One ordinary morning some years ago I had an unusual experience. On 23rd of March, 2014, I awoke and after the fog of sleep had cleared there was imprinted in my mind the instruction; “there are 1,000 poems which must be written.” Since then nearly 700 have been written. So there is some way to go – but the instruction remains as clear as it came that morning.
Here are three of them:
Sometimes I Hear The Rainfall Singing
sometimes I heard the rainfall singing
but it was not the rain it was my mother
in the room next to mine rain and my mother
at her needlework or fixing the baby’s clothes
making up her cot everything done with love
everything my mother did she did with love
she would sing with such a sense of happiness
why I found the rain’s voice comforting
all my boyhood it was my mother singing
*******************************
Tears
Its no good sobbing for the dead. They’re gone,
they’ll never be back. Do not expect that a visit
in your dreams will be the same thing as sweet life,
memories of love and laughter real again.
They won’t return, they’ve left on their endless journey.
Let no tears fall from the stone heart, better
so much better that grief be defeated.
Yet sometimes when the moon rises and the last
birds wing for home, I suddenly remember
and sob for those I loved and are gone.
Forecast
we are not what we fear we will become
not yet anyway not sad not sick not nothing
I have risen with birdsong strong and healthy
“for my age” as old men proudly claim
you have arranged the flowers made the coffee
we sit and talk about the day to come
old Cameron the gardener will bring his gold papaws
told us about his harvest with pleasure in his voice
we know the grand-children are visiting a great blessing
exchanging stories about them we laugh into each others’ eys
it’s hard but we avoid the hate in headlines
there are so many ways to love this world
the time immediately ahead of us is very good
outside we will walk amidst the red blaze of poinsettias
there is the music of the wind in the tall trees
let me say the earth is giving a good account of itself
today and tomorrow and as long as we want to think
we can forget completely what the old priest’s sermon said
all beauty raised on high will also be thrown down
I think of the great spirits I have known in my fortunate life – two of them – Philip Moore wrapped in his cape of dreams and visions and Martin whom I hear again say as he told me long ago. “Let the poem write itself, Ian, let the poem write itself.”
