Earthed

When I first got home from the hospital,
I kept lifting my t-shirt to have a closer look.

With a hypochondriac’s flair for projection,
I convinced myself that this gadget –
White, translucent,
Resting against my middle-aged, sagging skin,
Like a prematurely born computer mouse –
Already had a worried look about it.

But I grew fond of it over time.
Day and night, it listened dutifully to my heartbeat.
When I felt faint or dizzy, I pressed a button
And it ‘beeped’ reassuringly at me,
As if opening one, sleepy eye to say,
‘It’s ok. I’ve got you.’

One morning I caught sight of myself in the mirror,
And the wires reminded me of those half-finished buildings,
Where the electrics hang from ceilings.
It didn’t take much of a leap to go from there,
To the tired surgeon, post-op,
Pushing my innards back inside.

‘I am earthed.’ – I joked to my friend – ‘like a plug!
Or a clock tower.’
Waiting for a lightning bolt to strike.
‘And these are the wires that one day might save me.’

Truth

This was written at the time of the first lockdown in March. Somehow still seemed relevant.

For once, it was true,
We could see as far as the eye could see.
Further than the all too familiar roofs, to the ridge
Beyond, and the one beyond that.
Like waves waiting their turn at the beach.

And the scent of spring flowers and
Cherry blossom was carried with ease,
On a gentle breeze and settled on our clothes.
Where it stayed until we reached our front door,
And the stale smell of a life spent indoors.

And we realised that all the things that we
Had said then, had been lies. And that how we
Had said them, had also been lies. To ourselves,
To our loved-ones, and to our friends.
Because we had not known life like we do now.

So who has been more unmasked, I ask?
Is it mother nature freed from the greasy man-made haze,
Her breathing unobstructed by our grime.
Or is it our lives and how we have chosen to
Pretend, pretend, pretend.

On Bidborough Ridge

Another poem inspired by my local area with references to Bidborough, Southborough, the Downs and A21!

On Bidborough Ridge

My heart lies in the hammock of this green valley
It’s gentle sides I pull about me on my return,
Grateful for its soft embrace and the chance at last,
To rest, far from the world I once devoured,
Before it turned on me and then took chase.

The field where I fumbled through my teenage years
In golden nests amongst the hay -I heard not long ago,
she had passed away –
The white bell-tower of my old school
From whose negligence I made a full recovery.

But today, when I climbed to the high ridge
And looked below, at the remnants of that
Which I used to know, beneath this sky
That silk screens the clouds, I saw
Nothing beyond the road that slips
Beyond the dusty evening Downs.

An unknown future beckons and I am reluctant,
To follow, an old dog dragging behind its master,
Beneath St Peter’s clock which has been three minutes late,
Ever since they bound and gagged,
Our churches with black tape
And the birds became our evensong
In a clear cathedral sky.

This land
My comfortI shall gladly take
But I am no fool, this is my end
There are no pastures new.

July 2021

The Apple

If I said to you that a single, large red apple
Appeared on our sapling this year,
I would not blame you for being unimpressed.

But 12 months ago, the very same tree
Bore no fruit on its withered branches,
And its leaves curled in pain like arthitic fingers.

Unexpected, miraculous, by late summer
The apple was bursting with red-faced pride
On the low, sagging branch from which it hung.

Not even the autumn gale that finally shook
The apple from the tree for a passing
Hungry fox, could wipe our smiles away.

For isn’t this what nature does? Bring hope
Where there was none. And where there is hope
There is a tree that grows stronger by the day.

Simon Denegri

First draft Dec 20, published May 2021

Holden Pond

The blacksmith’s hammer
And the tanner’s mallet
Fell silent here a long time ago.

Their calloused pounding hands
And leather beating hearts
Now lying six feet under.

Earthen scars of forgotten
Trades, slowly fade in the shade
Cast by carefree trees.

And, but for the ducks
With their flotillas of young,
These waters would be still.

The perfect place
For my troubled mind
To rest and forge these lines.

SD 10/4/21

The end of the day

Lie me here and tuck me in.
But I beg you, do not wake me.
Do not bring me round
When tomorrow comes.

Please. No mention of the morning.
Or what the day may hold.
For I will only be disappointed.

Let me be.
Let me sleep and hope,
That I will take the dream
I always said I would.

I am tired. So tired.
I wash. I dress. I eat. Then soil my clothes.
Forever in the company of others.

The end of the day is here,
The morning has lost its sheen,
And tomorrow is for others.

SD
April 21

Intimacy

An old friend long bidden but forever shy
This afternoon, soft-spoken, timid, came by.
The impatient hands of the prying clock
And heavy limbs that used to mock,
Stepped aside, let old familiarity pass
A torch held high and nature unmasked.
So that all our fears, that were once at play
Beneath our feet, now trampled lay.
And settled in our yearnng hearts once more
So that this will always be our chosen shore.

Simon Denegri
February 2020

The art of sweeping leaves

Some fetch a rake and broom,
A rusty dustpan and old brush,
Two wooden boards of equal length,
And choose a frosty afternoon
To gather the harvest’s golden blooms.

Others make mounds of good intent
But lazily leave them to brood
All winter in the corner of their yard,
A flat black patch of mulch and mould
The crumpled cloak of a stricken villain.

My Dad would make a bonfire
And let me stoke the flames with questions
As numerous as the autumn colours,
Together we would watch them climb
Through the empty trees unanswered.

Now I find myself sweeping
All before me, with one hope only,
That the wind will catch these leaves
Until their blades are spinning free
Like Latin dancers, and with them me.

Simon Denegri
January 2020

Day Moon

Day Moon
Why do you linger so?
A single pearl
On a silver plate.

Are you a meddling moon
Ready to make
The sun blush
With your mischief?

Or night’s spy turned thief
Here to steal
The early
Morning light?

Maybe a run away moon
A furtive fugitive
Of darkness
Past?

Broken free and fleeing
From black holes
Space stations
And the like.

If so I am here for you.
Let me pocket you
And we can be
Gone.

Simon Denegri

St Lucia
October 2019

Poem: Austin Princess

Austin Princess

On Sunday afternoons
He would escape with her,
To a lay-by where rocky outcrops
Ran like mascara down the hillside.

Away from the Battenberg lawn,
The spotless rooms with curtains
Drawn. Far from the silence behind
Their tight-lipped front door.

And sit awhile with windows down
Listening to Piccadilly 261 stereo 97,
The Pennine air sending him to sleep
His arm resting on the back of her seat.

One time they came to watch a distant
Chimney being felled, and when the dust
Settled saw it crumpled but defiant,
Like a giant knight on bended knee.

He remembered then how the distant chimneys
Would smoke day and night like his father,
Blue clouds curling like serpents
Round his legs, then cowering at his feet.

But he didn’t share the sound of Dad’s shoes,
And how they squeaked like an old pub sign
In a storm, when he climbed the stairs.
Some things she did not need to know.

October 2019
Simon Denegri