Kentish Poems / Poems of Kent

So, it seems a good idea at the moment to start collecting a set of my poems written in and about Kent and putting them all together here. As I can't think of a good title I have settled on the above for now and, I like the idea I'm doing this on National Poetry Day.
(As with all my stuff, all rights reserved, please ask for permission before use.)

While away in Wordchester  (2015, Rochester)

I think what I would like to see

Is poetry recited under trees

And in the dark gloom of a shady crypt

A reworking of a Gothic script

Upon the lawns where prams roll

A tall tale or two while we stroll

And by the cannons a dramatic pause

To spark a volley of applause

I'd let my mind wander free

In a citadel full of poesy

Mind games

In hidden lanes

To trip you up

And spells on knolls

Wishing ink wells

And wooden walls

A train of thought

To bridge the gap

Between fantasy

And prose's precise map

Engineered to fit the bill

While perched on a favourite windowsill

A bird's eye view to another town

And all along and down

These streets

I'd let my mind wander free

In a citadel full of poesy

But most of all, what I'd like to see

Is poetry recited under trees


Snake River (River Medway, Maidstone, 2013)

Mist rising from the river

Seven more miles to go

Green light city

Caught up in the flow

As dreams fly, cormorant shape on the clean sky

Who knew this heart would carry me so far from home

I can't sit and wait for you to notice

How far we've travelled from

All those things we took for granted

All those promises undone

A cold night fading into yet another day

I can't wait for you to notice

We're travelling the wrong way

Mist rising from the river

Seven more miles to go

Green light city

Caught up in the flow

As dreams fly, cormorant shape on the clean sky

Who knew this heart would carry me so far from home


Unravelling Knots (2012, Billy Childish Exhibition Review)

Large turquoise skies

The colour of old urns

Turned into monolith slabs

Watching over those

Triangles in the snow

Unravelling into

Loose ends

The story unfolds

Canvas stretched to the bare bones

Of old boats

Now you are here

Reclining on a chair

Not a peeling orange chair

As I misunderstood

But peeling an orange

All but back there

In a bare room

High above

A small town in France

The story unfolds

Canvas stretched to the bare bones

Of cold ropes

Here, in this echoing hall

Full up with the sharing of

Accidental anecdotes

This Chatham sound

Some memories we carry with us

Some we throw, dead weights

Like divers to the bottom of the ocean

Pulling through the paint

At the knots and undercurrents

This pared down room

Skinned orange

Hung with so few pictures

A book on a settle to tell the rest

Tying it all together

While the paint drips

Unravelling knots

Rochester Cathedral (plus fragment from visit to Mont Saint Michel) (2005, Rochester)

To Rochester Cathedral I go

Loitering amongst the vaulted spaces

Air redolent with prayers and hope

Old stones standing strong

Shoring me up with their fortitude

And in this space, these finite walls

I'll find an easing of my soul

Letting slip all my vanities

Stepping out of this fearful skin

Finding hope again

To Rochester Cathedral I go

As often as I have before

These old walls are my friends

They teach me how to weather all

Old stones standing strong

Shoring me up with their fortitude

~

(..the heart is a vaulted cathedral

where angels sing..)

Riverside (2007, Medway)

Along Riverside we wander

Up the banks and pebble beach

The tidal flats and stranded reach

Of the Medway ebbs and hues

Walking in our Sunday shoes

Old boats heave their shoulders against the mud

Seabirds quarrel in rivulets and feathered squalls

The sky lifts its brow above the Isle of Grain

Dogs dig in the mud, barking into the wind

On the island promontory pirates dwell

We’re all castaways, and ne’er do wells

Volcanoes, caves and crocodile pits

And blackberries we suck and spit

Then all too soon

It’s time to go

Back among the ebb and flow

Of walkers, kids and bicycles

Of dogs and prams and tricycles

I found a tiny empty shell

Too small to hear the tidal swell

Of the Medway as she slides

Along the shores of Riverside

On Minster Beach (2007, Isle of Sheppey)

On Minster beach

The pebbles reach

From sea wall to the bream

A jet ski glides

Upon the tides

And all of us, for free

Are counting stones

And herring bones

Old pottery and shell

A happy scene

The estuary gleams

As seaweed rides the swell

The Garden Party (Review of RochLitFest Garden Party, Rochester 2013)

Midday

Too hot really

To be walking now

The kind of heat

That blisters the pavement

And sticks it

Oozing

To your feet

Coins for the car park

I forgot the suntan lotion

Hat and flip flops

But remembered

Coins for the car park

I must be mad

Mad dogs and Englishmen

It is too hot but I won't be late

I can add garden parties to that list

As roses pave the way

To The Good Intent

And, at the corner, I find the open gate

Bunting bedecked and sunlit stage

The square back yard

Now filling with expectant faces

An audience eager for a performance

Slogan t-shirts, parasols

Great big boots and bare feet

Cold drinks, crisps and finding spaces

Overhead

One lone skylark
Bisects the sky

Invisible geometry

To the eye

And they transport us now

To their other worlds

These poets and storytellers

These song singers

And vibrant voices

With didgeridoo and tambourine

With rhyme and prose

Transforming the air

Into the gilded sunspun

Dreamscape places

An alchemy wrought of words

Two planes interrupt with their lazy, drawling engines

Inside the bar the cool interior

Is a tonic to the heat

And here too

Is music

And here too are people to meet

And all too soon

It's four o'clock

And I have stayed too long

In the sun

Coins for the car park

Counting down

The day

I forgot the suntan lotion

Hat and flip flops for

The garden party

Reculver Beach (2014, Reculver)

The rough leather of a dog fish skin

Spiry and age-spotted into dry seaweed

Scratching on the soles of our shoes

And a perfect crab shell, legs and all

Hollowed out by the tide

Soft parts long since departed

Now weeping scales of salt onto our palms

Bleached shells and smooth pebbles

Picked from a beach pocked with horned poppy

As we walk beyond the reach of the sea

And all along the Viking Way they cycle

Flat out, fast and free

Billowing their hair with a windy brine

From Wigmore and wherever

In serious pursuit of leisure

Here now, the old flint walls

Flinching under a blue sky

As starlings form a chorus line

High up on the rafters of the old towers

To entertain us with a song and dance

From some bawdy, birdy music hall

Reviewing the late summer sky

This weather cannot last

Rain tomorrow

And they will give one last bow

Then exit left for winter

And all along the Viking Way we walk

Dawdling at the view

Of giant windmills out to sea

And trains and tractors

Pulling the flat land taught

Below a winnowed sky

We reach the car park

Just time for a drink and a snack

This weather cannot last

They say it'll rain tomorrow

And we comment, again, on the cormorants

Fishing from the posts in pairs

And if they were young egrets we saw in that tree

And we give one last bow to the beach

While checking our shoes

Then exit left for the motorway

Dungeness Day (pre 2007)

Bleak bit of beach, this

Where we stray

For old black and white photos

Dungeness day

Linger for a while

Before we leave

And comment on the stones

Below our feet

Out of focus wood and wire

Roll up to the breakers

And dead seaweed strewn

In the wet spray

Of a Dungeness day

Bleak bit of beach, this

Where we stray

For old black and white photos

Dungeness day

At the bar I’ll

Have a pint

Don’t mind if I do

Fire warms me

Fire to burn through the cold

From the wind tunes

Playing in the fence

Cold perimeter

Of a Dungeness day

Bleak bit of beach, this

Where we stray

For old black and white photos

Dungeness day

Your garden is beautiful

Your vision is clear

Like gulls over water

Free in the air

Bleak bit of beach, this

I’ve captured it here

Black and white photos

Somehow sincere
Dungeness day

Early Morning on the Allotment (2011, Maidstone)

Sounds of birdsong

Amplified and muffled

Hang directionless in the low mist

Cobwebs strung with pearls of water

Shiver in the cold breeze

Wrapping around
Autumn's dew-hemmed skirts
Hanging heavy in the air
Unable to shake free
From the early morning chill

On the Way Back from Canterbury (2014, Canterbury)

All the rain washed world sparkles

Rushing headlong into Spring

As we rally down late potholed roads

Winter rainbows chase the wind

Cloud kites flying sunlit ribbons

Festoon the cold February sky

Spring rain sweeps the motorway

Washing buzzards from the sky

And all the rain washed world sparkles

Rushing headlong into Spring

Despite our squeaky windscreen wipers

We can hear the green buds sing

The Ballad of Blue Bell Hill  (Foreword from long poem, Blue Bell Hill, 2007)

And the last bell rang long ago

Echoing on those ancient stones

As kings of yore and pilgrims still

Walk up on windswept Blue Bell Hill

Stag, bear and baying hounds

Chased the chalk hill hunting grounds

Pilgrim, trader

Refugee, invader

Paced their tales o’er the North Downs

Sit with me, here on this hill

And hear the echoes if you will

Of ghosts and battles long since lost

And how too many paths have crossed

From ancient flint to modern drill

We’ve taken to and from this hill

But this green shoulder sometimes still

Gives up its secrets to those who will

With a care listen on the green sill

And hear the Ballad of Blue Bell Hill