Alone in Rio

If you were here,
Sugarloaf Mountain would be
All the sweeter,
And ‘Christ the Redeemer’
Could relax his arms.
We would make love in the heat,
Then sleep.
Instead I sweat out old battles under
The sheet.

If you were here,
The air conditioning would not blow,
Hot and fever cold.
We would have been upgraded to First,
And I would have ventured beyond the hotel,
For something to eat.

If you were here,
We would be drinking this
city together.
From a bar overlooking
Copacabana,
In wide screen format,
Making up words to ‘The Girl From Ipanema.’

But instead, I’m sharing photos with you, who is
Half way around the world
Of places half-heartedly been,
Half-seen,
Without you.

If only you were here.

Late Summer

This morning I used the stepping stones of freshly poured gold
To walk between the trees.

I breathed the night-cleansed air that I have too long taken for granted,
Filled my lungs until they burst.

I felt the warmth of the climbing sun on my face and fondly
Remembered loved-ones long gone.

I tasted the forest on my palate, like good wine, and thought
Of friends I could invite to dinner.

I saw autumn in the parched undergrowth and wilting leaves
And suddenly grew impatient for its technicolour thrill.

This morning I drank the world in and it stayed with me
And that is all I can ask.

August 2023

Gulls

Gulls

I used to hear the seagulls
In the distance, and tell my sons
That they had been swept inland
By a storm out at sea. Because
That is what my father had said to me.

But as I got older I used to wonder,
If they had sought sanctuary of their own
Accord, following the Medway,
Through the locks and surrounding hills.
Calling, calling to others lost.

Until today, I did a walk that I had never
Done before – the path sticky
And uneven beneath my feet. Alone,
I found myself looking over my shoulder
In spite of sunshine and an open sky.

I walked and walked until the path,
Opened out onto a familiar road.
Looked up to see the seagulls circling,
And swooping like pairs and pairs of
Old mens’ eyebrows set free on the air.

Realised no storm had blown them,
Of course, nor that they had followed
A stream to its source. But rather they had
Found, as scavengers will, the local tip,
With all its temptations in a skip.

August 2022

Winchelsea Beach

Setting off down the beach 
We slip and slide, 
On the slow, ancient tide of shells and stones
That shifts beneath our feet.

While puppet-string gulls
Dance on the wind, 
And rod-and-arm ships line up astern against 
An early sky.

Then hit our stride, piston legs
Perfectly in time,
The shingle making the sound of pulsing steam
With every tread.

Soon it is time to sit and eat,
Catch our breath, 
While lazy teenage squalls skulk, late home
From a night offshore.

Each of us coveting the smooth
Marbled pebbles, 
In our pockets, now cherished memories set free 
From here, for evermore.


May 2022

Kent and Sussex Poetry, local poetry, winchelsea

Kent and Sussex Poetry, local poetry, seaside poetry, SimonDenegripoetry, winchelsea

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.

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