A Book and a Life on a Whim

As with all great poems, this one began when I needed to order over £10 of items online for free delivery. I treated myself to a complete set of John Keats’ poetry, and was inspired by the elegance and romance of his poems. We covered some of his poems in English class, but it went under my radar back then. However, one of my favourite bands references, along with many other literary things, John Keats, so I thought I would give his work a second chance, and have not been disappointed. It’s a fairly chunky book, and he died aged only 26, which blows me away that he wrote so much of such high quality. I also found out that he was born on October 31st, which makes this post slightly topical. Happy Birthday to

Here is to the romantics in times gone by, and all those who cannot answer their calling for their circumstances, so this poem is called “For Men That Might Have Been”.

For Men That Might Have Been

How men do march their lives as soldiers gone,
To rhythms seen or hid but yet to come,
Reactions bold, a pacifist’s response,
A right man is as kin and peers have done.

All forms must weather by the winters seen,
Though change be small, the clay does toughen some,
I weep for glorious men that might have been,
That live among us, bound and blind and dumb.

Romantics drowned, caricatured to stone,
Another man to lay another piece,
Or lay himself to die beneath his home,
To live his name on stones for the deceased.

Too rare is he whose left hand finds the height,
To rest ashoulder of forgotten kings,
And heaves himself by faith beneath his right,
And climbing there still finds the heart to sing.

So rare is he unburdened and alive,
That moulds, dear masons, must we bleed and pen,
To leave as he who lived two years and thrived,
Upon himself alone, and only then,

Will thoughts be aerial and free to roam,
And hearts be true enough for souls divine,
To live and love as only poets know,
For now begins the future, and this time,

Can men be men, and minds soar into light,
And rhythms be the dance of things to come,
Reactions brave, oneself to join the fight,
For true men are as kin and peers become.


The Many Things My Mother Is

The most amazing woman in my life deserves far more credit than she receives. She is a warrior, an inspiration, an angel, and has made me 99% of what I am today, so I owe her everything (in spite of the maths). So this poem is one from a few months back, and is my attempt to explain the extent to which I admire her for all she is and does, and the many things she is to me. I haven’t really named this poem, but have referred to it by its opening line as it sums up the physical but also spiritual degree to which I am from my mother.

My clay, thou my blood, thou sweet soil of my roots,
My life, thou my sustenance, bearer of fruits,
My cradle, my food, thou the sculptor of moulds,
Thou writer of stories, weave how mine unfolds.
My gardener, water, for all that I grow,
Thou prophet, foreseer of all I will know,
My key, yet my keeper, my road to this earth,
My map, thou my compass, my guidance ere birth.
My books, thou librarian, tutor of truth,
My wisdom, my age, thou my fountain of youth,
My artist, thy legacy all that remains,
As I in thy brush, thou shalt live in my paint.
My mountain, my peace, thou my anchor and calm,
My shelter, my shield, thou protector from harm,
Thou doctor of flesh, and thou nurse of my thoughts,
Take pride and repose in the frames thou hast wrought.
Thou art of the scriptures, thy soul is the same,
Thy life one of sacrifice, challenge and pain,
But heart be unbroken, thy body be strong,
For all thou hast given forever lives on.
My martyr, my mother, thy kingdom is mine,
My love for thee always, eternal in time,
For as thou hast loved me before I was born,
My love for thy soul lives long once thou hast gone.