Grief of a man, by Stephen Lovejoy

 He dared the sun to rise the next morning. Even the giant ball of flaming gas quailed under the fiery heat of his rage. It had barely begun to peek over the horizon before it promptly changed its mind and descended, plunging the village into an eerie twilight that was to last for 80 days.

The villagers pierced the darkness with candles, giving the once sunny town a crypt-like ambience. The odd futile attempt was made at the continuation of an everyday life. These were soon abandoned, until every last person was joined with him in mournful vigil. They sat in silence and darkness measuring the time through the howls of rage that thundered out as the clocks struck each hour.

In the gaps between, they could hear nothing but destruction. The rats and pigeons had fled and the trees were clutching tightly to their leaves, lest they should attract the red eyes of his wrath. He destroyed the crib, the marital bed, the picture frames. But he couldn’t stop. With his bare hands, he tore down the entire house.

When the powder of the last shattered brick dropped from his hand, he let out one final cry. It reverberated through the village, bouncing off the walls and eaves, slicing through the villagers and plunging them into a cold sweat. His voice broke, never to be used again. A single tear dropped from his eye, then another. 

As the second tear graced the now barren ground, the sun peered tentatively above the horizon. It pulled itself up, slowly at first, but with growing confidence. The villagers stepped out, blinking, into the fresh hopeful light. As one, they turned their smarting eyes to the hill where the proud house had formerly stood. 

He was there, sat still as stone, eyes closed, a small sorrowful smile upon his lips.

Crist, by Cynewulf

 "Eala Earendel engla beorhtast

ofer middangeard monnum sended"

(Lines from a long religious poem, "Crist" in Anglo-Saxon alliterative verse by the 9th century Northumbrian poet Cynewulf)

"Hail Earendel, brightest of the angels

Over Middle Earth sent unto man"

(translated by PGS)

The thought of Earendel sailing his boat across the heavens was one of one of the first ideas that inspired Tolkien in the writing of his great epics "The Silmarillion" and "The Lord of the Rings". He thought it might be a reference both to Jesus and to the morning star. 

Milly's Treat, by Peter Morford

   My wife Sally, our son Tom, his wife, Lorna, and their little daughter, Milly. are in the afternoon sun, watching the traffic go by. Across the road is the wide beach at low-tide.

   Sally winks at me and I know what she’s thinking. “How nice it is to be relaxed grandparents seeing the world through the eyes of a child who’s five today.”

   We order wine. What would Milly like?

   Her face lights up. “I want a Kickerboxer story.” A pause. “Please.”

   “You mean a knickerbocker glory.”

   “That’s what I said, “Kickerboxer story.”

   When the waiter returns with his tray Milly is puzzled. She looks at her treat on the table.

   “It’s too high. I can’t reach it,” she says. Without a word the waiter goes away to collect cushions. Tom grunts with the enormous effort of hoisting the laughing Milly onto her perch. She nibbles the cherry, gurgling with pleasure. We see her mind working, Which next? A probe with the long spoon. A tentative lick, A nod of approval. Like a miner hunting for treasure she eventually reaches the bottom, scrapes the last drop of goodness and carefully licks her spoon. I half- expect her to ask for another one but instead she wants to get back into the sea.

   We’re ready to go. Milly leads the way between the parked cars. Lorna shouts “Milly: stop,” but the child carries on. She’s in the road now. Tom hurries but Lorna runs. The chase is part of her fun.

   A car’s coming. In slow motion I watch the girl stop in the road. The car comes on, there’s a scream of fright from mother and daughter, then a thud. The car stops and Milly’s underneath, screaming. I can only see her head. The driver jumps out, leaving the engine running, saying something I couldn't understand. 

   A crowd gathers and I could hear snatches of shocked words. The car was speeding.. No the child didn’t give him time. Someone get an ambulance. Call the police!

   A man pushes through. On hands and knees he says “She’s between the wheels. Back the car very slowly.” The driver edges back and the stranger carefully checks for injuries. There’s the welcome scream of the approaching ambulance.

   The para-medic examines her and agrees there doesn’t appear to be anything broken but he would take her to the hospital for XRays. Her parents could travel with her and we old folk would have to find a taxi.

   At the hospital we wait anxiously for what seems like hours. We hardly speak, our minds full of fear. What if….?

   At last Tom , Lorna and Milly come out. Milly is dancing. “They took pictures of me and stuck a needle into my arm and I didn’t cry and they gave me a sweet and this.”

   It’s a card “Congratulations! you’re fit!”

   Tom croaks, “Don’t run away again. I’m going to keep you on a string. It’s called a rein.”

Vasil Stus

I found these poems on Facebook and thought they deserved a wider readership. 

                                                                                                         PGS 

.........................................................................................................................................

37 years ago, the poet Vasil Stus died in the 36th Perm political camp (colony VS-389/36).

Don't give up on the spring.

It's easier in the winter.

Spring, don't give up!

Hold on like salvation is ice,

hold on to the enlightened torment,

Keep holding on to the edge of your heart,

and so live it. This is the life.

***

I'm in the band of the vicious circle.

No one comes close, don't look!

Which means - no soul, no friend,

just that evil scum

Kolyma devil's jam.

And the loneliness ! As well as the evil

the look of snitches, studs...

Where are you leading me, my kin,

my tongue-tongue - for centuries?

***

Oh lord I know no offense

for that part ! i believe that is you

like a handful of raw, worthless clay

you take me, and you stir me, you oppress me,

to sculpt my image. To be in vain

another one from the flesh of Ukraine

the chunk has become a fortress. I knew a raging fever,

knew the anger of winter without edge and beginning,

and you, soul, have become so transparent,

that I don't throw shade.

***

Sofia is far gone,

flaunted like a lilac flower.

You were following me - but you didn't have time,

I did not hear that first rumble.

Snow and cold wind chill,

whistles and screams, damn moans,

dogs growling, swearing and threats,

behind the race in the race.

Stages today, stages tomorrow,

you lie down, you sit on the side...

I bless your lie ,

the road of pain, the road of destiny!

(Translation from Ukrainian to Russian by E. Sunnikovaya)

Trevor, by Brian Bilston

 

The Wall, by Peter Morford

 A wind in October blew Winston’s fence down. It wrecked my mini-greenhouse, my box hedge and my wife’s prized flowerbeds.

Straight after breakfast I decided to ask him what he was going to do about it. I rang his bell. No answer, but his car was there and he never walked anywhere. I went to the back of his house. There he was, standing by the remains looking thoughtful. He saw me. “Sorry about the fence,” he said. We studied the damage. “It’ll have to be rebuilt,” he said. “I’ll never use timber again. It never lasts. Every ten years or so I have to replace it. I’ll build a wall instead.”

I said I didn’t think he’d go to all that trouble at his age. He said, “Brick walls are best. I’ve got a book on building. If Churchill could enclose his garden I can. It might take a little time, that’s all,” he said as Molly called us to coffee.

The next day a couple of men came to remove the wreckage. Hardly had they gone when a small foundation digger arrived and Winston quickly took his first lesson. Before long he had a nice neat trench going the whole length of the garden.

Two days later a contractor poured the concrete foundation and Winston was soon ready to start building. I politely offered to help but he said something about retired bank managers and their dainty hands. I was quite relieved.

As I said, it was October, and a wet one at that. The trench flooded and Christmas loomed. His incontinent dog had taken a liking to my garden. Winston, wanting to remain a good neighbour, planted a stout post in the middle of his lawn to hold the long chain and the dog. I thanked him.

New Year was no better. Building would have to wait for warmer weather. In the meantime he took the advanced building course at the old Polytechnic.

After six months of open plan gardens I was used to the illusion of great space. It was almost a disappointment when, just before Easter, the bricks, cement and mixer arrived. In his new safety jacket and hard hat Winston was ready to start.

Realising that our presence wasn’t needed, Sheila and I headed south for the sun. For reasons I won’t go into now, our month’s holiday became two until, at last, it was time to turn back.

We got home in the afternoon. The wall looked, shall I say, right. The recycled bricks matched the house; the pointing was perfect. Winston was mowing his lawn. Seeing us, he said, “Welcome home. Molly’s got the tea. Tell us about your holiday.”

We talked about French roads and Roman traffic. I praised his wall and he said he would espalier a line of fruit trees and I should do the same.

Sheila and I spent a happy week planting flower beds. We left space for Blenheim Oranges and Conference Pears. A month later an urgent call from our eldest son in Australia made it pleasantly necessary to go east. Adelaide in May is a pleasant place.

In June we were home again. The wall was twelve feet high. I dialled Winston’s number.

The side effects of waves, by Nathalie Hildegarde Liege

 He lives at night. 

Breakfast at 2.00pm, lunch at 5.00pm, dinner listening to midnight radio. 

So many hours on his Nexus 7 tablet too.

His optician told him that he had to start eye muscle exercises using cards with patterns including circles, and that a grey film in his lenses would ease the side effect of waves in screens he uses.

His home is a small rented flat, top floor, opened to the world as well as to every sunset through a wide window. The curtains are of a flat green material, closed all day as he sleeps.

He has read many books, made of not the simplest sentences, and now attempts to share with people his writing. 

He wishes they will perceive that in his studies, his eyes are like the rays of dawn.

 © Nathalie Hildegarde Liege