Lightshaw

Old memories

Lark ascending into an old English chronicle

Summer vertical musical steps into a curved span of sky

Saw buzzing flies. Whisking tails,

Mud dozed trampled track

Hoary trees winding bows across a reflective rill spilling

catching silver river rings rising

stickleback caught and drowned men seen

 

The music of ancient loft spaces and beamed golden air

And the mote God cosmos of straw chewed sentences

Lazily shouted across work unfinished and sharp tools abandoned

Noises abroad spread by hazed distance

Bells and clang and steam machine whispered

Followed in speed by oiled smell and then slight spotted movement

 

Lazy deep seasons heat,

 

winged peace sleep complete

 

flower singing buzzing meadow

 

down sifting breezing shallow

 

soft liquid drinking made

 

willow blue wafting shade

 

pool clear sly trail

 

sky shine wind sail

 

arched bridge breeze melt

 

orchard fruit times felt

 

sound singing green reed

 

field mouse ear chickweed

 

Writing, painfully painting his familiar landscapes in an inadequate medium. She is his

 

audience, his critic, his biographer of feeling. These writes are his wishes as he thinks

 

about creating. Only for her. Only for everyone else through her. He believes only she can

 

truly understand and reciprocate in writing from far away.

 

 

Mist clearing from a story told of childhood

 

Sung birds and calling to come home

 

Across fields and late for the lessons

 

Of beaten breath and dangerous unwilling smiles

 

A world of his lonely place

 

Peace and errant absence

 

A place of green nature

 

And ultimate happiness

 

Sung to a woman in a far distant place

 

Who he knew then

 

But never met

 

Until he loved her

 

And her golden hair.

 

 

 

Author's Note

The photograph is mine and is called Empty.
Lightshaw is the old farm, (1610) where I spent a significant amount of my childhood. It was pronounced Leeshi in my Lancashire dialect.

Reviews

[Dean]

Ken, I bumped up against the second line of the second stanza, and the more I read (over and over) the remainder of the poem, this seemingly curious wording began for me, a summary of the entire piece--the involvement of every day's labor and noise, with the spell of so many captivating things, the buzzing meadow singing with flowers, (synesthesia?) the arched bridge, the windy sky, even the scampering field mouse--and finally you leave me with the seeming afterthought of "her golden hair", haunting me as I reflect on the panorama of thought, work, vistas, and an added soft echo! Magic,indeed!

[Ken Simm.]

When I was young Dean, I often thought that the golden dust motes I saw in the air were God. Because I was told that He was everywhere and everything. I had asked the Vicar what omnipotent meant. That was where that line came from. There were lots of dust motes in the hay making barn. I was given an egg for my wages.
I'm so glad you liked this one.

[Ken Simm.]

There was an element of synethesia in this time as well.

[Dean]

They are God, aren't they?
--and how short sighted of the Christians (I was one once) to define god (God?) as a "he"---or any definition at all.

[Ken Simm.]

So was I, then I think. I agree by definition He/She/They/it would defy definition.

[Dean]

good to have something in common with you. You are light years ahead of me as a poet.

[Ken Simm.]

Pish tush and pshaw. Dean. Not true but thank you.

[shallimarRose]

I love how you began this by drawing a picture with your ink for us.. The body flowed effortlessly with fantastic usage of adjectives ... Continuing your story painfully.. "Writing, painfully painting his familiar landscapes in an inadequate medium" He believes only she can understand him....and can "truly understand and reciprocate in writing from far away" I love the usage of metaphor and the melancholy reminiscent I got from this.. Fantastic writing.. shallimarRose

[Ken Simm.]

Wonderful that you like it Rose.

[shallimarRose]

my pleasure.. shallimarRose

[TrimarcoRansome]

I felt, I saw, I heard, I smelled, wonderful poetry!

[Ken Simm.]

I'm glad you did all those things. Sorry about the delay in replying, some time in catching up after my trip.

[TrimarcoRansome]

The sun is out! we should all be out there enjoying it! Hope you had a great trip.

[cartera]

Only for her. Lucky her. Last line a bit prosaic after all that had gone before,but if she has golden hair, she has golden hair.
Atb
Alex.

[Ken Simm.]

And she does Alex. Sorry about the delay but I've been up in the mountains around the 5 Sisters and cullins. Thank you so much for looking and liking.

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

She is his audience, his critic, his biographer of feeling-- Love this line.

You have written extremely eloquently here. All of the poetic devices were put to good use, and the imagery was stellar. You are very introsepctive with your writing, and you manage to weave a story within the lines that we can follow throughout in an "easy flow" manner. Well done.

[Ken Simm.]

Thank you Sarah for reading and liking. You are very good to me.

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

All deserving!

[ChemicalMadness]

I think about this woman often...only for everyone else through her....those words floored me. I wrote (and this is not at all a personal plug) recently "restore my ache"....,I think you hit on that here, if that makes sense to you. I sure hope it does.
I'm truly taken with this.
CM.

[Ken Simm.]

It does my friend and I am grateful for your words about this. Thank you.

[emmajoy]

You have an incredible way of writing a sentence that slides into an entire chapter - every word meaningful, ' Hoary trees winding bows across a reflective rill spilling.. catching silver river rings.. '

Feeling as if i've just read snippets of a part real, part secret history, spaces where memories and hopes were laid. Tis more than beautiful, in spite of the sadness, 'Across fields and late for the lessons. Of beaten breath and dangerous unwilling smiles.. '

[Ken Simm.]

You have picked up on the difference between my home and my real home Emma. You really know how to read me and I thank you for that.

[TL Boehm]

Bells and clang and steam machine whispered

Followed in speed by oiled smell and then slight spotted movement

I think this is the part that really pulled me in - you captured that feeling so well. I remember summers, standing by equipment - often dirk bikes up at the lake in the woods and the air was permeated with shifting light, birdsong and the scents and sounds of the machinery. This is both an earthy and an atmospheric work. Beautifully done.

[Ken Simm.]

Smell is so evocative don't you think. Thank you so much for liking this Tammy(?)

[Emily B]

so much of what we write isn't literary, the way we learned it in school, but you somehow manage to combine the lofty ideals of the old masters with a contemporary art that feels like flying through an oil painting

i think it is magic

[Ken Simm.]

You mean when I write such things as ....Spit, ping, dang missed again! And other such gems.
I always look forward to your visits Emily.

[Emily B]

it was good enough for Shakespeare ;)

[Ken Simm.]

What Walter Brennan said was Shakesspeare? I didn't know that.

[Emily B]

who is walter brennan?

[Ken Simm.]

From all the old John Ford westerns. Thats what he used to say when trying to hit the spitoon.
Right that attempt at humour and self deprication went down like a lead balloon Kenneth.

[Emily B]

:)

you should see what I get usually . . .

[Ken Simm.]

http://celebgreat.com/Best-awards-winners/Walter-Brennan.html

[Mrs Edith Hat]

Most enjoyable sir. One can only hope that you meet your Muse sooner rather than later.

[Ken Simm.]

I think I waited long enough. Many, many thanks dear Mrs Hat.

[Mrs Edith Hat]

Finger out young Man. Finger out.

[Ken Simm.]

Please Mrs Hat. Decorum!

[Mrs Edith Hat]

I am far too old for decorum young man. Discretion however...

[Ken Simm.]

The cheque is in the post. I hope.