From time to time, I have been posting a poem from my book The Human Hive. This one is taken from Part 5, ‘States of Mind’:

DANCER

She turns and takes a final look at the room:
the mirrors across the wall, the well-sprung floor.
If you ignore the lights, it’s like a womb
where music finds embodiment in dance.
Re-living the last half-hour, she shuts the door. 

What did they think of that?

This was the feared audition, the longed-for chance.
Those weeks, let’s say the years, of preparation
had worked their alchemy: as though entranced
her mind and the music fused, her body became
line and shape, gesture, and lightness of motion. 

Surely they will recognise, at last,
my true potential?           

She feels so alive! She wants, she needs, this same
exhilaration daily in her life,
to burst out from the chrysalis, break the chain
at the prison door, to give her talents space
to dance on a wider stage, with a full spotlight. 

So near,
so very close,
impossible not to dream.

Back in the street she finally slows her pace.
There’s someone to phone … then coffee …
and a walk in the park
perhaps …

 

© John Looker 2015

‘The Human Hive’ was published in 2015 by Bennison Books and is available through Amazon at their minimum price. You can also read a selection of its poems here on this blog – see the page at:

https://johnlooker.wordpress.com/extracts-from-the-human-hive-bennison-books-2015/

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I am changing the web address for my blog to reflect the name in the title the site: John Looker.

I am very grateful to those of you who kindly follow my blog and I hope that I might still retain your interest. But when my poetry started appearing in publications, four years ago, I adopted the pen name of John Looker. Later I changed the title of the blog to ‘Poetry from John Looker’.

The address however has remained johnlooker.wordpress.com . It is time to bring that into line – especially as the address looks most anomalous in Twitter and Facebook. From today the address becomes johnlooker.wordpress.com

WordPress offer a service of redirecting searches to a new address, and I am going to buy into that. I hope it works! And I hope my WordPress friends don’t find this too irritating.

Guest post from Bennison Books

Cynthia Jobin, who died nearly two years ago, wrote some deeply moving and thoughtful verse. The independent publisher Bennison Books has now published a posthumous volume of her poetry. I’m pleased to give space on my blog to the following post from them.

 

Readers of John’s blog may already be familiar with the New England poet Cynthia Jobin, whose poetry attracted many followers worldwide. Admirers of her work will be delighted to learn that a collection of her poetry, Song of Paper,has just been published by Bennison Books.

Amazon.com(https://amzn.to/2A8Pq3d)

Amazon UK(https://amzn.to/2NFTF9M)

Shortly before her death in late 2016, Cynthia entrusted her poetic legacy to John and Bennison Books welcomed the opportunity to work with him in producing this posthumous collection of her poetry. John also wrote the introduction to Song of Paper, an excerpt from which appears below.

Excerpt from John’s introduction

Cynthia Jobin’s poetry is skilfully crafted and both erudite and accessible. She wrote about the mysteries of life, her grief following the death of her partner of 43 years, love and friendship, the joy of pets and the landscape of New England. She also translated French poetry. There was a depth of feeling and an unobtrusive intellect at work, but equally a lightness of touch and humour. The poems in this collection show that variety of theme and equally her range of tone; she would write just for fun as well as with serious intent.

When reading a new poem from Cynthia Jobin I have always had that comfortable feeling of being in good hands: we know that the verses are going to be impeccably crafted but we can’t predict what path they will take.

I am sure that new readers and old friends alike will discover this for themselves on reading this collection. The title, Song of Paper, comes from the opening poem and feels so apposite. The closing poem, which was also the last she ever posted in life, and which shows humour even in the midst of wisdom and courage, is an immensely moving reflection from someone who knew herself to be very close to death.

Cynthia Jobin

Below are extracts from two poems included in this collection and the full version of ‘To a Tulip’.

 

Extract from ‘The Palpable Obscure’:

 

Once a day, at least, I stop to wonder

where you are.  I do not think of

you as being here.  Except, tonight

 

a heightening of powers in the darkness

wants to break November from October

with a cold slap and a small wail in the wind.

Something more than me, something much

more sure that you abide, this night, brings

you, in ways that I can almost touch.

 

****

 

Extract from ‘Riviera Reverie’:

 

The boy cat, all noblesse oblige,

takes his reserved, tacitly acknowledged place.

 

Drawn to their warm, imaginary blankets

spread upon the floor, these beloved creatures

 

bring to mind the worshipful habitués

of Côte d’Azur, Côte d’Or. As the sun reaches

 

they respond, grab on, luxuriate

and, for this brief moment, even teach.

 

Should a phone call come for any one of them

I’ll say they are away, gone to the beach.

 

****

 

To a Tulip

 

You,

yellow flower

standing in a cobalt vase,

unfurling blades,

stemmed sacramental cup –

winter was hard

but now your simple grace

is green announcement:

things are looking up.

There by the window you

to sunlight are the antiphon,

beauty new as beauties past,

spring’s insistence

life should carry on.

Yet you become

most beautiful at last,

when age and death are

what you must fulfill:

come that night

you can no longer

close against the dark,

you open wide until

you are all heart,

and every petal knows

translucence as it falls.

You could be hinting

how to do it, for us all.

 

 

Copyright Cynthia Jobin estate; Bennison Books

 

With These Rings ...


   ... we (now fifty years ago!)
   us wed.

Two rings fresh-minted, blazoning out Just-Married
and we fresh-faced with nothing in the bank
and a flat in – marvellous name! – Hope Park.

   See how they’ve been transmuted as Time
   has fled:

scratched and worn, too tight or prudently enlarged.
And we? Weather-beaten & harrowed. But you lovely as ever
though your heart is limping; it’s those years of generous loving.

   Scenes from the life we have made go round 
   in my head. 

I had thought of saying we were goldsmiths
working away at the same task, getting it wrong, getting it right,
but no – it’s more like alchemy: how did I find such gold?

   Me, thou – darling woman, I do so love
   us wed!


© John Looker 2018

Yes, my wife and I have reached our Golden Wedding Anniversary and I am immensely fortunate. 

 

The Defenestration of Prague

Each month this year, more or less, I am posting a poem from my book The Human Hive. This one is taken from Part Four, ‘Tribal Loyalties’ which considers the darker side of human nature. Although the poem describes a historic event, the culmination of religious conflict which in 1618 ignited the Thirty Years War in Europe, it seems painfully relevant to the world today.

No blood here now, unless imagination
can paint the grey stone brown along the sill.
No water in the moat below, just grass.
And such a sense of peace.
It takes imagination to conceive
of how rough hands and over-certain minds,
calling on God but vying for civil power,
could hurl those men and all Bohemia with them
into a war of thirty years –
the Holy Roman Empire, dukedoms, fiefs,
cottage and mill – out of this room
of elegant refinement, out of this land 
of settled prosperity, into a world
where would-be theologians write their theses
with the sword, voices loud in martial prayer,
their conscience clear. 

© John Looker 2015

The Human Hive was published in 2015 by Bennison Books and is available through Amazon at a modest price. You can also read a selection of its poems here on this blog – see the page at:

https://johnlooker.wordpress.com/extracts-from-the-human-hive-bennison-books-2015/

In a Strange Land

 

Passports :- Baggage :- Arrivals. And it’s bedlam!
A melée like a field of medieval battle,
shoving, shouting, scuffling,
the announcements and all the signs completely baffling,
and only this thought consoles:
that somewhere this pandemonium conceals
a chauffeur trying to be heard
and a well-dressed aide with a clear head.
Where are they though? Ten minutes. Thirty.
Only the hustlers remain, grabbing and hissing out “Taxi?”

… pitched on the bank of a river where the adult males
are fidgeting with spears … guarding a train of mules
through a strange bazaar … bringing the caravel
into a bay to be met by prowling canoes …

and they know (regressing to childhood prayer),
they know that they’re quarry, they’re prey.

 

© John Looker 2015

 

This is another poem from The Human Hive (Bennison Books, 2015), a collection of poems looking at life through the work that we do, down the ages and round the globe. This one comes from Part 3 which rejoices in international travel.

 

A poem for the summer solstice in the northern hemisphere:

Listen: perhaps we’ll hear

the cold, pewter-coloured sea,
slapping on a Danish shore.

It’s late. The light is dying
slowly – imperceptibly –
and now the eye picks out

along the coast,
across the many fields,
the presence of bonfires, banishing primal fears.

Each one is ringed by ancient silhouettes,
tankards raised, singing as the pale sun sets.

Summer has crept to its own high-tide limit
where it lingers for weeks
before finally – stealthily –

ebbing away. Why do we note
this day rather than others,
all so hard to distinguish?

Turning our backs against the night,
draining our mead, we master

the things that we can.

© John Looker 2018 & 2010

First published in 2010, this is a poem that still means something to me.

I’m really grateful to Artemis journal (USA) for publishing this poem last month:

The Death of Pocahontas

This was the Thames, she had thought, not the Styx,

having sailed with the tide from London’s wharves
but berthed some miles downstream.

Gravesend, they said.
Not a name that augurs well. And then,
confined to her bunk in fever, back it all flowed:

not the spires and domes,
the forbidding Tower or the stinking streets,
the clangour of bells; not the Palace at Whitehall,
that warren of rooms, noisy and odorous
with courtiers in their wealth of clothing;
nor her presentation at Court.

In the half-light of her cabin – the ship restlessly
shifting with the water, its timbers groaning and cracking –
she lay weakening, her great adventure fading.

In her delirium she walked again the coast
where she was born; paddled its lagoons and creeks;
she breathed the thick humidity of summer nights thrumming
with insect life; heard voices in her own language
whispering of still-unrelinquished beliefs
and her secret name spoken. 

They had taken on board fresh water, supplies
for a dozen weeks at sea but were moored here, aghast,
watching, her great adventure prematurely fading.

And yet – such a journey! Even the snow goose,
appearing on the lakes of her native land each fall,

travels merely in time and space.

© John Looker 2018

This is the last of ten poems that consider historic or legendary journeys, to be the opening part of a book in draft entitled “Shimmering Horizons”. Other poems from the draft book have been published in other journals and anthologies. Artemis journal, founded in 1977,  publishes poetry and art ‘from the Blue Ridge Mountains and beyond’ – see artemisjournal.org

Here is the poem of mine published by Magma in their Europe Issue on 6 April. ‘Descent’ as in evolution and Darwin’s ‘Descent of Man’.

 

The Descent of Europe
After WB Yeats’ ‘Long-Legged Fly’

Let us listen – as Lydia is doing,
here in northern Greece, here in the shade
where a clear stream runs whispering over the stones.
She is listening to Paul, this weather-beaten traveller
from the shores of Asia. Such upright bearing though.
Clean hands. Piercing eyes. Clearly an educated man
and his thoughts sink as easily into her mind
as rain into long-parched land.

    Like a chick heard tapping within the egg
a new age stirs to break free.

 Or listen to a group, in doublet and lace,
standing in the sun on the Capitoline Hill in Rome.
Well mannered, they greet and chat or mentally rehearse
(again) their studied orations. They are waiting
the arrival of Petrarch. With his ink-discoloured fingers
and his tired eyes, he has laboured to bring
out of the dust the incisive minds of the past.
Their reasoning. Their argument. Their courage.

   Like a chick heard tapping within the egg
a new age stirs to break free.

And listen if you will to the iron wheels
grinding the cobbles of a cathedral city on the Baltic;
cries of the harbour and of the gulls, raucous, overhead.
Copernicus goes walking here, fur collar against the wind.
His mind is full of the silent motions of the planets,
their paths across the sky, their advances and retreats.
Indifferent to the crowds bustling about him, he’s lost
in the computations on which his thesis rests.

    Like a chick heard tapping within the egg
a new age stirs to break free.

 

 

© John Looker 2018

Magma’s website is at https://magmapoetry.com/  

It’s been a very popular issue – such a variety of strong poems, from established poets as well as newcomers like me – well worth getting a copy for your shelves if you can.

 

To Love Thy Neighbour

John Looker

http://www.inksweatandtears.co.uk/pages/?p=15985
— Read on www.inksweatandtears.co.uk/pages/

I’m most grateful to Ink Sweat & Tears, the literary webzine, for posting this poem of mine today. I follow their posts daily by the way.

Tuesday 24th: at last, today I’ve had a chance to return to the laptop and update the formatting of the poem below.

 

 

So still, the street. The single patrol car
stationary, the team from the hospital
standing beyond the trees, the neighbours
behind their curtains. And the doctor
one foot on the step, frozen.

You’ll let them take me away, he’d said,
pulling the window shut, his voice
burrowing into her mind like a weasel,
digging out memories of a previous occasion,
hunting her conscience down.

Her eye fell on rubbish that was spilling out
from the cluttered porch to the patch of garden:
bottles and cans, wrappers – and something
that was surely the remains of a chicken. Softly,
I promise I won’t, she said.

 

(Posting this from a tablet and not my laptop, I cannot get the formatting right no matter how many times I try. But Ink Sweat & Tears have done a great job with the formatting on their own website – thanks again I,S&T !)