Stanmore Hill

21 June 2025

The moment it returned

Then, suddenly, I wrote a villanelle

before the moment that the sonnets came,

and, to my amazement, I did it well.

I thought the Muse had destined me to Hell,

that for my writings all I earned was shame,

then, suddenly, I wrote a villanelle.

I thought that time had me under a spell,

for which my acts alone should bear the blame,

and, to my amazement, I did it well.

You don’t expect the stories that you tell

bear actual truth. I felt the very same

then, suddenly, I wrote a villanelle.

It wasn’t that I had nothing to tell,

but that all of my horses had gone lame,

and, to my amazement, I did it well.

To my surprise, there was a sudden swell

of rhyming words, and a returning flame,

then, suddenly, I wrote a villanelle,

and, to my amazement, I did it well.

O poeta é um fingidor

What we pretend is really what is true.

Unlike the wise, the poet sees the real,

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue.

We know the struggles of each life ensue

from being born, since all the days reveal:

What we pretend is really what is true.

Each maker knows, regardless of the view,

that what we dream as pain is what we truly feel,

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue.

What he perceived was never what he knew,

not one of us saw iron become steel.

What we pretend is really what is true,

yet he discovers that there’s no way through

the actual, but he’s no mind to kneel,

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue.

So when he sees forces of life renew

themselves each day, so what exists is real,

what we pretend is really what is true,

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue

16 June 2025

After creation there is pain

In the beginning not a single sound,

only the action of the hopeful wise

who add together, in a sole surmise,

the meanings of air, and water, and ground.

Whatever fluids, or solids, surround

is real, and visible to normal eyes;

but what contains the actual surprise

is what we can retain, but not impound.

The secret message that lies softly curled

in inmost chamber of the beating heart

teaches each of us how we must survive

in this new, rough, intractable, hard world.

Achievement is the solitary art

that keeps the ordinary sort alive.

15 June 2025

Why bother?

Out of our sleep, we face a brand-new day

with aspirations to a better sight,

as every shadow of the broken night

hides from the brilliance of the open way.

Rain tells us we do not have room for play

since that’s the culmination of the bright,

sunny eruptions of the morning light.

We’re in another episode of life,

where, failing hope, the only choice is work,

and what we get is just to take the blame

when sober argument turns into strife

between day’s hero, and the angry jerk

who wants the morning to collapse in shame.

Supposing that we learn

We wait each day for the magical sign

that indicates just how the work must start,

it’s time now to take all we need apart,

and then restore it in a simple line.

There’s every chance all forces intertwine,

so cannot break, the wise creator’s art

ensures that his work stands out in the mart,

and we discover all we do is fine.

When winter comes again we do not stand

in places where we must bend to the cold

but in the shelters we’d already made.

What’s needed here is simply a strong hand,

and ready vision, now we can be bold

urging the start of a wonderful trade.

14 June 2025

The game’s no longer of any worth

It matters not that there’s a hostile guard,

there’s a rough way right past another gate

leading us home, but we will be so late,

that we’ll hear words both horrible and hard,

defining each of us as a retard,

with many failures set down on the slate.

So we have reached the deepest hell of fate

below the palaces where we once starred.

I have the sense that we are out of time,

that there’s no option leading to the light

since our existence is a horrid crime,

a terror to the ordinary sight,

last proof that we are only stinking slime,

and should be all forgotten in the night.

I fear I have no path towards the light

I thought there was a way that I could chance

to get me to the tallest mountain’s height;

I seemed to be both capable and bright,

but had no thought of how I could advance.

The world I knew as straight had gone askance,

and I am left with horror, and with fright

for the path ahead leads straight toward the night.

Should I choose life when all now seems in vain,

the way ahead is only dirt and clay,

the worst pretense of an advancing road

towards an ending that ‘s as clear and plain

as the appearance of a brand-new day,

and bearing now a painful heavy load.

So should I take the other choice?

I looked at life, and saw that I had failed

to reach the targets that my talents saw

as the achievements that would lead to awe.

But, nonetheless, we learnt that the detailed

approach meant that the mountains I had scaled

were the wrong range, I bore too large a flaw

to take first place. I did not know the law

meant that I always risked being jailed.

Time is the lord, no matter what the road

I take he manages to wear to sand

leaving no choice but to abandon hope.

There is no worldly force to act as goad

for me to run uphill, or just to lope

towards a place that is no longer grand.

This morning everything is wrong

Understanding is never the whole view,

the actual facts are always hard to know,

sometimes we miss what’s exactly all true.

The map shows us that all the roads are new,

but something tells us it is just a show,

understanding is never the whole view

of our sweet valley, where the warm winds blew,

yet all we comprehend is the breeze blow,

sometimes we miss what’s exactly all true.

The news all day turns pleasant into blue,

there’s no way now to interrupt the flow;

understanding is never the full view.

We tried together, we the smallest crew

of the whole fleet, but we turned out too slow,

sometimes we miss what’s exactly all true.

We’ve gone beyond the lands our fathers knew, to deserts, and high mountains of deep snow.

Understanding is never the full view,

sometimes we miss what’s exactly all true.

13 June 2025

Seeing the ancestors (for Geoffrey Philp)

Each tree is history in silent voice,

marking birth of small, and death of the great

while bearing flower and fruit as marks of fate.

What we call “freedom”is no more than choice

of whether to keep quiet, or to outvoice

the old captain, and the wise young first mate,

to make for closest harbor, and rejoice.

What’s hidden under soil no one now knows,

we want our past to be a place of pain.

We praise the ancestors, but not their might

of patience, caution, and rage with hands on hoes,

and hands on cutlass, making it most plain

that while held in the dark they saw the light.

I belong in a museum

Before the sun sets, one more dose of pain:

My archaic torso has one more hole

for complex poisons to weigh down my soul,

none of it bringing the least bit of gain.

Instead, it’s one more day of hard, slow, strain

towards another meaningless dead goal

of useless life; the whole remainder, sole

indication I had naught more to gain.

Today’s news is all hard loss, harder war,

with heavy clouds all lowering the sky

down to the height of one more human fool.

There is no prohibition, no stiff bar,

against dishonor, contra the soft lie

of street, church, pundit, and of each dumb school.

11 June 2025

It’s happened on more than one night

The Bishop said to the serving girl

“Let’s give the game of love a whirl.”

He was less than pleased

when he got diseased

because of how he made her skirt twirl.

It happened on my dad’s mountain estate

When the wind smashes small trees into walls,

and the hail crushes pasture into bog,

no being profits, except the one that bawls

“I hunt for truffles, human, and eat balls

as the storm passes, and ram lies dead as log,

when the wind smashes small trees into walls.

“I am much wiser than the man who stalls,

collapses, and is consumed by the dog.”

No being profits, except the one that bawls

“I know you hate it when wild boar crawls

towards me to ravage without a snog,

when the wind smashes small trees into walls

and thunder makes girls piss into their smalls;

the thought of which makes you fart a huge smog.”

No being profits, except the one that bawls

the last coherent statement that appalls

all listeners, except the happy hog.

No being profits, except the one that bawls

when the wind smashes small trees into wall.

Look at the closing line, and then rejoice that morning is the victor over night

Wit is a double-sided blade of steel,

life is a series of storms and long wars,

humor alone declares the way we feel.

Nothing we know we know survives the turning wheel,

that which is human only makes and mars,

wit is a double-sided blade of steel

that teaches you the right moment to steal

Athena’s owl when She’s had many jars.

Humor alone declares the way we feel

when we are able to twist like an eel,

or float beside the railroad sleeping cars.

Wit is a double-sided blade of steel

that cuts the meat of secret, nightly, meal,

when we turn duppy on command of Mars

humor alone declares the way we feel.

Brisk is the day, sweet Sun is our Great Seal,

with sharp, cold breezes that disturb the stars:

Wit is a double-sided blade of steel,

humor alone declares the way we feel.

09 June 2025

Point of surrender

Each journey takes us to the same dark end

from which the sole escapes are dig or fly.

But the ground’s hard, and there’s a lot of sky;

easy to hide, but no one can depend

on its security. So we defend,

hoping that freedom nots another lie

that leads each of us simply to die

before we can learn to restore and mend.

Hell is a sort of large secondhand shop

where each customer will die by gunshot

just as they find the object of their lust.

And die repeatedly as their last lot,

as every human crumbles into dust.

Testicular fortitude at its best

The Trumpian absence of balls,

in spite of the loud MAGA calls,

tells us that his pride

is on a swift ride

to speed every one of his falls.

One approach to luck

Chance is no guide to justice, it is full

of tricks of argumentation, and half-lies,

methods of madness, signals by swift flies,

secrets both delicate and dull

swim in and out of each and every skull.

Honor has failed to secure the best ties

to a world where justice only gives cries

for its arrival, and the host of lies

that are the cavalry of the great bull.

Secure in each fortress, the wise are not free,

given uncertainty of what they see,

to warn us of our future ruth.

Yet raise the temperature by one degree

and someone will squeal out the rawest truth,

and what we hated most will come to be.

07 June 2025

Let’s see if I have got the lesson right

The first rule is the simple, easy, choice:

Poetic ardor requires discipline

to make its body the writer’s own voice,

and its own features formulate the line.

Your mode of speech is what defines the meter,

the proper tone is what outs the cheater.

Rule number two requires that you must choose

exactly how you govern proper time;

whether your verse is tight or very loose,

and whether it be blank, or strictly rhyme.

My own position is, to be quite terse,

allow the rhyme to govern every verse.

Once you have started, obey your own voice,

let nature organize both shape and form,

and guide you straight towards the proper choice

Choosing with care the vehicle of verse

removes the risk of the bad-rhyming curse.

The fourth rule is the easiest by far:

Use only formulas that promote song,

let musicality be your guidestar,

it shows you when your meter has gone wrong.

Take your good time to make sure it is right;

the meter and the meaning woven tight.

Now this is where the struggle becomes hard,

you’ve got to hold your Muse by hair or throat

your meter has to pace out every yard

while making sure you exclude each false note.

Determine how to keep each line as firm

as possible to reach its proper term.

Here’s where the leather slams into the dirt:

Each word must come from the depths of your heart,

must echo you, but also not be curt,

that’s the first step towards making good art.

Your subjects, and the substance of your choice,

need only be supporters of your voice.

Once you begin, don’t be afraid to learn

that feeling is your darkness brought to light;

that each and every bright poetic turn

is your heart’s effort to reject the night.

Each bruise of spirit, every mental scar.

is still the lodestone pointing to your star.

Don’t be astonished at finding the source

of every product of poetic art

is keeping soul and body from divorce:

There is no abstract notion of the heart.

What you expose, the horrors that you feel,

are thoroughly material and real.

Your vision is the bit that’s hard to find,

armies of false perception to defeat,

soul is both more and less than normal mind,

and good verse balances both thought and meat.

This is when you should descry bright and clear

that every breath is part of wider air.

The rules aren’t magical, they’re simply tools

to guide your mind along its proper road.

They keep apart the craftsmen and the fools,

and get us to distinguish lion from toad.

Once you’ve discovered no need to despair

your heart awakens in the normal air.

There’s no more guidance, you map the terrain

of every world imagined into life

by the authority of your firm brain,

and the solution to your inner strife.

All’s up to you, behold your starting hour,

go forth and demonstrate your heart and power.

Some sort of envoi seems to be required:

Recall that thought and mind never get tired.

06 June 2025

Moksha

No guarantee the world will never end,

certainty, though, that each small world will cease.

We call it “death,” we call it just “release,”

neither word matters, the rules cannot bend:

They may disguise or hide, they may portend,

they may lead to hardship, or to soft ease.

They only signify there will be peace,

and silence to the which all ears attend.

The world revolves, each day it ends in fire,

but never quite achieves a full return.

There’s too much quiet on each starry night,

the stellar entities form no new choir,

though, without ending, they don’t cease to burn

but never shed the necessary light.

05 June 2025

The lioness and the hare

We learnt soon enough that “manage and mount,”

as a description lacks a certain nous,

preventing it from giving full account

or being, really, of efficient use.