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community of poets

Copyright © Philip Bennetta

online poetry journal  

 

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vines

 

(I have trodden the winepress alone

...and my fury it upheld me  

Isaiah 63 ref. vs. 3,5)

 

 

i watch him on the lane

cross the village boundary

his half-weight solid

on a heavy stick

bearing off

into a distant copse

and beyond; now hidden

two rows of ancient vine

spirit from the rocky soil.

 

i watch his return

everyday straightening

at regular halts, to look.

the invaders’ now return

silently; as tourists.

 

we shake hands at my gate

unspoken stains redeem us and

a sprinkling of loving kindness

our daily observance

 

MORE  POEMS

 

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Acknowledgements

Some of these poems have previously appeared in

Community of Poets Magazine 

and other publications including 

Connections

The Journal of Management Education and Development

Pause

Platform

'approaching and'

and "poetrypf "website

cinosargo.bligoo.com

 

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poems by post

 

  he  imagines

posting a poem

to himself

everyday

 

most return

next day

some take longer

some arrive

in two’s or three’s

today

 an envelope arrives  

with a broken seal

he is stuck

with this

ariel thought

forever

 

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utopias

 

(in memory, Francisco Melo Santos)

 

 

we spiral away through the years

then pencilled in, your faded name

spinning webs now winter is here

 

dust embedded in my fingers

across the world we are the same

we spiral away through the years

 

you help light the fire, without fear

then retire to your home, in pain

spinning webs now winter is here

 

you turn the tap, intentions clear

and why extinguish that one flame?

we spiral away through the years

 

i find your book again, so near

utopian plans seep through, untamed

spinning webs now winter is here

 

anninversaries are forever

your poems, authentic, now reclaimed

we spiral away through the years

spinning webs now winter is here

 

 

© Philip Bennetta

from his new pamphlet

Those Marks So Deeply Scored, 2009

 

.

 

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scrapings

  (the barrel's empty, not even scrapings, Ted Hughes)                                     

empty caves

the aching sinus

hungry for the rush

empty tables

the reservoir is low

and yet...

 

 in a cosy bunker

fat gushings flow

and some still play

with pebbles on the shore

 

 a new song rises on the day

like surface water

it does not count as winter rain

the barrel’s still empty

not even scrapings, he'd say

 

 

 

 

 

to be continued 

we speak

at dinner parties, supermarkets

and on the street. today

no superficial chat

this invitation

given or mistaken starts

a story...

two women, one old

one young. outside

a poetry bookshop

one stroking her own arm

shouldering

her neckless head

imagining safety

for a while ...

tells her story

then leaves

damp around her eyes

the other comes inside ...

 

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long since gone  

we were four hundred then

i don't pretend to have known everyone

but even twenty five years on

you'd think i'd know one ...

where have they gone?

black polo neck sweaters 

the rolled umbrellas

- i should have written -

reunions never turned me on

i never wrote to anyone

except, thanks for the ten embassy mum.

then one day in the park

i didn't like to wave or shout

again later there you were in sainsburys

looking serious and mooching about

around the spice re-fills or campbells soups

in an overcoat the short military kind

- apart from the beard i go incognito now-

a camel crombie to keep you warm

in winters and life away from home.

we all had one then mine long since gone...

i have an old duffle a later addition

hangs quietly in the wardrobe, cinnamon

with one cigarette burn, tight squeeze

i wonder if you have some dreadful disease

greasy hair strange shade you catch my gaze

no heavily laden trolley at the checkout

- recognition long since gone -

peeping out between epaulettes and ashen face

the striped colours of that place

everyone had one, mine long since gone...

 

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don't speak  

i remember your footsteps up our side path

past the pink cherry blossom tree ...

i hear the special way you round the corner

your clicking heels briefly rest ...

gently ... by the back door, just before

you turn the handle ...

just let me put these things down

when did you get here

did you just arrive?

i've remembered you since at the kitchen sink.

i can see you now looking up

through steamed up window and a sink full of pots.

i remember too being proud holding hands

your tight waistband and make-up on

walking to the bus and home through the park

and by the building site

every time

their wolf-whistles your wiggly walk

come on, quickly, ... and don't speak

 

 

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Links 

to the wider community of poets

 

 

http://www.poetrypf.co.uk/

 

www.cinosargo.bligoo.com

email: bennetta.artco@gmail.com


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