My Poetry Library

All White Then Black

Posted on 10 July, 2012 by PoetJanstie

(for the fifty-two who lost their lives on 7th July 2005 and for many more than seven hundred, who live on with their scars)

He took a seat and let the blond girl stand,
and thought about his selfishness, but then
he cast aside his worries for a while.
It seems these days that chivalry requires
that men do other things to prove there worth
sitting whilst she stood was no big deal

…until it went all black and white.

Arriving at the platform just in time
she blessed her luck as, late for work, she knew
this was an omen for the day and augured
well. In tune, her vigorous health enhanced
by brand new trainers bought the day before
and which were such good fit and comfortable

…until it went all black and white.

A City Engineer from Derbyshire
who’d built a walk that clung a cliff-side way
was visiting the city on that day;
a day that saw him on a crowded train,
when he would rather stand and walk about
than stare at someone else’s shirt hang out!

…until it went all black and white.

A software engineer, who had a squint,
would be the one without a single thought
against, or for the men who’d wrung the night
from day that left him still and motionless.
He was just numb, devoid of any feeling;
defied the normal human call to blame,

until it went all white, then black…

A blinding flash of incandescent light
so rapidly reduced the day to night
and left them all completely without sight
of anything but stench of soot and blood
no screams, just moaning and a plaintive cry
for help..

please help,

please help.

…

Trembling in the court, his stoney face
belied the trauma and the weight of guilt
that he’d survived and she had not. But then
her brother laid a hand upon his shoulder
“she was full of fun and wanted friends
like you, to carry all her joy through life.”

Vivaciously recounting her experience;
how she was looking up at her new trainer
on the ceiling… that it seemed quite strange
to her, who at the time was lain. Then she,
as they unwrapped her leg from round the handrail,
released a scream that drew her rescuer’s blood.

A fellow passenger closed the lids
of eyes that could no longer see the world,
in which he could not take a further part,
to dignify, in his truncated end.
Alone, that one gesture made a lifetime’s stress
seem like a moment’s insignificance.

The squint came from a shin-splint in his eye,
like shattered lives that shattered bones release
a hell, for which no-one can be prepared.
And where the bomber’s other parts did go,
only forensic analysis will know.
For those who live, the memory lives on.

The painful wait, amid an infinite darkness
Everything was black and white, only
the blood was vivid red. Random limbs
were strewn, and resting on projecting bone
he’d tried to comfort one who needed help.
The girl who sat behind the bomber survived…

…and who wonders with astonishment
at the human body’s resilience
under such extraordinary shock
that blasted minds beyond their comfort zone
and made so many individuals,
in one small shocking instant…

…become just one.

(Read the background to this poem at ‘Forty Two‘)

(For interested poets: once again, I was drawn to write this poem in Blank Verse, Shakespeare’s favoured format for speeches. I think it is such a good way to tell a story and I especially dare think, perchance to dream, of any number of great Shakespearean actors reading it… I wish :-))

Posted in poetry | 19 Comments

Elegy for an Unborn Child

Posted on 15 June, 2012 by PoetJanstie

Leonardo da Vinci’s Observations of Anatomy

The pain struck like an arrow through her heart
it seared, not in her abdomen, but went
deep into boundless space that was her soul
and crushed the core of her maternity.

Her eyes were opened wide like deep, dark pools
that sucked the infinite black universe inside.
The intensity and magnitude of this black hole
reversed her on a journey through her life
to the sweetness of a swollen milk-filled breast
and, through the final torment of her birth,
the comfort of her mother’s endometrium,
then lightness of her being… and the dark.

Her Mother, hearing shrill but plaintive cry,
without a blink, moved swiftly to its cause.
Another voice cried out across her skin
that crept with her protective fear and dread.

A rush to help from an unexpected source;
a man they called the Master, but recluse,
had seen the woman clutch an endless wall
and ghosted very quickly to her side.

Mater dolorosa wept her plea
to hold her daughter’s infant in her arms,
to do what would be thought unthinkable.
Averting gaze, he nodded silently,
and tenderly, eyes moistened with compassion
as he observed the fineness of the down
caressing her epidermis, with his hands
he felt the smoothness of her olive skin.
Observing how dividing muscle ridges
instructed his decision where to start,
his blade he moved with care, so not to frighten.
The Master made his exquisite incision.

Through tender loin of human deprivation, he
un-peeled the skin from the fruit of labour lost.
Whilst Mother, crying, yearned to hold her child,
he wrote and drew the image in his mind.

The infant, sobbing on its tucked up knees,
as if it knew that there was no escape,
from this incarceration, its place of rest.

In Memoriam L.d.V.

(This poem was submitted to the Poetry Society for their Summer 2012 Members poems. The theme was the observations of anatomy by Leonardo da Vinci)

Posted in poetry | 20 Comments

Waiting for The Sun ..

Posted on 10 June, 2012 by PoetJanstie

(Haiku for an English summer)

Our sun hats,
resting on the newel post in the hall,
are trying to tell us something..

Posted in Haiku, Hope, melancholy, nostalgia, poem, poetry, Weather | 2 Comments

Past Masters

Posted on 4 May, 2012 by PoetJanstie

(A Clarean Sonnet)

If I had ever taken note at school,
those moments often shunned by this poor fool,
of literature, philosophy and tomes
that offered us the sustenance of poems.

Be gowned, our masters strenuously plead
that sonnets and soliloquy we read
to dress our minds and feed our souls with love
of words that speak a language from above
our mundane daily toil; speak of the day
when I am moved with eloquence to say
“I understand … Oh now I understand!”

And when I feel my heart in her soft hands
I move to paint her love with words I see
embedded in my mind’s sweet mystery.

© 2012 John Anstie (This poem was submitted for the ‘FormForAll:Clarian Sonnets’ over at the dVerse Poets Pub where Samuel Peralta (Twitter ID @semaphore) is teaching us about the sonnets of early 19th century poet, John Clare.)

Posted in Clarian, Hope, Love, nostalgia, poem, poetry, Sonnet | 33 Comments

Venus and The Crescent Moon

Posted on 27 March, 2012 by PoetJanstie

Venus & Crescent Moon

An area of high pressure
heralded the clearest starlit sky
that befell the northern hemisphere.
No news or talk of it; no questions why,
except among the experts and the poets.

I saw her there, shimmering,
a vision unexpectedly imbued,
converging, as she was, with crescent moon
with brightest light of vestal pulchritude,
she has no equal in any other sphere.

It was as if no one had heard;
as though her visit was only meant for me
like no one knew of her great revelation.
She peered at me, through branches of a tree;
enticingly, she twinkled wistfully.

Her intentions, abundantly clear
I fancied that she missed a former lover,
as Juno reined the angry monster in.
and left her alone, save one significant other,
who longed to cradle her affection.

But she had only eyes for me
and warmed my soul in coldest dark of night.
Lucky are those, who see the poetry,
who can describe the meaning of her light,
that burns the skin with ancient holy fire.

But we know why she’s here; in truth
to hear the yearnings of a lonely heart,
that craves salvation from another world,
wherein may lie a greater amity and art
that illuminates a world where no one starves.

I know that she’ll be gone too soon,
elsewhere, her love and beauty to disperse,
and leave us feeling empty, but knowing she will
return one day to this, our universe,
to feel her love embrace the crescent moon.

(With the high pressure that is lodged over Great Britain at the present time and the clear skies we have enjoyed as a result, last night revealed an astonishing view of Venus in conjunction with a new moon. It was an irresistible view, even through the branches of our trees, it was so bright. I just didn’t feel the cold of the late evening, when I took the photo, it was actually about 11:15pm. In previous weeks, Venus has been in conjunction with Jupiter, which I couldn’t see last night; hence the reference to Juno.

For those with an interest in photography, I took the photo with a Panasonic Lumix DMC-FZ30 Prosumer SLR, zoom to the max at 400mm 1 sec at f6.3 Film speed ISO 200. The camera was tripod mounted, but I suspect some shake as evidenced by fact that Venus looks rather like a dove on the wing, which I rather like )

Posted in cosmos, emotion, Hope, Love, melancholy, Pleasure, poem, poetry, Wonder | Tagged hope, Love, planets, sky, stars, Universe, wonder | 21 Comments

A Ballad for Stabat Mater

Posted on 18 March, 2012 by PoetJanstie

(A dedication to mothers)

Do you remember radiance
of one who’s always there
the taste of swollen mamilla,
the scent of her sweet hair.

Whose kiss and gentle healing touch
was cooling with a balm
that soothed your painful childish graze
and injured pride becalmed.

Who taught you that a healing touch
and kiss could lead to more;
whilst she embraced competing love,
you found what love is for.

She stood as you went off to war,
to fight life’s bitter battles.
She taught you all you need to know
to rise above mere chattels.

As wisdoms, many, come to you,
from battles won or lost,
a mother’s love transcends it all
and never counts the cost.

In your old age you may well see
your children bear their own,
revealing then the seeds of love
that Stabat Mater’s sown.

When dotage dims your consciousness,
confusion blurs your view,
expect a revelation that
her love has seen you through.

Click here for the Author’s Note.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is another poem inspired by William Shakespeare’s “The Seven Ages of Man”, which are: Infancy, Childhood, The Lover, The Soldier, The Justice, Old Age and Decline. It followed that the poem had to have seven stanzas. It is also inspired by that holy icon, the Stabat Mater, the mother of all mothers, about whom much extraordinary music has been written by countless composers and many stories told.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Posted in Ballad, emotion, Hope, Love, melancholy, poem, poetry, Religious, sadness | 16 Comments

Midnigh Morvening

Posted on 19 February, 2012 by PoetJanstie

The light it was a brightening
on winter’s dawning day
it was the midnigh morvening
that showed us all the way

and how the beasties of the norn
did plague the Gothan bride,
but facing fiery teeth with Day
the Night stood by her side.

He stood e’er long with Triptych scroll
and spake out loud and clear
“behold the midnigh morvening
and be ye of good cheer”

for all the trolls and beasts of nigh
will e’er be gone and soon
the magic of the morvening
‘ll be written in the rune

And so ’twas wrote on old triptych,
on every sleepless bed,
that on the midnigh morvening
the Night and Day were wed.

Read the author’s commentary on this poem.

Posted in Fiction, Heroes, Hope, Love, melancholy, nostalgia, poetry | 14 Comments

Painted Hearts

Posted on 14 February, 2012 by PoetJanstie

(for BJ)

You paint for love and making home
a warm and loving place to be
I paint with words my heart’s relief
at knowing you’re still with me.

And, whilst we seem to play away
with different loves, divergent art,
I know my love for you is true
because you own my heart

You paint for love our family,
for those who’ll know in future time,
I paint that, for eternity,
my heart with yours shall rhyme.

Posted in emotion, family, Love, poem, poetry | 28 Comments

As If…

Posted on 1 February, 2012 by PoetJanstie

Inspiration for entries into the Blog Hop Contest

Photo by Luis Beltran

He was muttering as if
he was trying to describe
a vision he couldn’t share
with her; with anyone.
It was of something he’d never
seen before this moment;
a moment when she saw a look
on his face that carried away
all her fears; all her tears.
She felt no longer worried,
no longer afraid of the future;
only afraid that she could not
see what he could see;
this apparition, the vision
that transformed his face
to serenity, to happiness,
that even they in all their life
together, had never seen.
Something beautiful that
he could clearly see,

but not she.

Then, she, involuntarily
felt angry, full of rage
a sudden torrent of emotion
filled and puffed her tear-strewn face
As if he’d been unfaithful;
as if he would desert her;
after all these years.
How could he do that!

As if…

…something changed,
not in him, but her;
she felt what he was seeing,
that illuminated his face as if…
…and now she was incredulous.
She could not now believe
what he was thinking, seeing…
could not, would not entertain
the thoughts that entered her;
thoughts she could not fight;
that flowed so unexpectedly
like snow drifts in a storm
a snow filled wind
of blinding light;
of cool refreshing crystals
looking like white flowers;
a sea, an ocean of stocks.
And out of this there grew
the tallest trees of evergreen
protecting all beneath
their heavenly canopy.

As if.

Then he fell very still
relieved of his exertions,
of trying to tell her
all that he could see
and it was very quiet.

They’d dreamt for all their days
of this idea of heaven
a screen to pull down over
their lifelong view..

..of Bantar Gebang.

With her tears she washed
his calm closed eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This poem was intended to be an entry into the “Blog Hop” but it was too late. So here it is anyway. It was prompted firstly by the inspirational photograph above it and secondly by a programme I watched on Sunday evening, on BBC2 television, called “The Toughest Place to Be“. This link may not work for long, but it is a programme well worth watching, if for no other reason than to remind us of how fortunate we are in the affluent west. If you think, on the one hand, you have some complaint about the effect on your finances of the economic downturn, or, on the other, you’ve got some boxes to tick before you leave this mortal coil – maybe these involve travelling to see a few wonders of the world – as you make your plans, think about these ‘workers’ who are as good as destitute and trapped in poverty, in the kind of stomach churning stench that this environment presents; trapped not only for their own lifetime, but also the future for their children…

Workers scraping a living from the massive landfill site an hour east of Jakarta

Bantar Gebang - Courtesy Mark Tipple

(This photo taken by Mark Tipple for an article publish in ‘Demotix‘ in February 2009)

I’ve read about organisations that are working to change things. No doubt the major ones, like UNICEF, who are concerned particularly about the plight of children in these conditions, and like the International Labour Organisation trying to set up schools for the children, who have to live and start working in these places at all too young an age. If there’s anything we can do, at the very least, it is to raise the consciousness of anyone and everyone, who should care about the inhuman effects of economic ‘progress’ and exploitation.

Posted in Death, emotion, Free Verse, Hope, Love, melancholy, poem, poetry, sadness | 17 Comments

First Christmas

Posted on 21 December, 2011 by PoetJanstie

(for children)

It’s white with snow and all is bright
on Christmas night. An image of your little face,
framed in elfin hat, as your eyes, open wide,
reflect the twinkles of a tree-borne star.
In awe we are, in awe you are
at your first sight of wonder, magic, mystery.

It swells the very hardest heart
to see the perfect innocence that carries
all our fears and dreams and marries
them to faith and hope and charity
and love, that many fingered hand,
provides and guides you to your history.

A very Happy Christmas, little life.
May all this wonder, all that’s truly good,
be with you forever and without strife.
May love, not things, sustain you, as it should
provide the fuel, the fire inside, slowly
to burn throughout your life, empowering you

To give abundantly in turn.

[This poem is dedicated to children the world over; to all the children in my family; to my niece, great niece and nephew, Neve and Noah, and to my grandchildren: Jessica, Leo, Nathaniel, Leila, Samuel, Kole and Eva, but particularly all babies, for whom this is their First Christmas]

(Read the commentary on this poem)