IMG_0185 2.jpeg

[Azure sky over Winter Hill – picture from the author’s collection]

For this entry, the subject is light. Not light as in humorous or trivial, not light as in the opposite to heavy, light as in energy, colour, illumination. This was prompted by being awake for the sunrise, a particularly colourful dawn during the recent spell of fine weather. Early Spring/late Winter means I wake in time to see the Sun come up. Soon, I will be waking to full daylight again, unless I stay up all night, not unknown! We’ll begin with a poet I’ve championed before, the wonderful Du Fu who writes so beautifully of that shower in the dawn and then of the smell of early rain.

Morning Rain

A slight rain comes, bathed in dawn light.
I hear it among treetop leaves before mist
Arrives. Soon it sprinkles the soil and,
Windblown, follows clouds away. Deepened

Colours grace thatch homes for a moment.
Flocks and herds of things wild glisten
Faintly. Then the scent of musk opens across
Half a mountain — and lingers on past noon.

Du Fu 712 – 770


[Sunrise, Bolton – picture from the author’s collection]

For my own piece, I wanted to present three contrasting skies. Sunrise, afternoon sun and the sunset shining on a storm. Not often I write longer poems so please excuse any mistakes! I included this poem before I remembered I am including audio reading now too, so I now need to read it through without errors! For those who missed out, kaylie is a kind of multi-coloured sherbet sold in sweet shops. I well remember the large glass jars full of this glorious powder and the keen anticipation as the shopkeeper poured it into a paper bag!

Sky Kaylie

Dark yellow, ochre? like a sandstorm on the horizon.
Brightening, heating, building to orange 
as the dawn works the bellows.
The light claws and heaves itself, 
over the rooftops, up and up.
Touch of crimson now, burst of scarlet, as it wakes.
Nearer and nearer to the moment when
the giant climbs into the sky.
Ascending red, yellow, finally blue.
Until the shining one spreads azure over all.

Light on the curtains as my eyes come back to life.
Morning, afternoon? no clues in the sleep dulled brain
All quiet, no noise, no birdsong but the windows are shut.
The clock is no help, 4:00? four what? am, pm?
There’s a shadow dance on the curtain,
as sunlight plays with the tree branches 
waving at, who knows what?
Finally, the brain wakes enough to know, 
bedroom window, looking West
Afternoon light, on curtains

Steel gray wall, rising over the town.
Lit by the low Sun, towering, like the
side of a battleship, moored at the house.
Rolling, roiling cloud, building its fury.
Feeding on the dying light,
using the Sun, to power the fury.
As it raises the hammer, for Thor’s spark
and the crash, shaking the walls,
in the opening of the storm concerto.
The hail released, rattles roof and window
and the cloud rushes to overtake, the dying Sun.

Glen Proctor




[Sunset during a storm over Winter Hill, picture from the author’s collection]

A poem about light from Dylan Thomas now. One of my poetical heroes. Chock full of Celtic lyricism and emotion. His qualities shine with every word. This one is more mystical than most, almost like listening to the wind as you stand where the druids stood, understanding the universe and yourself.

Light Breaks Where No Sun Shines

Light breaks where no sun shines;
Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart
Push in their tides;
And, broken ghosts with glowworms in their heads,
The things of light
File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones.

A candle in the thighs
Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age;
Where no seed stirs,
The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,
Bright as a fig;
Where no wax is, the candle shows its hairs.

Dawn breaks behind the eyes;
From poles of skull and toe the windy blood
Slides like a sea;
Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky
Spout to the rod
Divining in a smile the oil of tears.

Night in the sockets rounds,
Like some pitch moon, the limit of the globes;
Day lights the bone;
Where no cold is, the skinning gales unpin
The winter’s robes;
The film of spring is hanging from the lids.

Light breaks on secret lots,
On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain;
When logics die,
The secret of the soil grows through the eye,
And blood jumps in the sun;
Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.

Dylan Thomas 1914 – 1953


[The Brecon Beacons, close to Dylan Thomas’ hometown, Swansea – picture from ]

I’ll finish this entry with James Joyce. Better known for his classic stories, Joyce was also a lyrical poet with a fine touch. His words are even better read aloud, a lovely rhythm to them and excellent word choice, as you’d expect from one of the all time great novelists.

My Love Is In A Light Attire

My love is in a light attire 
Among the apple-trees, 
Where the gay winds do most desire 
To run in companies. 

There, where the gay winds stay to woo 
The young leaves as they pass, 
My love goes slowly, bending to 
Her shadow on the grass; 

And where the sky’s a pale blue cup 
Over the laughing land, 
My love goes lightly, holding up 
Her dress with dainty hand. 

James Joyce 1882 – 1941


[ Charles Courtney Curran, Woman in a White Dress in a Garden – picture from: ]



Looking for Snowdrops


[Snowdrops from the BBC News magazine – Snowdrop fanciers and their mania ]

This blog entry is partly inspired by my annual quest to see the first snowdrop of spring, partly by Wendy Cope’s wonderful piece. The idea that the first snowdrop has its own song is something that inspires me. Someday, I’ll write that song. For now though, here are poems about the snow and about nature in winter. As with the last entry, I’ve included a Soundcloud link to my reading of my own poem. Unusually, both ‘classic’ poems this time are from living authors. Please respect their work and copyright. We’ll start with the poem that prompted this entry, the wonderful prose poem ‘Exchange of letters’ by Wendy Cope.

Exchange of Letters

‘Man who is a serious novel would like to hear from a woman who is a poem’ 
(classified advertisement, New York Review of Books)

Dear Serious Novel,

I am a terse assured lyric with impeccable rhythmic flow, some apt and original metaphors, and a music that is all my own. Some people sayI am beautiful.
My vital statistics are eighteen lines, divided into three-line stanzas, with an average of four words per line.
My first husband was a cheap romance; the second was Wisden’s Cricketers’ Almanac. Most of the men I meet nowadays are autobiographies, but a substantial minority are books about photography or trains.
I have always hoped for a relationship with an upmarket work of fiction. Please write and tell me more about yourself.

Yours intensely,
Song of the First Snowdrop

Dear Song of the First Snowdrop,

Many thanks for your letter. You sound like just the kind of poem I am hoping to find. I’ve always preferred short, lyrical women to the kind who go on for page after page.
I am an important 150,000 word comment on the dreams and dilemmas of twentieth-century Man. It took six years to attain my present weight and stature but all the twenty-seven publishers I have so far approached have failed to understand me. I have my share of sex and violence and a very good joke in chapter nine, but to no avail. I am sustained by the belief that I am ahead of my time.
Let’s meet as soon as possible. I am longing for you to read me from cover to cover and get to know my every word.

Yours impatiently,
Death of the Zeitgeist

Wendy Cope 1945 – 

[found at: This poem is published in the collection ‘Serious Concerns, Faber & Faber: © Wendy Cope and Faber & Faber ]


[Snowdrop, image from” ]

I finally found a lovely display of snowdrops, in the grounds of an old parish church a couple of miles away. I’ve heard before that churchyards, graveyards are havens for nature. Things lie undisturbed for years. 

My own piece was also inspired by nature in winter, this time trees. Trees have always called to me. They’re reassuring, beautiful and sturdy. Covered with frost, frozen stiff, they will wake again in a couple of months. Leaves will bud, blossom will appear and life comes again. Other parts of nature also manage as they can. I feed the local birds, lots of Sparrows and Starlings here, the Magpies and Wood Pigeons call now and again too, a few Blue Tits. They all seem to appreciate the help.

Cold snap

Trees frozen in a game of statues,
as the noise stops and everything stills.
Grey above, white below, frozen time.
Sparrows socialising on the feeder, 
sharing for once, not squabbling, not pushing. 
Dog prints, an excited puppy, 
loving the white carpet, perfect for exploring.
People, looking out, deciding they don’t need 
any shopping today, staying in the warm.
Life slows as the snow comes down,
quieter times in Britain in the cold.
“Blizzard horror!!” screams the news, 
at two inches of snow, at soft, white flakes.
The dogs and me know the real story though, 
a white carpet covers ugliness for a while
The falling flakes delight children, 
stop the hustle, calm the town
In a while, the snow people appear, stone eyes, 
carrot noses maybe, if they didn’t go in the stew
Snowfall makes all quiet and right,
and cold.

Glen Proctor

Audio link:



{Frozen tree, Image from: ]

We’ll finish with a poet that I’ve not come across before, I’m going to be seeking out more of her work though, after reading this wonderful piece. The Snow Goose seems to inspire people to create, A beautiful sight as they fly in huge formations overhead. I know of at least two famous musical compositions and a novel inspired by these wonderful birds. From Cleveland, Ohio, Mary writes often of nature with a beautiful, lyrical style.

Snow Geese

Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last! 
What a task
to ask 
of anything, or anyone, 
yet it is ours, 
and not by the century or the year, but by the hours. 
One fall day I heard
above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound
I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was 
a flock of snow geese, winging it
faster than the ones we usually see, 
and, being the color of snow, catching the sun 
so they were, in part at least, golden. I 
held my breath
as we do
to stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us 
as with a match, 
which is lit, and bright, 
but does not hurt
in the common way, 
but delightfully, 
as if delight
were the most serious thing
you ever felt. 
The geese
flew on, 
I have never seen them again. 
Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.
Maybe I won’t.
It doesn’t matter.
What matters
is that, when I saw them, 
I saw them
as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.

Mary Oliver 1935 – 

[Found on: © Mary Oliver]


[Snow Geese, image from: ]

In with the old


[‘Westward’ gatepost in Bolton. Picture from the author’s collection }

[Audio introduction]

As you can see above, I’m branching into audio! The script for the audio file is listed at the end of this post, just in case you can’t play the file or you prefer to read!

Memories seem to be strong at this time of year. Maybe it’s meeting relatives from distant places again? Maybe a small collection of old photographs sent to my Mum? It could just be the long nights, more time to ponder, more time to read about other days. Still, it gives me a perfect opportunity to present one of my all time favourite classic poems. I may have included this before but it’s such a good lesson for the vainglorious, seems right to get people reading it again. Shelley had a talent for spotting interesting subjects for poetry. He was also an expert at the kind of poetry that makes you pause and think: 


I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792 – 1822


[Broken Statue of Rameses – image from: ]

My own poem this time is a recent piece, yet another poem written on a train. In this case, arriving into the city of Manchester, the transition from the outlying area into the centre. Town and city planning is a black art to me but the contrast between areas where money is spent and those left to decay is stark. Almost a physical border. Like Shelley, it’s a reflection on what has gone before, what we choose to change, what we leave alone.  Must be hard to make decisions such as what to replace, what to restore and what to leave to time. See what you think and maybe look out for boundaries between old and new yourself:

Middle Bridge

Layers of flaking, rusty, worn out iron.
Peeling apart, like puff pastry on a vanilla slice.
Not so tasty, no icing, no custard.
Grey paint, huge rivets, decaying,
ageing ungracefully, groaning and muttering.

The old train fits, clickerty-clacking across
Thumping and grinding, screeching and binding
on the rails, across the bridge,
of forgotten old iron losing its paint.
Above a byroad, leading nowhere, with potholes.

I sing in my head, ‘The morning Sun, 
when it’s on your rails, really shows your age.’
Any old iron, any old iron,
chunky, clunky, peeling, yielding, old iron.
Staying the other side of the tracks,
from the blinding glass and concrete
of a shiny new city
hiding its ageing relatives.

Glen Proctor

[The line ‘The morning sun… inspired by a line from the song Maggie May, written: Rod Stewart, Martin Quittenton, from the album: Every Picture Tells a Story (Mercury/Universal) ]




[Iron bridge near Deansgate Station, Manchester – picture from: ]

We’ll finish this post with a Shakespeare Sonnet. One of the four about the ages humans pass through. William presents a hopeful view about our own ageing and admonishes us to keep tight hold of the things we love in old age. Don’t ever let go of hopes, dreams, fancies. They are what make us special:

Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

William Shakespeare, 1564 – 1616


{Old things on a barn bench – image from: ]


[Audioscript for the introduction – 

Hello and welcome to this special blog post for the Poet Shrub. A short time ago, my lovely friend, Thivashni, was talking to me about audiobooks and how people are turning more and more to the spoken word for learning, pleasure, instruction, all kinds of things. This chimed with a thought I’ve had for a while to include music in blog posts. This entry is the start. 

One word before we begin though, I won’t be posting readings for the classic poems I include. This is mainly because there are already some excellent audio versions of famous poems out there. Try the superb Poetry Society and Poetry Foundation websites as a starting point. Youtube is also a good source. You’ll find readings of thousands of poems by people who speak for a living, actors, raconteurs and the like. They do a much better job than I could! 

For now, Poet Shrub will be readings of my own writing and maybe some short passages of music. Enjoy and thank you for visiting!]

Christmas Time

Vintage Christmas Card014.jpg

[Vintage Christmas card. Image from: ]

This was almost the Winter blog instead of Christmas but Winter seems to come later and later in England. We’ve had a little frost and fog but no snow, just rain. I’ll save Winter for January or February instead. I entered ‘Christmas’ into a search engine and had to go very deep indeed to find any image that wasn’t Christmas as designed in the Victorian era or later. Almost every picture was Christmas tree, decorations, Christmas lights. Hard to believe there was a time before the US version of ‘Santa Claus’ entered our lives. It started as a religious occasion of course, many religions have a celebration at this time. In pre-Christian times, in northern Europe, it was a period to celebrate surviving through the darkest days with enough food to last to Spring. Not much an agrarian people can do when the grounds frozen solid and hunting is sparse. Many other religions and cultures have celebrations as this time too. We’e just passed the opening of Hanukkah, the birthday of Guru Nanak is not long gone, Bodhi Day is approaching this week, and the season of Yule is upon us. Many in Europe now just see the commercial Christmas but some of the old values linger. A time for friends and family, time for giving, time for lots of good food certainly. We’ll begin with a piece that has become synonymous with Christmas, by Clement Clarke Moore:

A visit from St. Nicholas – 1823

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes did appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the housetop the coursers they flew
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too—
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

Clement Clarke Moore 1779 – 1863
(disputed, some attribute the piece to Henry Livingston Jr.)


[St.Nicholas, image from: ]

Interesting that although the poem contains much of the modern Christmas, he refers to the gift bringer as ‘St. Nicholas’. The poem is said to have introduced most of the themes used in the Western idea of Christmas. My own poem this time centers around a much loved dog, a Golden Retriever called Simba. He got extra excited at Christmas, maybe catching it from us? Having a fuss and love from a dog at Christmas is one of the best things in the world!

Shared Heart

Our pup loved it too, Christmas, we’d haunt the kitchen together.
Turkey and pork roasting on a Christmas Eve.
Supper was sandwiches and crackling, hot from the oven.
Skin and crackling for pup, who drooled most,
was hard to say. We loved the moment.
Shared emotion, excitement building, restless us,
hardly able to wait, for morning, treats to be found.
Pup would run, from person to person, Mum to Dad,
Sis to to me, to Bro to Nan and Grandad.
What had we got? what joys had we found?
Didn’t care much, just loved the joy and the fuss,
and the paper, ohh the paper, heavenly treat!
twist it for him and he’d take it away to tear, to chew,
but he didn’t swallow it, just loved the feel, 
in his paws and mouth. 
Till bored with that piece and back for more.
and then he’d sit, close by, for a hug, content.

Glen Proctor


[Simba – from the author’s collection, old photo, scanned ]

I’ll finish with Thomas Hardy, a writer famous for his stories and novels but it has been said, his poetry is better than his prose. This one was written in 1916 when the harsh realities of the war were coming home. Hardy yearns for a time when he could rest in simple belief, simple joy. A lovely piece and I think of it as a call for peace, love and understanding in a troubled world. Thank you to everyone who has visited the blog over the year and I hope you enjoyed at least some of the work! Wishing you blessings, peace, love and happiness in all that you do!

The Oxen

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
‘Now they are all on their knees,’
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
‘Come; see the oxen kneel,

‘In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,’
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.

Thomas Hardy 1840 – 1928


[PIctures from the British magazine ‘the Graphic’ published in January 1915 – image from: ]




[Photograph from: ]

It’s almost time for the passing of the year. The days rush towards midwinter and the solstice, minds naturally turn to thoughts of what’s gone. As I write this, Remembrance Day is tomorrow, first time it’s fallen on a Sunday for a while. A time of remembering, as we wait for the Spring to come round again. The trees have a few leaves left, the late entries to the Autumn palette still have gold on their branches but the paths are covered with a carpet of leaves. First frost has come and we await snowflakes, ice and slush. The dark nights begin before teatime and that prompts thoughts, memories, of what went before. This theme is about memories rather than memory itself, there is a difference. What do we bring to mind when we allow our minds to roam the years? The first poem I’d like to share on the theme of memories is by Elizabeth Jennings. Born in Boston, Lincolnshire amongst the fields and hedgerows, Jennings was a fan of Auden and Graves. You can feel their influence in her work. This poem expresses well her reflections on people who have left us:

In Memory of Anyone Unknown to Me

At this particular time I have no one
Particular person to grieve for, though there must
Be many, many unknown ones going to dust
Slowly, not remembered for what they have done
Or left undone. For these, then, I will grieve
Being impartial, unable to deceive.

How they lived, or died, is quite unknown,
And, by that fact gives my grief purity–
An important person quite apart from me
Or one obscure who drifted down alone.
Both or all I remember, have a place.
For these I never encountered face to face.

Sentiment will creep in. I cast it out
Wishing to give these classical repose,
No epitaph, no poppy and no rose
From me, and certainly no wish to learn about
The way they lived or died. In earth or fire
They are gone. Simply because they were human, I admire.

Elizabeth Jennings, 18 July 1926 – 26 October 2001



[The Obelisk on Alderman’s Hill (also called Pots and Pans hill) overlooking Greenfield, the site of a remembrance service each year- picture from the Author’s collection]

My own poem this time is something different for me. A prose poem but presented in six verses. I wanted to show images from growing up in the Northeast. Just random things that came to mind from childhood while writing the piece. I suppose it’s almost ‘stream of consciousness’ but with a theme. I like to think of it  working like a slide show, I can almost hear myself introducing each image and explaining it.

From childhood

Running down the kitchen, dog and me and friend. My friend is invisible but that doesn’t matter, me and dog both know he’s there and we must win the race to the pantry. Mum looks on in puzzlement, why do dogs and boys have this mad urge to rush from place to place with no purpose but she can’t see our invisible friend. Dog knows, she also knows I love her more. Even more than invisible friend, warm, golden comfort.

Saturday, waiting at the top of the alley, for Dad to finish work. I know if I can meet him, he’ll let me ride the tank of the big, black BSA all the way to the back gate. Machine makes a loud noise and the tank is so very wide, I love the smell of the engine, the oil and my Dad. Fish and chips for dinner, cheese in the oven for tea. Warm, familiar times, the power to bring smiles years on.

Boy on his bicycle on a hot summer day, riding close to home, riding for the joy of it. A school bully is there, sudden and large, holding the wheel between his legs. Just there to frighten the boy and exert control, looking for the fear in his eyes, that’s his idea of ‘respect’. A day so joyful turns to tears, so close to home and not at all safe. I ride out again though, another time. A glorious summers day to the old aerodrome. Exciting explorations with a good friend. Imagination runs riot in the broken bunkers and trenches.

Laid in the hospital bed, a bandage round my head and pain in my ear, the nice man in the next bed shows me where the German bullet went through his shoulder. He likes the lovely nurse who looks after us, she is beautiful and kind but doesn’t let me listen to the telly on the headphones after 9:00. She thinks I need sleep. They buy me chocolate and comics from the trolley that comes  round, I quite like the hospital with all these so very kind people.

Mum gets tokens, made of Bakelite, from the Co-op down the road. We leave them in the empty milk bottles for the milkman to collect. Doorstep tokens to pay for our milk. Without them no milk, my Mum unable to make her wonderful homemade rice pudding. 

Walks by the river, it’s so black from the steelworks and the chemical plant. the mud, black too, stinks. Long grass on the bank with a surprise, an old slipway on which a boat rots, keel and ribs all that’s left. Great bridge painted green, spanning the river, with gaslights along its length. We walk across, peering over the rail, to big town.

Glen Proctor


[The Author’s maternal Great-Grandmother – picture from the Author’s collection]

As its Remembrance Day, We’ll finish with one of the most famous war poets of all, Siegfried Sassoon. Raised in Matfield, Kent, Sassoon studied at Cambridge before being sent to the Western Front. His poems carried a realism and a criticism of authority that led to him being detained in a psychiatric hospital. Britain’s other war poet, Wilfred Owen was heavily influenced by Sassoon and always spoke of his ability and humanity. This is one of his less controversial pieces and speaks of the changes in his memories as a result of his experiences. A sombre piece, but oh so very moving:


When I was young my heart and head were light, 
And I was gay and feckless as a colt 
Out in the fields, with morning in the may, 
Wind on the grass, wings in the orchard bloom. 
O thrilling sweet, my joy, when life was free
And all the paths led on from hawthorn-time 
Across the carolling meadows into June. 

But now my heart is heavy-laden. I sit 
Burning my dreams away beside the fire: 
For death has made me wise and bitter and strong;
And I am rich in all that I have lost. 
O starshine on the fields of long-ago, 
Bring me the darkness and the nightingale; 
Dim wealds of vanished summer, peace of home, 
And silence; and the faces of my friends.

Siegfried Sassoon, 8 September 1886 – 1 September 1967


[Ruined building on Marsden Moor, Yorkshire – picture from the Author’s collection]

Autumn Deja Vu


[Yew Tree Tarn by Christine Robinson – from: ]

The first frost has touched us and leaves are all around. A riot of colour is spreading over the trees and shrubs. It must be autumn again. I did create a blog entry about autumn last year, so this is autumn mark 2! Might be a chance to see if my writing and my taste in poetry has grown since last year? I’m going to start with a poem from John Clare. I’m ashamed to say I’d not come across his writing until early this year. A true son of the countryside, Clare began writing poetry whilst working on the land, gardening, farm labouring, working in the lime kilns. His first collection was published in 1820 and he has been called ‘the very best of the romantic poets’.

Autumn – pub. 1820

The thistledown’s flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.

The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we’re eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

John Clare, 1793-1864


[Thistledown Seeds – Stevebidmead from: ]

One of my own pieces next, written after I watched Starlings gathering on the high-tension electricity wires near our local station. They looked like they were having a serious discussion about the season. It did bring to mind my own question, whether spring or autumn is the more beautiful season. Both are seasons of huge changes in the temperate north. I’ve sometimes daydreamed about living in warmer climes but I would really miss the seasonal changes. They seem all too brief when they’re happening but so very precious while they last.

Season three – 2017

Starlings perched 
on high leccy wires
holding a forum
on whether leaves
look more beautiful
as they die and fade

ready to fall to be
as a carpet or a hill
of mulch or dry
to provide a playpen
for kids and dogs

autumn is worthy
of serious talk
by birds and by humans
a metaphor for life
until Spring comes
and falling is forgotten


Glen Proctor


[Starlings gatherung from: ]

Another (short) offering from me next. It seems appropriate, as we got our first frost just last week. There are still enough leaves on the trees to give beautiful, colourful scenes all around but the pavements have big piles of leaves to walk through (takes a strong will not to kick some up in the air). Those who live with huge changes in season, look for signs like this. The first snowdrop, daffodils blooming, birds leaving and returning. This short piece reflects my feelings on the signs of autumn:

(Frolic in) the autumn mists – 2018

Rumour of colours to come,
a few pale glimpses, of gold and brown,
lemon and lime, russet red.
In amongst the still deep green.
Still there, still cloaking lower fells.

Cooler air, chill breezes,
first fogs, bring silent mornings.
Birds gathering, feeding hungrily.
Preparing themselves, for a Winter sojourn.

All waiting the Frost King’s waking.
Soon to pass by, in his mantle,
making beautiful art, scenes,
on glass and grass, on spider webs.

Daylight runs quicker, to the lower bulb
in the hourglass, autumn’s herald,
summer’s eulogy. Writ in light
and dark, dawn’s dawdling, evening’s rush.

Glen Proctor


[Wintertime along river Avon from: ]

We’ll finish with a post-harvest poem by William Allingham, a poet I’ve just discovered. Allingham was a descriptive, lyrical poet born in the small Irish town of Ballyshannon, County Donegal. He later became the editor of the Fraser’s Magazine. Not widely known, he deserves to be read by more people. A similar background to Robert Burns, his style reminds me of John Clare in his wonderful descriptions of nature.

Late Autumn – pub. 1860

October – and the skies are cool and gray 
O’er stubbles emptied of their latest sheaf,
Bare meadow, and the slowly falling leaf. 
The dignity of woods in rich decay 
Accords full well with this majestic grief 
That clothes our solemn purple hills to-day, 
Whose afternoon is hush’d, and wintry brief 
Only a robin sings from any spray. 

And night sends up her pale cold moon, and spills 
White mist around the hollows of the hills,
Phantoms of firth or lake; the peasant sees 
His cot and stockyard, with the homestead trees, 
Islanded; but no foolish terror thrills
His perfect harvesting; he sleeps at ease.

William Allingham – 1824 – 1889


[Ballyshannon Bridge from: ]


People Watching


[Picture by Rob Curran at: ]

I hope readers will excuse the indulgence, but for this entry I will only be presenting my own work. People watching is a big source of inspiration for my writing. Railway stations and train journeys are especially good for this, I find. Something about journey’s, about travelling, that makes people more interesting to this poet! I’ll start with a poem inspired by ‘rail improvements’. Well, by their results anyway. Bolton station was closed, with a replacement bus service operating to Manchester. I was en route to Swansea to help my big Sister dog sit a very lovable Labrador. Sat waiting for the coach, a girl appeared, carrying half of a giant pair of scissors. It’s surprising where a brief glimpse can take you. I like to create backgrounds and purposes for my subjects, to fit with their appearance and actions. This is the result:

A Song in the Making – 2018

Vivid blue hair, with a red feather, jauntily tied
on the left. Holding, half a giant pair of scissors.
A scissor maybe? Red scissor with gnarled grips.
She looks around, searching, for a face? A look?
Maybe for the other half of the scissor?
She swings Doc Martined feet, as she seeks,
the pivot of her meaning. The hinge of all things.
Alone in a bus station pretending to be a rail station.
Waiting for a bus that’s pretending to be a train.
While electrification is done, the current takes precedence over us.
So she waits, with us, with blue hair, feather, boots and scissor.
Like a folk song, waiting to happen.

Glen Proctor


[Blue Feather by Brunettefromfargo – on: ]

Sometimes, I get caught in a busy time for the railways. I try to travel when it’s quiet but the world doesn’t always conform to my expectations. Trains can be noisy places when you get groups of people travelling together to an event. This short poem was an attempt to reflect on the madness of one train. A madness that rolled over me as I got on it. Two groups, on their way to wedding prequels and one lady, quietly reading and eating:

Step from the platform – 2017

and in through the door
chaotic people soup
in a little, confused train
with open door policy

Laughing hens and baying stags
competing for noise, while the lady
of confusion quietly eats
her crisps with a smile

content with her conjuration

Glen Proctor


[Keswick railway station circa 1972 – from: ]

People of my generation grew up familiar with silence, with boredom, with waiting. Whether it was school assembly conducted in total silence by the pupils or queuing up to get on a bus, we were taught to be quiet and not to fidget about. These days, I seem to see many people who find silence, stillness uncomfortable. They seem to become very agitated, to have a need to fill up the space, make some sound. Writing about it make me look at it from their side though. Maybe there was a reason to be agitated? Could be they’ve just had a bad argument, they’re waiting for contact from someone special? Who knows? I need more tolerance of skittish behaviour:

Fidget – 2017

Riding on the train
Next to someone
They can’t keep still
Fumble, mumble, mess about,
Scratch, sigh, stretch,
Take out a phone,
Put it away,
Take out the phone,
Examine the feet,

They’re still there,
Puts them on the wall,
Across the aisle,
Then takes them down again,
Crosses legs, uncrosses legs,
Feet still there?
Look all around, 
Then down,
Then up,

Sighs again,
Maybe the memories,
Are a mountain of misery,
The actions shout,
and drown out thoughts,
they’re fearful of,
Or they’re bored,
and late.

Glen Proctor


[Marsden Railway station on the transpennine route – from: ]

I’ll finish this exploration of people watching with the real/imaginary people, the real people we have do imaginary things, the stories we can create about someone we just glimpsed for a moment. Especially when I’m really tired and the sounds of the train are a lullaby:

Rail Dream – 2017

Drifted off, soothed by the clack of rail
and sameness outside the window
a quiet carriage for once
instead of the mad, bad crush

there’s a face, I don’t know who
curly hair, soft eyes, warm smile
where did my brain fetch her from?
mystery girl with Celtic charm

never gave credence to telepathy
dream-walking, those sort of things
a memory I didn’t know I had?
of someone long past, fleeting

touch of glance on face, so soft
by a lass with curls and a smile

Glen Proctor


[Curl of hair from – ]

Although I mentioned this entry would be all my own work, I just couldn’t resist sharing the poem that accompanied this image with you. Thomas Hardy is perhaps better known for his stories but his poetry is sublime:

On a discovered curl of hair – 1913

When your soft welcomings were said,
This curl was waving on your head,
And when we walked where breakers dinned
It sported in the sun and wind,
And when I had won your words of grace
It brushed and clung about my face.
Then, to abate the misery
Of absentness, you gave it me.

Where are its fellows now?  Ah, they
For brightest brown have donned a gray,
And gone into a caverned ark,
Ever unopened, always dark!

Yet this one curl, untouched of time,
Beams with live brown as in its prime,
So that it seems I even could now
Restore it to the living brow
By bearing down the western road
Till I had reached your old abode.

Thomas Hardy – 1840 -1928



[Shoreline at Lake Windermere, Cumbria – picture from the author’s collection]

This time, the blog takes a look at nature. Nature as in Mother Nature rather than Human Nature as it was last time. Nature and the natural world has inspired so many artists of all forms, painters, writers, sculptors, musicians, dancers and of course poets. Nature watching is such a calming thing. Not least because you can undertake it in such beautiful locations, as the title picture shows. I remember arriving at Windermere rail station with a reasonable crowd of people but walking out of town along the lake road to Ambleside, it quickly got a lot quieter. Taking the path down to the shore meant I was soon away from the noise of traffic too. The shingle lakeside retains no footprints so you can easily see yourself as alone in a wilderness apart from the occasional ferry sailing quietly past. 

I’ve mentioned Robert Frost’s work before, an Englishman who travelled extensively in North America and fell in love with Canada in particular. I find this poem expresses the  feeling about wandering in nature well. We should always choose the road less travelled:

The Road Not Taken – pub 1916

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference

Robert Frost – 1874 – 1963


[Path in Prestwich Forest Park, Lancashire – picture from the author’s collection]

The natural can stay with us for life as this next poem shows really well. I hadn’t come across Edward Sil’s work before. This wonderful short piece makes me want to look up more of his poems. The poem is a lovely story about a gift of nature and how such gifts can grow in importance over a lifetime:

The Tree of my Life – pub. 1887

When I was yet but a child, the gardener gave me a tree, 
A little slim elm, to be set wherever seemed good to me 
What a wonderful thing it seemed! with its lace-edged leaves uncurled 
And its span-long stem, that should grow to the grandest tree in the world! 
So I searched all the garden round, and out over field and hill, 
But not a spot could I find that suited my wayward will. 
I would have it bowered in the grove, in a close and quiet vale; 
I would rear it aloft on the height, to wrestle with the gale. 

Then I said, “I will cover its roots with a little earth by the door,
And there it shall live and wait, while I search for a place once more.” 
But still I could never find it, the place for my wondrous tree, 
And it waited and grew by the door, while years passed over me; 
Till suddenly, one fine day, I saw it was grown too tall, 
And its roots gone down too deep, to be ever moved at all. 

So here it is growing still, by the lowly cottage door; 
Never so grand and tall as I dreamed it would be of yore, 
But it shelters a tired old man in its sunshine-dappled shade, 
The children’s pattering feet round its knotty knees have played, 
Dear singing birds in a storm sometimes take refuge there, 
And the stars through its silent boughs shine gloriously fair.

Edward R Sill – 1841 – 1887


[Tree at Hall-i’th-Wood, Lancashire – picture from the author’s collection]

The idea that something can make a space and nest in your heart, your soul for a lifetime, comes again and again in poetry. Sill’s tree of his life reminded me of a place I visited as a youngster. It was during my first ever trip to the Lake District, a school trip, camping for a week. I fell in love with place immediately and that love has lasted all my life. One spot in particular lodged in me and still has me misty eyed many, many years later. One of my earlier poems tells the story:

Miterdale – 2016

Beck on a moor, flowing down
From a spring in the mountain,
Across the moor and falls
At rock’s break fracture, waterfall
Sound of water splashing down,
To a rocky bowl, with a soul
On then through the heather
Past the wild bilberries 
and gorse and sheep
The beck which joins
Streams from other hills
To make the river that flows
down to sand and mud

To the flat sea shore
Where tide takes it out
To become the sea
Which feeds the ocean
Drinking from the water, 
handfuls from the stream 
Rooting a bond, a joining
Child’s heart now tied 
To this place of peace
Where it all begins
and grows a Love of peace, 
Love of wildness and silence
Far from road or rail, brick or beam
No track or pavement to here
Just the path the rabbits made
and the sheep widened
and humans borrowed for a while

Life begins again when the anchor 
Takes hold In a place I rested 
and still yearn for, a peace, a dream
A cornerstone of love in a dell
Where water splashed 
and washed the hurt away

G Proctor


[Miterdale – from The Old Cumbria Gazetteer – at: ]

I’ll finish with a Chinese poem, one of a huge collection from the Tang Dynasty period. This one is written by the master poet Du Fu and shows a lovely sense of wonder at the scene he was seeing and how little our petty troubles and worries are compared with the beauty in nature. The original Chinese is posted just below the translation:

Winding River (1) – circa 758 ce

Each piece of flying blossom leaves spring the less,
I grieve as myriad points float in the wind.
I watch the last ones move before my eyes,
And cannot have enough wine pass my lips.
Kingfishers nest by the little hall on the river,
Unicorns lie at the high tomb’s enclosure.
Having studied the world, one must seek joy,
For what use is the trap of passing honour?

Du Fu – 712 – 770

曲江二首 (一)



[Ladybird at Hall-i’th-Wood Rail station – picture from the author’s collection]



[Lily – Spacecoast Dark Obsession from Smokey’s Gardens, Michigan, US on: ]

The subject this time is obsession. A word that covers quite a wide range. Obsessive behaviour, to be obsessed, with a thing, a person, a mood. It’s something which is seldom healthy and often produces real fear in a person who becomes an object of obsession. The thought to feature this subject  arose from a couple of sources: I have a friend who is the victim of another’s obsession. My own poem this time is one I wrote for her. The other source was a fellow blogger who weaves wonderful things from a combination of music and stories. They twine about each other to produce marvellous tales and take your feelings to another place. She produced a song about obsession which you can hear on the blog. Please do check this wonderful blog on: it’s truly excellent. We’ll start with a poem concerning obsession from Byron, someone often associated with an obsessive nature. He also happens to be one of my very favourite writers.

My Soul is Dark – Pub. 1831

My soul is dark – Oh! quickly string 
The harp I yet can brook to hear; 
And let thy gentle fingers fling 
Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear. 
If in this heart a hope be dear, 
That sound shall charm it forth again: 
If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 
‘Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. 

But bid the strain be wild and deep, 
Nor let thy notes of joy be first: 
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 
Or else this heavy heart will burst; 
For it hath been by sorrow nursed, 
And ached in sleepless silence, long; 
And now ’tis doomed to know the worst, 
And break at once – or yield to song

George Gordon, Lord Byron, 1788 – 1824


[Untitled (332c) – Eugene Andolsek – from: ]

As mentioned in my introduction, a dear friend had been struggling with someone’s obsessive behaviour. Being a really gentle, kind and empathic person, they found it very hard to deal with. The obsessive attention became like a stone someone had placed on their back, weighing them down. I wrote this piece for them as a personal thing but they kindly gave permission to use it here:

When I choose

I’m a person, not a thing, not possession
don’t say you own me, made me, control me
let me be, to talk as I please, or not
my life, my world, not yours, or anyone’s

If I gave, take it, as a gift, I gave freely
If I chose to share, share, don’t take
If you feel slighted, that’s your heart not mine
If I spend time with you, don’t expect it always

I share of myself and love to share
but if you grab, or demand, or stamp little feet
I won’t respond, I’m me, not you, or yours
You have not the right, to demand, to own

to control
I’m me and that’s good, leave me be

Glen Proctor


[Erratic boulder on Marsden Moor – from the Author’s collection]

We’ll finish with another poem from the Brontes collection I was introduced to by another dear friend. This one is from Emily, who wrote the very dark, obsessive romance ‘Wuthering Heights’ and seems to have foreshadowed the theme of darkness and obsession in this piece:

The Night is Darkening Around Me – pub. 1846

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow ;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go. 

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow ;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go. 

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below ;
But nothing drear can move me :
I will not, cannot go.

Emily Bronte, 1818 – 1848

A parting comment.

The painting which follows, by Rossetti, shows Jane Morris posing as Pandora for him. Rossetti became obsessed with Jane and their story can be explored by following the link given to the National Museum in Liverpool.


[Pandora, 1878, Dante Gabriel Rossetti © National Museums Liverpool at: ]




[Wayoh Reservoir near Bolton – from the Author’s collection]

After the baking sun we’ve experienced in the UK for several weeks, time for a blog about summer. In recent years, summer has been a time of very variable weather with short periods of rain interspersed with sun and cold! This year (2018) saw a return to more traditional summer climate. This has brought its own problems of course! Life is never simple. Still, some wonderful words have been written about summertime. I’d like to start with this piece by Emily Bronte (yes, ‘that’ Emily Bronte!). I have a dear friend, Thivashni, who loves the Brontes and their works. We had a wonderful chat not long ago about the family and the life they led. Thivashni also introduced me to the Brontes’ poetry, something I’d not known about before. She found me a collection of their verses to read. This is a short one from Emily about summer nights, a lovely evocative piece:

Moonlight, Summer Moonlight – included in ‘The Complete Poems of Emily Bronte’ pub. 1910

‘Tis moonlight, summer moonlight, 
All soft and still and fair; 
The solemn hour of midnight 
Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,

But most where trees are sending 
Their breezy boughs on high, 
Or stooping low are lending 
A shelter from the sky.

And there in those wild bowers 
A lovely form is laid; 
Green grass and dew-steeped flowers 
Wave gently round her head.

Emily Bronte 1818 – 1848 


[The moors above Marsden, Yorkshire in high Summer. One of the airshafts for Standedge Tunnel is visible in the center – from the Author’s collection}

As I mentioned in the introduction, the heat has brought problems. We had a huge moorland fire on Saddleworth Moor, followed quickly by another major outbreak on Winter Hill, which I can see from my front room window. Several fire brigades, the army and helicopters were all brought in to fight the fires. The moors will take a long time to recover from the incidents but thankfully, no one was badly hurt. Some people have had medical problems arising from the smoke but it could have been far worse if not for the bravery of the firefighters tackling the blaze and the local support they had. Thivashni suggested I write about the fires when I talked to her about the event. This is my attempt at recording the blaze:

Winter Hill – 2018

First was a smell, but there’s building work,
so, burning rubbish, the scraps of wood?
Then, the news, the fires have come
to Bolton from far Saddleworth

We crowd the window to see, above the Courthouse.
Over the hill looms a plume or cloud,
lighter than you’d think, spreading out
across the skyline, heather, gorse and peat

turning to ash in the baking sun, the heat
made fuel from earth and nature
it’s time had come. For 14 days and nights,
a Viking funeral for the moor

Brave lasses and lads, labour under the heat
to hold it back, from the homes
whirlybird dipping into the water
to drop its cargo, along the line

where the flames advance, and ever the smell,
sweet smell of nature, on the wind.
Like incense at a cremation, as the moor dies,
for a time, ten years maybe, the man said

The smoke cloud rises and falls,
until the wind change, brief time
of choking fumes, but the greedy flames
are turned on themselves, towards burnt ground

and it dies, but we watch and will watch
peat burns long and slow and deep
our watchers are wise to all its ways
and will not relent, while a chance of flame lurks.

Glen Proctor


[The fire on Winter Hill – from the Author’s collection]

I’ll finish with a poem from one of my all-time favourite writers, Henry Thoreau. Thoreau wrote the wonderful book ‘Walden’ about returning to nature and this long piece concerns nature too. A lengthy poem, but one well worth the time spent reading for the sense of a timeless summer it evokes, so beautiful:

The Summer Rain

My books I’d fain cast off, I cannot read, 
‘Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large 
Down in the meadow, where is richer feed, 
And will not mind to hit their proper targe. 

Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too, 
Our Shakespeare’s life were rich to live again, 
What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true, 
Nor Shakespeare’s books, unless his books were men. 

Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough, 
What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town, 
If juster battles are enacted now 
Between the ants upon this hummock’s crown? 

Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn, 
If red or black the gods will favor most, 
Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn, 
Struggling to heave some rock against the host. 

Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour, 
For now I’ve business with this drop of dew, 
And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower– 
I’ll meet him shortly when the sky is blue. 

This bed of herd’s grass and wild oats was spread 
Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use. 
A clover tuft is pillow for my head, 
And violets quite overtop my shoes. 

And now the cordial clouds have shut all in, 
And gently swells the wind to say all’s well; 
The scattered drops are falling fast and thin, 
Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell. 

I am well drenched upon my bed of oats; 
But see that globe come rolling down its stem, 
Now like a lonely planet there it floats, 
And now it sinks into my garment’s hem. 

Drip drip the trees for all the country round, 
And richness rare distills from every bough; 
The wind alone it is makes every sound, 
Shaking down crystals on the leaves below. 

For shame the sun will never show himself, 
Who could not with his beams e’er melt me so; 
My dripping locks–they would become an elf, 
Who in a beaded coat does gayly go

Henry David Thoreau


[Wheat Field with Cypresses, 1889 by Vincent van Gogh – from the Met ]