Tag: poetry

The Old Way 5

On By Mick CanningIn creative writing, poetry, The Old Way, travel, writing13 Comments

Poem five out of six.

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The Old Way 5

 

The Old Way now rises,

Leaving the rich damp soil behind

And attacking the ridge.

It becomes a wound, a scar,

A deep, dry incision in the chalk.

It runs up beneath the shelter of ancient trees,

Their roots knotted and matted beside the path,

It passes a mound, faintly visible in the turf;

The ghost of a cottage, if buildings can become ghosts.

Although is there any reason why they shouldn’t?

If they die abandoned, deserted and unloved,

After long years, perhaps only their sadness remains.

 

There are other ghosts here, too.

You might tell me it is only in my imagination

That I hear the plod of hooves, or

Voices speaking in strange tongues,

That I hear the creaking of cart and harness.

But I have heard them.

I know that we are walking in the footsteps of giants,

And giants do not fade away readily.

 

 

The Old Way 4

On By Mick CanningIn creative writing, poetry, The Old Way, writing11 Comments

Poem number four in a series of six.

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The Old Way 4

 

Of course, I had been in a rush to get here.

I think I had been walking for about an hour

Before I reached this path.

But even so,

I had not realised how fast I was going.

 

I had known I needed to get away

(that almost goes without saying),

But finally I arrive, and I slow down.

I slow down so I might look and see.

 

And breathe.

 

I slow down to feel the breeze

And the sun on my head.

I slow down to hear the birds.

I am in no hurry,

Now I’m walking on the Old Way.

 

I have bread and cheese, and I have an apple,

As though I were one of those folk

Travelling in a bygone age.

My only concession to today is a plastic bag.

 

Which I now regret.

The Old Way 3

On By Mick CanningIn poetry, The Old Way, writing10 Comments

Number three in a series of poems.

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The Old Way 3

 

If in some distant future

Our roads are haunted

By the ghosts of countless travellers,

I wonder if,

Instead of ghostly horses and their riders,

Our descendants will be terrified

By the spectres of lorry drivers,

And motor cyclists.

 

But the Old Way

Has already seen ten times

Ten thousand travellers,

And all that over the course of

Many times a thousand years.

 

For all that time

It has linked cottage and farm.

For thousands of years

It has linked town and hamlet,

Village and encampment.

 

All that time.

 

And if ghosts there be,

Travelling the way,

It must surely be crowded.

The Old Way 2

On By Mick CanningIn poetry, The Old Way, writing10 Comments

This is the second poem in a series of six.

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The Old Way 2

 

I’m walking along the Old Way,

And I exult.

Nowhere else are roads so gentle beneath my feet.

Nowhere else would I find the path before me

So soft, and sprinkled with stars.

 

Let me stop for a moment and close my eyes.

Let me just be still and silent

And feel the ground beneath my feet.

 

I must connect, or re-connect, with the world.

With my world.

Here, I can feel the past as a living thing,

And like a meditation,

I can use this

To still my troubled mind.

The Old Way 2

On By Mick CanningIn poetry, The Old Way, writingLeave a comment

This is the second poem in a series of six.

128a

The Old Way 2

 

I’m walking along the Old Way,

And I exult.

Nowhere else are roads so gentle beneath my feet.

Nowhere else would I find the path before me

So soft, and sprinkled with stars.

 

Let me stop for a moment and close my eyes.

Let me just be still and silent

And feel the ground beneath my feet.

 

I must connect, or re-connect, with the world.

With my world.

Here, I can feel the past as a living thing,

And like a meditation,

I can use this

To still my troubled mind.

 

The Old Way 1

On By Mick CanningIn poetry, The Old Way, writing21 Comments

This is poem number one in a series of six, the rest of which which I’ll post through the coming week.

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The Old Way 1

 

I often think the modern world feels like a party,

In a huge room filled with loud and boorish guests

Monopolising the conversation and jabbing fingers

And shouting each other down.

Me? I’m the one hiding in the kitchen;

I’m the one holding a drink and leaning against the wall,

Looking fed up with the whole wretched thing.

 

And just to continue with this analogy,

I feel as though I’ve tried the side door

And found it unlocked and,

With a quick glance around to see if anyone’s watching,

I’ve slipped out, away from the modern world.

 

 

On A Home Visit

On By Mick CanningIn poetry, writing9 Comments

On A Home Visit

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It has been a long time.

 

But when I used to live here

Did I notice how neatly

The trees seem to fit

Between earth and sky?

 

Did I realise

How right it all was?

 

The just-ness of the hills

Rising to the east,

And the is-ness

Of fields and streams.

 

My world of changeless certainty.

 

Home

On By Mick CanningIn poetry, walking, writing22 Comments

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I’m walking on tracks,

On familiar tracks,

Under blue sky,

In the evening light.

My shadow before me,

The wind behind.

 

I’m yawning now,

And my legs are tired.

I’m looking forward to supper,

A beer and then bed.

 

The shadows lengthen,

Along with my stride

On familiar tracks,

Along familiar tracks.

I’m heading for home,

Now,

I’m heading for home.

 

Acrobat

On By Mick CanningIn creative writing, poetry23 Comments

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Totally irrelevant photograph: Mt. Kanchenjunga from Darjeeling

I don’t suppose he would think of himself as an acrobat,

As anything special.

But I watch him measuring the distance by eye,

Before he gathers himself

And leaps,

Two…

Three…

Four feet into the depths

Down

To land on the tip of a tiny wooden post,

All four paws

Together.

 

Review of Small Town Kid by Frank Prem

On By Mick CanningIn Frank Prem, poetry, Review, Small Town Kid, writing27 Comments

Small Town Kid (Frank Prem Memoir Book 1)

I have enjoyed Frank’s poetry ever since I discovered it a couple of years ago.

Small Town Kid is a book of poems about growing up in a small town in Australia during the 1960’s and 1970’s. The town is provincial, the way that small towns invariably are, where everyone knows everyone else, and everyone else’s business.

In those days, a small town was very different to a small town today, now the internet and social media have changed even the slow-paced life of these places forever. And so those of a certain age will recognise many of the situations and much of subject matter of these poems, while to those much younger they may well seem almost alien.

Rich in emotions, as well as in visual detail, we listen to Frank describe experiences such as hunting rabbits, letting off fireworks, and going on picnics, turning his nose up at his mother’s cooking and enjoying his grandmother’s cakes, suffering school and returning home at the end of the day. We find ourselves both observing and participating in the day to day life of his town.

This could be any small town, and any child. If you could extract the peculiarly Australian nuances and replace them with others, the poems might be about a small town anywhere and any child who grew up in it.

The poems are presented in an order showing the boy growing up from his earliest years through to reaching young adulthood, taking the reader on a journey alongside him.

And they have that power, that they transport you there.

Frank writes sparingly, knowing like an artist when to stop. But everything is there, and the writing invariably has beauty no matter what its subject matter.

Unhesitatingly, I give this book five stars.

You can find more of Frank’s poetry on his blogsites:

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