lost opportunity

until, eventually, the fuss will be over,

word and wobble.

Last orders.

Lights out.

Talking to a Yorkshire teenager,

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 15 May 2013 07:00:00 +0000

he is not bothered

cus he dunt know what he wants;

he’ll see wot ‘appens.

Woman

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sat, 11 May 2013 07:14:00 +0000

Spikey as a hedgehog

she looks into the book of life;

humble as a rabbit’s ear

she reads a sentence there.

Vibrant as a python

she walks across a dusty plain;

stronger that a mountain top

she turns to face the lion.

Breathing like a stallion

she waits before the city gate;

secret like an owl in flight,

dances to her fate.

Wet

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Tue, 07 May 2013 06:44:00 +0000

Last night in my sleep

we damped down a fire;

to soften the heat

- so delight wouldn’t fly

but the feeling of dreams

is to zoom to the stars

rage across fields

not knowing how far.

Down's Balance

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Fri, 03 May 2013 07:19:00 +0000

When muscles are loose

and joints a bit shaky,

standing feels safe,

tipping forward dodgy

but, for strangers, you’ll walk

or run from that silence;

smile like a torch

and hug – they need balance.

Outcry

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 06:37:00 +0000

One day, he squealed like a sweltering piglet;

another, he sighed like the wind in a cave.

He said to his children at breakfast ‘You’re stupid!’

and grunted like Rambo when pushing his car.

Later, he whistled his way to the boozer;

at night-time, he snored like a didgeridoo

He said to his children at breakfast ‘I love you!’

and cried when his missus then told him the news.

Pearly Gates

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 06:10:00 +0000

'God' said a man
'I am honest, been faithful,
cared for my children;
manly and strong.'

'Man' said God quietly
'honesty's bollocks,
caring's inconstant:
I need your truth.'

Poise

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 05:17:00 +0000

Hey feet!

Two pins!!

What tricks?

Bedrock

the fact

your strong

aplomb

toddles

me on

so long.

It’s a long film, Les Miserables

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 06:24:00 +0000

Walt Whitman, ‘exuberance is beauty’

To see Andrew firecracker in the audience of a

live Musical Show is a priceless hit

of lightning. He lit ‘Les Mis’ maybe a dozen times.

Today, we saw posters for a film version

and sit down side-by-side-by-side in

the back row of the multiplex:

between us, a bag chock-full of pop and crisps

and, off we fall into the grandest sound

and leaning-forward colour.

I always feel that epic story up from deep; a rising tear

from chest to throat and wetting of my eyeballs, cheeks

but Andrew goes for lemonade, maltesers, crisps

and crackles taste and sweetness

not caught, at all, by time concocted space and tone of

deftly crafted music sound around.

After munching, I return to heart-stop tension in the pulse

and drum of war and song. Toilet please and so I walk the scallywag

away as children die in Technicolor.

At last, the credits roll with all our goodies eaten.

This is Andrew’s moment – standing up, he leads a rising choral clapped

applause – and smiles – exuberant. We all join in; several hundred people

led by him. Our car is waiting, dark and cold, and, singing in the rain,

we march into the chorus: Hear the people sing!

and then away upstairs to sleep like heroes now

and dream of glory then.

Spring

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 10:57:00 +0000

King’s Cross station and the trains are on time

(as far as I can tell - that is a truth)

and tangerine sun has risen again

lighting up our sky’s inherent joy.

I even get a seat upon the tube

(hooray the underground is running healthy)

and Einstein’s greatest question’s on my mind.

Today I will consider this world friendly.

Guidance

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 07:21:00 +0000

‘An omen for me?’ asked the seeker

‘Go read Harry Potter’ said God

‘Show me the way’ said the traveller

‘A rosebud’s your guidebook’ said God

‘Give me a sign’ said the seer

‘Watch for tsunamis’ aid God

‘Build me a house’ asked the mother

‘Go knock holes in walls?’ said her God

‘but I need a model’ said father

‘Mary’ said God

‘Hold me in faith?’ asked the preacher

‘Big decision’ said God

‘Guide my two feet’ said the student

‘Get lost’ said God

‘How do I balance?’ asked judge

‘Tsunamis’ said God

‘Light up the path!’ said the prophet

‘Step forward’ said God.

Love Poem 2013

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 06:06:00 +0000

Today we may

date and mate

sign and rhyme

begin to grin

invade a glade

grow and flow

be in me.

Mother

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Mon, 01 Apr 2013 06:05:00 +0000

I shouted ‘milk!’

at the milk

but it didn’t

react

all.

I knew it well;

even what it

would become.

Still, it floated

white and flat

in a clear glass

chimney pot

on my black

and mottled

table top until

gulp-gulped, as nectar,

by a passing child of mine.

Twin Towers

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 05:05:00 +0000

many lives depend

upon

red faced

rectangles

running with rain

water

far above the grey

pavement.

Self Pity on a train

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 06:28:00 +0000

On a grey winter’s day, this cold’s no joke!

I’m on my way into the Smoke

where clouds won’t break, the sun won’t show her face.

No one speaks, there’s no embrace.

So, what is this grieving for a body’s loss?

In the end, I’ll get my sweet release from pitch and toss

but now it’s time to sow some seeds –little deeds.

Prayer

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Fri, 22 Mar 2013 08:39:00 +0000

A train heads west, full up:

Andrew sits by strangers at a window

table. Further back, I rest and so he

chats, twinkles like the sun to

folk who sparkle back. He turns and yells out

‘Daddy!’ every minute, down the aisle, announces

me, my birthday, name, my age, my job, even though

I’m the one supposed to only know my journey’s name

within the secret wrapper of a western face.

Urchin, on a train, has lit up strangers with song

and smile; calls out to his invisible father sitting there

in a rattling carriage – starting to feel warmer -

like a log’s afterglow, like a dozen flames entwined

around a simple prayer to a father from his firstborn son.

Music

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 07:41:00 +0000

Beethoven bawdily twists, as only he can,

beneath a sparkling chandelier in a

central Bruges concert hall – sweet and clear

when a man and his girl start giggling,

taking photos, yelling like fishwives

intertwined with four-stringed instruments

and I feel strong emotion – ‘Shall I, shan’t I?’ urges – you know;

dare I, well, mention it, ask them to shush? When I do lean over,

say ‘scuse me , would you mind being quiet?’ and the man simply

nods, I turn accusing, burning eyes, ‘Are you sure?’ and he

looks away, a little scared. I sit back, indignant now,

fired by inner anger. ‘What if he thumps me

as we leave?’ I say to myself, completely ruining

Ludwig’s capacity. I know this idea – do you have the anger

or does the anger have you? And the string part seethes higher, more

vibrato than ever. Sitting back, eyes closed, I enter the sound

with hundreds around, transported by melody,

letting it go; letting myself; letting my dissonance go.

Stories from a train

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sat, 16 Mar 2013 07:05:00 +0000

Begin with context

(from an inner blank), all you’ve got

these last few days.

Open your mouth and start

to talk. Waggle your tongue and grate

a larynx, poke an index finger

away from the dyke and let out a flood;

a torrent of words that finally, finally,

finally, will have their say.

Winter: central heating;

Spring: try garden wall;

Summer: where you’ve been;

Autumn: snow and branches start to fall.

More fleeting than characters in any book,

twaddle-words fly fast and empty

up to a hole-in-the-sky without the need

for smoke and mirrors, or an aching heart.

Cake

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 08:13:00 +0000

Eat cake,

including all crumbs

until it’s gone.

Imagine cake again;

lingering but different.

So what? A miracle!

OK – contrived and somewhat

cherished by recent events

and stomach hydrochloric acid.

But despite what sages

hint; in that sweet mix, you and I – and you –

can have our cake, remember it too.

An inch of your life

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sun, 10 Mar 2013 08:13:00 +0000

One foot – a blur of sense

Two feet – reach and smile

Three feet – donkey’s hind legs

Four feet – run for shandy in the den

Five feet – parents fall from grace

Six feet – a time of fantasy and hair

Six feet – offspring in the womb

Five feet – piping whistle at the throat …

Sing

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Thu, 07 Mar 2013 08:11:00 +0000

Although special, singing

has never been my forte:

I find it hard to feel for sound

and coalesce my heart and mind

with earth and fire without a crowd of

apparitions getting in the way.

But, yesterday, six of us drove out

to a raging riverbank in the frost

and sparked a little fire to dance and sing around

under blue sky. A dusky moon

lit up a warning light. Open mouthed,

carousing to a churning

water slap, we floated cares downstream

and harmonized a rich, brown god

who turns and never stops, as far as

I can tell. At the end, our fire roared with wind

into a start of silence.

Back in

the kitchen, all talk stopped, all

bodies quiet: the moon, floating, somehow

in its blackness, chose to howl; to shine.

2013

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 08:20:00 +0000

Shall

put all

of our scarce

and clear attention onto

a shiny

and bright

new

thing?

Grace

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Wed, 27 Feb 2013 07:50:00 +0000

In a local pub, one man shouted to me

‘There but for the grace of god, go I!’

and pointed at Andrew. Consider the phrase – ‘grace

of god’ – invoking art and truth, commitment:

how beauty and love express through

skill and difference, novelty.

Statesmanlike - it seemed

important not to invade an African country

or blame the boss, or thump that man, or scream,

because good beer and band were flowing; bodies

hopping. Boy I was mad!!

Grace holds hands, nods,

including men and women, singing, stars,

and barmaids dancing angels pulling pints.

Andrew smiled and led the effervescent hugs and bops;

thanks to the grace of god.

Richard of York

noreply@blogger.com (John Lavan) — Sat, 23 Feb 2013 08:00:00 +0000

Seemingly fleeting,

seemingly fragile.

Recipe:

bright light

and spraying water

arcing reminders

of a mystical pot

and far-flung gold.