My poem The Rhythm of Wood published here in a recent
publication of the Bray Arts Journal.
Sunday 4 November 2018
Saturday 1 September 2018
POTATOES
POTATOES
I can smell the sweet potato peel
Upon my skin – and I visualise walking
Amongst the summer rows.
I pick over the box of earthy potatoes.
When I pull one that is perfect
I turn it in my hand like a gold nugget –
Buried in my memory – a charm.
I peel back happiness from the soil,
Memories drop into a watery bowl;
The day we planted them – sowing
Love which had lain on the edges.
Uncertain, I nearly threw love out
With un-seeded tubers; to decay in hedges.
Instead I wrapped them and stored them
In a cold shed – for spring planting;
I can already see your face shining pride
At flowering drills; you stand with a wide-stance;
The posture of the accomplished soul – your eyes,
Stare lovingly at each planted offering.
Published in my poetry collection ‘The Last Fire’ 2015 (Lapwing Publications).
I can smell the sweet potato peel
Upon my skin – and I visualise walking
Amongst the summer rows.
I pick over the box of earthy potatoes.
When I pull one that is perfect
I turn it in my hand like a gold nugget –
Buried in my memory – a charm.
I peel back happiness from the soil,
Memories drop into a watery bowl;
The day we planted them – sowing
Love which had lain on the edges.
Uncertain, I nearly threw love out
With un-seeded tubers; to decay in hedges.
Instead I wrapped them and stored them
In a cold shed – for spring planting;
I can already see your face shining pride
At flowering drills; you stand with a wide-stance;
The posture of the accomplished soul – your eyes,
Stare lovingly at each planted offering.
Published in my poetry collection ‘The Last Fire’ 2015 (Lapwing Publications).
Friday 3 August 2018
WEBS
WEBS
Hidden truths
Glossed over, unread
Being held together
By superficial thread.
Spiders weave fresh silk
Above the unprepared
Weakened –
Often unheard.
The dimming eyes
Of youth, or the withered
Hands of the old – their stories
Too often untold.
Giving up the fight,
Among poverty and strife;
Trapped, by political agendas
And newspaper lies;
Weaving webs until they die…
Helen Harrison
Hidden truths
Glossed over, unread
Being held together
By superficial thread.
Spiders weave fresh silk
Above the unprepared
Weakened –
Often unheard.
The dimming eyes
Of youth, or the withered
Hands of the old – their stories
Too often untold.
Giving up the fight,
Among poverty and strife;
Trapped, by political agendas
And newspaper lies;
Weaving webs until they die…
Helen Harrison
Sunday 8 July 2018
SEEDS
SEEDS
1
On a Sunday in mid-summer
Right at the edge of the park
You come to me;
Talking future plans,
Shining eyes,
And a heart that dared.
We saw ourselves
Buying a car to travel
Down to the coast
Whenever we took the urge
All planned out under the elm
Of eager spreading roots.
Many seeds scattered
Ideas with wings on the breeze
Hope floating all the way
Towards the sea along winding
Open-windowed roads.
2
Smashed in spring - the last
Season you inhaled;
Lying singing on the back seat.
The front driver’s side was saved,
Letting me drive
To dreams that died.
Dreams have a way
Of coming at you by the front
And leaving by the back door.
I pass it now, the car
In the scrap yard
At the edge of the town
It’s only half now.
1
On a Sunday in mid-summer
Right at the edge of the park
You come to me;
Talking future plans,
Shining eyes,
And a heart that dared.
We saw ourselves
Buying a car to travel
Down to the coast
Whenever we took the urge
All planned out under the elm
Of eager spreading roots.
Many seeds scattered
Ideas with wings on the breeze
Hope floating all the way
Towards the sea along winding
Open-windowed roads.
2
Smashed in spring - the last
Season you inhaled;
Lying singing on the back seat.
The front driver’s side was saved,
Letting me drive
To dreams that died.
Dreams have a way
Of coming at you by the front
And leaving by the back door.
I pass it now, the car
In the scrap yard
At the edge of the town
It’s only half now.
Friday 22 June 2018
PASSING SUNSETS
PASSING SUNSETS
Evening, and there is nothing
To temp me indoors.
Warmed from a day spent in the sun;
I spin it on my fingertips,
Pass it, to my team-
Mates.
Scoring goals
Win rolls of respect. Talents
Swaying to the chants; that
Tribal-like victory dance.
Ball of mesmerising fire -
Football skills that inspire. Cool
Moves; dipping, diving,
Thriving, in the company,
Until friends slip away,
As they are called in -
One by one.
Alone, with a crimson sky;
The breath I take is sharp
Like loneliness,
As the night turns - flat.
A memory from my childhood published by poethead in 2015
https://poethead.wordpress.com/2015/08/29/the-last-fire-and-other-poems-by-helen-harrison/
https://poethead.wordpress.com/2015/08/29/the-last-fire-and-other-poems-by-helen-harrison/
Evening, and there is nothing
To temp me indoors.
Warmed from a day spent in the sun;
I spin it on my fingertips,
Pass it, to my team-
Mates.
Scoring goals
Win rolls of respect. Talents
Swaying to the chants; that
Tribal-like victory dance.
Ball of mesmerising fire -
Football skills that inspire. Cool
Moves; dipping, diving,
Thriving, in the company,
Until friends slip away,
As they are called in -
One by one.
Alone, with a crimson sky;
The breath I take is sharp
Like loneliness,
As the night turns - flat.
A memory from my childhood published by poethead in 2015
https://poethead.wordpress.com/2015/08/29/the-last-fire-and-other-poems-by-helen-harrison/
https://poethead.wordpress.com/2015/08/29/the-last-fire-and-other-poems-by-helen-harrison/
Saturday 9 June 2018
KILLRUDDERY
KILLRUDDERY
Beneath the elders
Where bumble bees
Lose themselves
In flowering thyme;
I lie down in dew-soaked ease.
And dog-rose is the scent
That makes my spirits rise
In the kingdom of the low –
Flying bird.
I take comfort on the mossy soil;
Last years leaves sweet;
Damp In the wing-tipped breeze,
To ease my mind and soothe
My brow;
In dappled light my speckled thoughts take flight…
And the worm-seeking thrushes
Make a rustling sound
Where life goes on
Underground –
Beneath the earthy mound.
Beneath the elders
Where bumble bees
Lose themselves
In flowering thyme;
I lie down in dew-soaked ease.
And dog-rose is the scent
That makes my spirits rise
In the kingdom of the low –
Flying bird.
I take comfort on the mossy soil;
Last years leaves sweet;
Damp In the wing-tipped breeze,
To ease my mind and soothe
My brow;
In dappled light my speckled thoughts take flight…
And the worm-seeking thrushes
Make a rustling sound
Where life goes on
Underground –
Beneath the earthy mound.
Friday 18 May 2018
THE VOYAGING VESSEL
THE VOYAGING VESSEL
Even as the tides subside
I glide the horizon like a black-
Backed gull.
Waves of awe unleash
A various world of
Words I find deep in the folds
Of a sail-weathered wind
Freedom
Like golden grain in my hand
Rolling the currents to fly
Against a limitless sky…
I harbour the salt and the scent
From bays of seafaring faces,
The sea of pearled possibilities
Where beneath the rim and the rhythm
Coral shells and speckled fish
Water me with colour
https://tintean.org.au/2017/02/06/poetry-13/
Even as the tides subside
I glide the horizon like a black-
Backed gull.
Waves of awe unleash
A various world of
Words I find deep in the folds
Of a sail-weathered wind
Freedom
Like golden grain in my hand
Rolling the currents to fly
Against a limitless sky…
I harbour the salt and the scent
From bays of seafaring faces,
The sea of pearled possibilities
Where beneath the rim and the rhythm
Coral shells and speckled fish
Water me with colour
https://tintean.org.au/2017/02/06/poetry-13/
Saturday 28 April 2018
CROSSROADS
One of my poems published in 'Gifts of the Mind'
One of my poems published by Monaghan Arts Network in this beautiful book published this year. This poem is about my granny from Castleblayney, Co. Monaghan. There are many contributions in the book from visual artists, crafts people, dance teachers, my old neighbour: entertainer and actor Pat Deery, scriptwriters, historian & poetry writers, a documentary writer, songwriters, photographers, and sculpture artists. All the other contributors including myself have performed at Monaghan Arts Showcase, hence the book gratefully received. The book available to purchase at the Market House, Monaghan and other outlets around the county.
Wednesday 28 March 2018
NET CURTAINS
NET CURTAINS
I am pulling down the net curtains
in haste, the ones you hate.
I am clearing the space for
you to fill with washing
and tales of how things
are with you.
The nets are in my arms,
and your car is on
Daffodil Lane,
The smell of peat smoke,
roasted meat, wild flowers,
baked bread and now –
your perfume in my arms
In the bundle of nets I hold
(A poem from a few years ago when we nearly moved to a house with net curtains and our daughter was mortified, and I imagined living there and her coming home from college for the weekend)
I am pulling down the net curtains
in haste, the ones you hate.
I am clearing the space for
you to fill with washing
and tales of how things
are with you.
The nets are in my arms,
and your car is on
Daffodil Lane,
The smell of peat smoke,
roasted meat, wild flowers,
baked bread and now –
your perfume in my arms
In the bundle of nets I hold
(A poem from a few years ago when we nearly moved to a house with net curtains and our daughter was mortified, and I imagined living there and her coming home from college for the weekend)
Tuesday 20 March 2018
MOURNING
MOURNING
I think, it was the winding lane that did it – the one
Lined with daffodils: Wordsworth would have approved.
I had my own poem set out – open like the cupped
Yellow offerings; perhaps I’d have added in: Sun-trapped
Stone steps - coming down from the white-washed loft;
And what the house held:
The bed-rails, the heavy wardrobe and ancient drawers,
The lace of the curtains, and the old dresser,
A range to help a kettle sing, and streams,
Of light across the lanolin floor – peeping
From wide window-sills, with hills outside.
Now, I have to content myself with the fact that - we have
A bigger vegetable patch here, than the little fenced one
At the back of the cottage we nearly had –
I knew the man who lived there once.
https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/helen-harrison
.
I think, it was the winding lane that did it – the one
Lined with daffodils: Wordsworth would have approved.
I had my own poem set out – open like the cupped
Yellow offerings; perhaps I’d have added in: Sun-trapped
Stone steps - coming down from the white-washed loft;
And what the house held:
The bed-rails, the heavy wardrobe and ancient drawers,
The lace of the curtains, and the old dresser,
A range to help a kettle sing, and streams,
Of light across the lanolin floor – peeping
From wide window-sills, with hills outside.
Now, I have to content myself with the fact that - we have
A bigger vegetable patch here, than the little fenced one
At the back of the cottage we nearly had –
I knew the man who lived there once.
https://sites.google.com/a/lapwingpublications.com/lapwing-store/helen-harrison
.
Sunday 11 March 2018
MUM AND SPUDS
Mother's Day poem about my own mum....
MUM AND SPUDS
How are you managing for heating oil?
Do you know that Mrs Mullen died?
I hope you like onions with your stuffing?
You said in your text that you’re on nights next.
Heaped on offerings of food,
Hot pans make mood for flavour.
Television. Loud repeated soaps,
Water hissing on stove. Potato
Peelings blocking sink - no time to think;
Can I help? I question her red face,
No it’s alright - clean the windows instead -
but listen; wait until after you’re fed.
Tuesday 13 February 2018
POTATOES
POTATOES
I can smell the sweet potato peel
Upon my skin – and I visualise walking
Amongst the summer rows.
I pick over the box of earthy potatoes.
When I pull one that is perfect
I turn it in my hand like a gold nugget –
Buried in my memory – a charm.
I peel back happiness from the soil,
Memories drop into a watery bowl;
The day we planted them – sowing
Love which had lain on the edges.
Uncertain, I nearly threw love out
With un-seeded tubers; to decay in hedges.
Instead I wrapped them and stored them
In a cold shed – for spring planting;
I can already see your face shining pride
At flowering drills; you stand with a wide-stance;
The posture of the accomplished soul – your eyes,
Stare lovingly at each planted offering.
Published in my poetry collection ‘The Last Fire’ (Lapwing Publications).
I can smell the sweet potato peel
Upon my skin – and I visualise walking
Amongst the summer rows.
I pick over the box of earthy potatoes.
When I pull one that is perfect
I turn it in my hand like a gold nugget –
Buried in my memory – a charm.
I peel back happiness from the soil,
Memories drop into a watery bowl;
The day we planted them – sowing
Love which had lain on the edges.
Uncertain, I nearly threw love out
With un-seeded tubers; to decay in hedges.
Instead I wrapped them and stored them
In a cold shed – for spring planting;
I can already see your face shining pride
At flowering drills; you stand with a wide-stance;
The posture of the accomplished soul – your eyes,
Stare lovingly at each planted offering.
Published in my poetry collection ‘The Last Fire’ (Lapwing Publications).
Saturday 20 January 2018
Wednesday 17 January 2018
The Rhythm of Wood
The Rhythm of Wood
‘Hazel burns well; made for fire.
Ash splits and cuts easily. The thorn
is the best. Elders are useless’, he gestures
through gaps. His hands are veined
like leaves; he touches his cap in thought.
A character from this town land,
born of the substance of soil;
his pride in wood-piles.
A shy bachelor smile, and dragging a branch,
comments on the cold season. His furrowed brow
like his fields are full with life, but worn
with the tread of time. Fertilized with the rapture of repetition,
feeding his ragged trouser philanthropy?
Forty acres with a rose-scented doorway to the past,
at last reconciled to being a bachelor and a good neighbour.
I smile gratitude for his earthy routine –
the rhythm of wood freely given.
Recently published here....
http://www.orbisjournal.com/
‘Hazel burns well; made for fire.
Ash splits and cuts easily. The thorn
is the best. Elders are useless’, he gestures
through gaps. His hands are veined
like leaves; he touches his cap in thought.
A character from this town land,
born of the substance of soil;
his pride in wood-piles.
A shy bachelor smile, and dragging a branch,
comments on the cold season. His furrowed brow
like his fields are full with life, but worn
with the tread of time. Fertilized with the rapture of repetition,
feeding his ragged trouser philanthropy?
Forty acres with a rose-scented doorway to the past,
at last reconciled to being a bachelor and a good neighbour.
I smile gratitude for his earthy routine –
the rhythm of wood freely given.
Recently published here....
http://www.orbisjournal.com/
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)