(I Feel No Pain with You)
Iíd spend the Summer clad with bees
If you would kiss me in the trees,
Iíd dance on wasps in naked heat
If youíd make love in fields of wheat,
Iíd prod the largest hornetsí nest
To simply put my love to test:
So draw the stinging from my heart
And soothe the swelling where I smart...
I feel no pain with you.
You think youíve felt it through
and come to terms,
then something always turns
...that day in the car -
why did we talk and talk of walk
yet never walk?
And now we canít -
you canít count
the walk up a hill when
wind will scatter whatís left of us.
Why do I know the route to that place,
the funeral parlour,
but not the dark and lovely
roads we never took,
the woods before sleep?
Donít Blame Me
If our days turn back, enclosing their clutch
Like a black canker Ė thatís life, donít blame me;
Nor for the flyís flight, or the restless itch
Of lone night. The world has no certainty
And nor should you Ė donít blame the onset of drought
On a watered garden. Itís not my affair
If dry things crave the dark and damp Ė Iíve no doubt
That there are clues, but the answers arenít there.
Donít blame me for sounding the death of sense Ė
I break the bell and swallow its tinkle Ė
Let things be as they are! If that seems terse,
Remember itís fair - so pointless to rankle
When the gardenís drying, but sodden and free -
Just tell me you love me, but donít blame me.
The Making of Summer
A sun-dial of wing-beats wakens Summer
As hope and promise greet the first comer.
Beyond the shrieking kite, the stork, the crane,
the wild beasts that clamour the droughty plain,
the swallows thrill their thread with flight and flip
and take the thunderfly and common thrip.
With loftiness less than the richest shires
they weave mud and straw in the highest spires -
their earthly requirements, rusting gutters,
their inspiration beyond the shutters:
unconfined Life to chasten the chaplain -
love in the air with no inhibition;
save rearing, they spend their life in the air -
their darts of joyfulness better than prayer:
a congregation in a holy sky,
a communion beyond all ennui.
To freedom of spirit and joy of light
the God who made them can turn His delight.
No forked-tail devil-bird maketh such spin
or draws our Heaven and the Summer in.
Swallow has been referred to as a ďforked-tail devil-bird.
© 2011 David Seddon
was born in Liverpool and became
interested in poetry from an early age. He has written since
his teens and was an active member of the Dead Good Poets
whilst living in Liverpool. He now lives in Loughborough and
has just completed an MA in Counselling at Nottingham
University. He works as a counsellor in his own private
practise. He also has a BA in Philosophy and taught in
Primary Schools for many years. He will soon be returning to
live in the NW of England in Cheshire.
He has many poems out (or about to come out) in print in
various ezines (including the Winter 2010 issue of this one)
and magazines including Sonnetto Poesia, Decanto, The
Dawntreader, Poetry Cornwall, Countryside Tales, Sarasvati
and Rubies in the Darkness. He is also in the Macmillan
cancer charity anthology, Soul Feathers. It is his ambition
to have a book out soon and to eventually combine his poetry
with his photography in an illustrated book. He has also had
several articles about poetry printed.
He likes musical poetry which speaks to him about life. He
prefers to write with rhyme, metre and lyricality, but also
writes free verse when the subject suits it. His favourite
subjects are life, the soul, love, nature and the sea.
He reads poetry voraciously and always has at least 4 books
on the go at once. His favourite traditional poets include
Eliot, Yeats, Frost, Tennyson, Shelley, Hardy, Larkin,
Blake, Donne, Whitman, Clare and Millay. Of the living
poets, he likes Carol Anne Duffy, Roger McGough, Fleur
Adcock, Don Patterson and Mary Oliver best.