Given a passport to write. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

I’m watching you the word from afar came through

Like a hand lifted by a distant friend

Ink made its blot upon a virgin page.

He was mesmerised, feeling the cold

Breeze in from the sea, he put the squeeze on the pen

Squared his shoulders, lit his readied pipe

Realised instantly as the poets eyes peered through a smoke haze

This was never going to be an antiseptic landscape

The Man Shed walls were not going to close in on him

This team of man and pen, the perfect crutch for each other

Were not going to give a lunchtime lecture

Rather they were in a roundabout way

In this museum of words where no boundaries existed

Creating a poetic landscape to be viewed near and far.

© Chris Black. March 2019

#Poetry #amwriting

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Beneath a blanket of cloud. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

This morning, on his forest walk

Partly shattered by recent storm

In the now, stillness, made harmonious

With the singing of birds

Alone with nature, time to ponder

Inspired by poetic thoughts

Thoughts of living out his life

Retiring to the mountains or perhaps

An island retreat

Leaving behind the regrets of gloom

Live life in the age of radio

In the company of his personal library.

© Chris Black. March 2019

Listen to a #SpokenWord version @https://soundcloud.com/the-poets-poet-1

#Poetry #amwriting #JohannSebastianBach

#GoldbergVariations #BWV988: #Aria #LarsVogt

Watching through the glass panel. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

He has all the ingredients at his fingertips

Next step, the kneading process

Onto the invisible pan, toss them skywards

Making sure to catch each and every one

26 may sound like a small number

But if you happen to drop one

25 becomes practically impossible to work with

Horror of horrors there would be more of a flurry in a graveyard

With the full complement he can add shade to shade

He can have Jack Kerouac sitting close by

Ray Charles in St. Peters Square playing piano to the masses

Uncle Sam crying into his beer following the election

Of a “president” the world did not want?

He can create any world he wishes it would have Alan Ginsberg in it.

A black panther chewing away on the bones of Father Time

Would then indicate it was time to call a halt

Lay the thinking cap to one side, take a deep breath

Slip his arms into the straight jacket and take his medicine.

He left the room, it was so quiet outside you could just about hear leaves cry.

All happening under the looming shadow of Alfred Hitchcock.

© Chris Black. March 2019

#Poetry #amwriting

Feathered friends. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

The glory of this spring morning

Dog at heel, accompanying him

On his constitutional.

Birds, amazed by their trajectory

Improvising as they soar

Their action complimenting the surrounds

Serenading as one voice

The language of birds

As they climb high into an azure sky

Trumpeting delightful notes

Sun their backdrop.

© Chris Black. March 2019

#Poetry #amwriting #whereisVivaldiwhenyouneedhim

Nirvana. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

That smile, those crinkled lines about your face

Moving to the rhythm of your beating heart

Always humming that happy tune

As a child he recalls sitting in awe of grandma

How she could light up a room with that smile

Grandma was one for keeping letters

I can’t throw that away she’d tell granddad

He’d just scratch his head, make no reply

Granddad loved the great outdoors

During long hot summer days

We’d lie off on a hay rick

Bask under a cloudless sky

He’d tell all sorts of stories

Then once it was time for home

He’d say, clapping his hands, not a word to grandma.

In the silence of the night

Grandma and granddad could be heard having a goodnight chat

Then once they knelt to pray

It was time to drift off into slumber land.

One wonders what they would make of today’s world

Zen and Feng Shui, a place for everything and everything in it place

Tommy rot that’s what granddad would say

Among all the clutter he always knew where to find the necessary tool.

Where grandma who was quite house proud in her own way

Would never go on the warpath if she couldn’t find items in an instant

God is good she’d say if it’s to be found it’ll turn up.

© Chris Black. February 2019

#Poetry #amwriting #thegoodoldtimes

As it should be. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

Sweet is the breath of this spring morning

Green fields, glistening with dew

After soft showers, fair daffodil bows its head

From that nearby rippling stream

Its waters, make sweet music for the listening ear

This time of year, how sweet it is to roam

Sit and listen to a thousand blended notes

Book in hand, shadowed by the umbrageous multitude of leaves.

© Chris Black. February 2019.

#Poetry #amwriting #Octave

Face and three hands. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

The shadow of the clock

At all times looms large

Tick-Tick-Tocking away, seconds, minutes, hours

Yes our life is lived by the clock

We may not always be aware of its presence

It is always there.

Time-Bomb

Tick-Tick-Tocking our life away.

© Chris Black. March 2019

#Poetry #amwriting

Eleanor McEvoy, Ailie, Paula Meehan, Moyra Barry : Ceiliúradh Mhna Na h-Eireann (Celebrating the Women of Ireland 5)

Don’t allow this pass you by without taking a few moments to read Thom’s inspiring words and listen to melodious voices.

The Immortal Jukebox

A little over ambitious with my scheduling!

I forgot that not only did I have a duty to celebrate the season of St Patrick here on The Jukebox I also had to celebrate in person and recover from those celebrations!

So, a little delayed, but I trust well worth the wait, the Official Immortal Jukebox St Patrick’s Day Post!

Now read on ….

All Hail St Patrick!

All Hail the Women of Ireland

Today we conclude our tribute to the intelligence, wisdom and beauty the Women of Ireland have brought to the arts of Song, Poetry and Painting.

Songs by Eleanor McEvoy (At the Mid Hour of Night & A Woman’s Heart) & AIlie (The Rocky Road to Dublin).

A Poetry Reading by Paula Meehan  – ‘The Pattern’.

A Painting by Moyra Barry (1886-1960) : ‘Cinerria’

More years ago than I care to count seeking sanctuary from the crazed cacophony…

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Overtaxing the brain. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

He has poems scribbled on paper of every hue

Poems he’d written, nay, scratched on foolscap margins

Poems he’d typed and printed then put on the back burner

Clever poems, short poems, even stupid poems

Luckily the poems did not know that

Then again who knows?

Those monsters come to haunt him in the dark of night.

As he awakens to the fresh scent of dawn

Poetic thoughts now long gone leave him blank faced

He speaks to no one but himself, the loudest response his echo

Entering the kitchen wearily scratching his head

God is in her element humming away to herself

Kneading dough for early morning bake.

© Chris Black. March 2019

#Poetry #amwriting

Yielding to the pen.

In celebration of  #WorldPoetryDay

Yielding to the pen. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

This tiresome, pained body pushes at pen

As eye must obey mind.

Reading between these lines

One can almost feel his pain?

Yet he continues to write

This is his time to distance himself

Never allow the distraction intervene

Medication for mind and body.

At one with the world

Happy with his lot

Poised, each word measured to complete a line

Detail at times difficult, curiosity wins out.

© Chris Black. March 21st 2019

#Poetry #amwriting

Feeling disgruntled. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

Of course he was correct in thinking

That not having an idea to conjure with

Was not in the nuclear- disaster range

Delivering humour never a thorny issue

Retreating into his shell not a consideration

It’s a lonely place seated at the writing bureaux

With just an audience on one.

© Chris Black. March 2019

#Poetry #amwriting

Silence educates the ear. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~ #He Reproves the Curlew & The Choice by W.B. Yeats.

There he sat four fingers and a thumb wrapped around a brandy glass

Turning to the barman said replenish me please

There he sat contented reading the collected poems of W. B. Yeats

Your poems are good he mouthed, this is good brandy

The vacant look of the barman lost on him as he studied the goblet.

Time passed,

He reproves the Curlew

O curlew, cry no more in the air,

Or only to the water in the West;

Because your crying brings to my mind

Passion-dimmed eyes and long heavy hair

That was shaken out over my breast:

There is enough evil in the crying wind.

Barman, replenish me by all means

I won’t get philosophical except to say you pour an excellent brandy

Read you a short poem, of course I will

The Choice

The intellect of man is forced to choose

Perfection of the life, or of the work,

And if it take the second must refuse

A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.

When all that story’s finished, what’s the news?

In luck or out the toil has left its mark:

That old perplexity an empty purse,

Or the day’s vanity, the night’s remorse.

With that he drained the parting glass and closed the book.

© Chris Black. March 2019

#Poetry #amwriting #WBYeats

Both avid George Jones fans. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

The drawing room fell silent as she entered

Huddled groups glancing across at each other

All the talking had been done

The dark picture had been painted.

No one dare take their eye off the ball

A portrait of grief, misery, sadness, tears.

His spirit could be felt overpowering the room

When the mist settles all will be revealed.

Was turning the house into a shrine the way to go

They had been married forty five years

One as eccentric as the other

Placing the wreath upon the door

They exited, her hand placed lightly on the casket

“He stopped loving her today” echoing throughout the rambling mansion.

© Chris Black. March 2019

#Poetry #amwriting

Words, invaders and natives alike. Poetry from the pen of

~The Poet’s Poet~

His poetry is but a product of his thoughts

Many words written live their life on the margins of a page

Others, he makes them hooligan words

Destructive words, monstrous, rainbow colourful words

He can make words portray waves lashing against rocks.

Sound like waterfalls, flutter like butterflies

Imagination when slowly and reluctantly raised from its slumber

Can cause words to be undisciplined, need supervision, revised.

The work of the poet, writers in general

Is to knock their arrogance into a cocked hat.

From the shelter of the mighty oak

He sat transfixed

Watched as the hare moved through a flourishing meadow

He wondered about the hare’s vulnerability

It and his own longevity

Not for very long as the hare bounded out of sight.

Wrapped up in his rhapsody of words

He would oft times write poetically on individual occurrences

A simple sestet

Otherwise a poem might never reach its conclusion

Was this then a poem or an illusion?

© Chris Black. March 2019

#Poetry #amwriting #SpokenWord

Listen to a spoken word version on #soundcloud  

Musical accompaniment #Sonata in A Minor K59 (L241) Album Horowitz: the Celebrated Scarlatti recordings – expanded edition. By Domenico Scarlatti, Vladimir Horowitz.