More poems from an earlier incarnation
Work for which, irrespective of the passing of time, I retain a lasting fondness...

The Grain of the Wood Do you see that face in the grain of the wood? The hooked nose; the frown above bushy eyebrows? Do you sense the menace in that warped smile? There is witchcraft and entrapment there. Do you see the wings of that bird, spread wide in its swoop toward the window, lured by sunlight and the make-believe of escape? Perhaps it is mainly children who can see these things; innocents who see elephants and alligators in clouds through car widows on long motorway journeys. Is it the freedom of imagination or the chains of boredom that opens their eyes this way? Do you recall the copse near the lake where we used to stray an age ago? And if so, can you see, etched in your mind’s eye the clumsy initials we once carved there? Since you have been gone I have not ventured to the lake, that copse; but somehow, once again, I can see monsters in the grain of the wood.
The Permanence of Shrapnel There is a photograph of the house in an aerial view of an estuary and on the glass that frames it smudge marks left by museum goers who have pointed out his former home. Perhaps reverence comes from knowing genius is so elusive; rare enough to warrant understanding, investigation. Research triggers ethical concerns. It is a kind of archaeology where ideas and insights are kindled, where suggestions and notions fall below the common standard that might have been expected, considering. Ignoring vague hypotheses, for him clarity would arise at unexpected times, the happiest of accidents where promise and opportunity collide and lead him beyond the confines of his study to words he had no intention of playing suddenly dredged from the estuary’s silt almost, cloaked in layers of muck and magic, whose smoothing and polishing unravelled complex and mythical qualities. Yet still he feels like a hopeless casualty, the wounding bullet still in place, his attempts to self-medicate wedded to the verdict of history and the smudge marks on a photograph’s frame.
Ripples We used to fish in the summer, hand-held lines disappearing into the rippling lake invisible after the first foot or so. We kid ourselves still about the blueness of water and the perfection of the sky, but on some unblemished days you could pick out the ribs of the boat from the shore café where our parents took tea and scones, and combined protection with indulgence in our freedom. Once Jack caught a small silver fish and we argued over its name waiting too long to return it to the water, disappointing the girls with its needless demise. If there were accidents, I do not recall them now. I remember laughter and boisterousness, and once losing an oar over the side, the boat rocking wildly and generating fear and fun in equal measure. If our parents noticed they never said, rather choosing to softly lecture us on safety and offer mild admonishment when more than five of us went out at any one time. I blur those days now into a single image - of Jack holding up the fish, the girls laughing, and somewhere in the bow, me intent on my line and staring through the water - an image that has become a photograph, something stored in my mind to represent childhood and how it is supposed to be idyllic. It would be good to go fishing on the lake again, but we would need two boats now even though Jack’s no longer with us; his summers numbered all too few only living on in our memory of them.
These poems are included in Selected Poems 1976-2022.
Beautiful, Ian. Particularly love The Permanence of Shrapnel. Could it be about Dylan Thomas? Forgive me for openly trying to interrupt, but it struck me as such.
I like Ripples very much, especially the detail of events. The poem is both celebratory and poignant, nicely poised between the two.