WHOLE
At that window,
with the colours drying out
Into less drab greens and browns,
the peace and quiet
in the soft yellow-green land
slowly arcs its way into distance
trees with bare boughs
and bushes with wide curtseys
clutter the foreground of,
Leads me to hope,
that maybe things are getting better.
Standing here at the window is no worse than before,
Hollowness
in front of listless colours and woods.
Maybe the birds that chatter,
Louder now as I listen more,
and the flowering that will flower
and the nature-things that will grow
will heal me, and mine,
and make us as we were.
GROWN OUT OF
The ticktock of the clock recalls pre-digital me.
Awareness of self,
in a country lane surrounded by green bits,
or immersed in the silence of ticking clocks,
was poetry.
I was poetry. I was words scratched on paper,
later, clicked on keyboards on computers.
Typewriters shouldn’t be forgotten.
I used all mediums to express my expressibility.
The murmuring of breezes through trees,
the solemnity of aloneness in a room,
didn’t need pen, key or tab, just me there
to record me there. My moment.
Vulgar, and silly, of course.
I look back at the arrogance of life.
But I’m still turning over the pages,
clicking on to the next one.
And the next.
Recording my journey through life.
Fabricating a storyline.
CAPO DI MONTE
A porcelain figure stooping
slightly, legs close together,
right arm held down, slightly
away from body.
Left arm hugging a tankard
midriff,
head nodding slightly
to follow the upper body’s stoop.
Ever so slightly about to tip
over, feet though, barely visible,
tight
on the deep, white podium.
Dirty white, save a golden
band topping the tankard.
Fuzzy hair, and young boy’s face
from where I sit
glancing at the corner
where the porcelain figure stands
atop the cabinet.
Alan Hardy has for many years run an English language school for foreign students (in UK). As well as Synchronized Chaos, he’s been published in such magazines as Sideways Magazine, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Candyman’s Trumpet, Envoi, Iota, Poetry Salzburg, The Interpreter’s House, Littoral, Orbis, Pulsar, South, Lothlorien, 100subtexts, Fixator, Chewers, Feversofthemind, Suburban Witchcraft and others. Poetry pamphlets Wasted Leaves (1996) and I Went with Her (2007).
I really enjoyed your poetry.
Why does the poet write, when so much of this world often dims the light within, when all the poet has is scars, when the poet writes from the wound, yes, why does the poet write? The poet writes to make sense of their world, to nourish their souls, to feed the adversity that challenges them, with overwhelming grace, with triumphs. It is always up to the poet to find the key and unlock the door to their imagination and creativity. The poet’s soul is often restless, but magic resides there, often dormant, but once the poet picks up the pen, something occurs instantaneously, the spark of its mystery is lit, a tension is magnified and released. It is important to read poetry. Poetry is not only a gifted teacher or therapeutic instrument, poetry is a great healer.
This poetry is beautiful, profound, and it captivates. I write poetry in search of human connection, in search of connecting with other souls through words and verses and lines. I write about suns and moons and bitter volcanoes, but I am really writing about the people in my life, the men and women I have met, and UI write about the men I have loved, the family members I have loved, and who I still love and admire and respect and I write about the people who have left me, and who have now become a part of the fabric of the universe, who have now turned into stars. I was transfixed from beginning to end. We write to speak to another soul, not just to impact another soul or to influence another soul, but we write in search of something that is lost, something that is hidden from view, we write to fix, we write to translate, we write to find meaning, to find hope. We write to repair, and we write to replace. The poet writes to find their purpose, the poet writes to heal.
Reading other poets work leaves me completely mesmerized. I fall in love with words. They are like flowers, they bloom inside my mind, inside my heart, in my hands. I always wish that I could write to these poets who in an instant transform my life, and by leaving a comment, I feel I am communicating with them in some small way. When I read a new poem, a new poet, I discover their truths, their outlook, their perspective, their school of thought. It’s an education, learning about their philosophy and their dreams. I will try to find more of your poetry. Thank you for writing these poems. I, too, enjoyed reading them. They opened a new world to me.