Love and loss and love again - a poem for Jenny and her friends
Loss can be good for us,
researchers say (Nolen-Hoeksema
and Davis,2002) – it’s called
Post-Traumatic Growth…
When we ‘lose’ someone
we seldom see these days,
yet always love, we are in some strangely beautiful way
the gainers –
lose someone who, caught a glimpse of
down a school corridor, is like
a mirror in which you’ll see reflected
yourself as nothing but pure love…
and when you meet her then, it’s just as if
you meet love – and a modesty almost uncertain:
as if she had been bestowed the awesome gift
of a part of sun and sunlight, and told,
bestow this wisely…
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0021 Under the bridge of time
Oui, c'est beaux, le jardin... at this time of year;
mais... for myself,
a little too overgrown – but Monsieur
prefers it that way… you see him down there
by the lily pond, the nymphées?
He’s nearly blind now, yet he’s out all day
and nearly every day. He draws life from the garden,
je crois; and though there are some who laugh
and say, his paintings are now
mere daubs, when I see them
and then go out into the garden,
there’s a truth there, beyond what we see…
what passes, what floats serene and unaffected...
what floats on time itself...
You may find this fanciful, but I’ve watched Monsieur
over the years: first he had the garden made,
when he could afford it, and the bridge and then the pool
that slows the river… then he painted the lilies which we planted,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0027 Dog and Man
Beside me as I sit here typing is a golden pool, of relaxation,
alertness, patience and trust, uniquely brought together
in one glorious being. Do we really deserve each other?
surely anyone who has brushed the coat of, let’s say,
a golden Labrador, should be instantly converted
to belief in God? Or at the very least,
in an evolution which is more miraculous, more glorious
than many people’s view of God…
the long, smooth, silky, strong hairs on the back;
the trailing, slightly grubby hairs
of that emotional telegraph, the tail,
the magic gradations of the head hairs,
from sleek and flat around the collar; so fine in the ears;
laid so beautifully on the bony forehead which seems
so intelligent as you touch it, gently, on the centre,
watching the brimming, trusting, wary, luscious eyes; with
those almost hidden, expressive eyebrow hairs;
to smooth and wiry snout hairs toward the jaw,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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As Parents To Our Parents
They never teach you this at school;
they'll try to teach you reading, writing, 'rithmetic
in their own instructed ways;
but now, if anyone suggested it, there'd be howls
about the impertinence, the interference,
the rights, the dangers of this and that -
but all the same, they never teach you:
how to get on with your parents.
Oh there are books and books and books
telling your parents how to look after you, but hey!
there are two parties here! Mom and Dad
can ask their own parents (sometimes - because they
were in the same situation as you are now and so,
reckon they can do a better job...) but
who can you, ask?
Philip Larkin told us memorably that
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Ikon
The door creaks, as she opens it
and the fall of the heavy iron latch
echoes through the empty church.
The atmosphere inside, this cold day,
is heavy, as such holy places are,
locked now at night; heavy,
with what? Anticipation? Memory,
of all the human emotions
that have passed through them?
There’s still the clinging promise,
the fragrance of yesterday’s incense;
it could almost be a midnight forest
in its wood-scented mystery.
She lights a candle, drops a coin
slowly, as those do to whom
each coin has a meaning.
She is small, shrunken as the aged are,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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We as parents to our parents
They never teach you this at school;
they'll try to teach you reading, writing, 'rithmetic
in their own instructed ways;
but now, if anyone suggested it, there'd be howls
about the impertinence, the interference,
the rights, the dangers of this and that -
but all the same, they never teach you:
how to get on with your parents.
Oh there are books and books and books
telling your parents how to look after you, but hey!
there are two parties here! Mom and Dad
can ask their own parents (sometimes - because they
were in the same situation as you are now and so,
reckon they can do a better job...) but
who can you, ask?
Philip Larkin told us memorably that
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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What A Wild Wind Today
What a wild wind today
in Wimbledon Park,
80 mph they say,
mischievous, shameless,
wild child, it cannot distinguish
between fun and destruction
here in the park
it does what it can with the boating lake;
but the ripples are barely waves,
and the boat club has wisely shored its boats,
no fun to be had there
but wait – here’s a woman with a covered pram
walking along the path beside the lake…
the crafty wind dies down, then
one huge gust – whew, that was a near one,
she’ll remember that next time..
now it’s spotted three laughing nuns – what fun!
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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To Holy Russia
The door creaks, as she opens it
and the fall of the heavy iron latch
echoes through the empty church.
The atmosphere inside, this cold cold day,
is heavy, as such holy places are;
locked now at night; heavy,
with what? Anticipation; presence; memory
of all the human emotions
that have passed through them?
There’s still the clinging promise,
the fragrance of yesterday’s incense;
it could be a midnight cedar forest
in its dark wood-scented mystery.
She lights a candle, drops a coin
slowly, as those do to whom
each coin has a meaning.
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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A C*******s - well, OK, seasonal - plea..
Art brings a smile and a message.
Thus the art of ‘Christmas’ cards…
(and I use the word loosely,
as its public use is now disapproved…)
A folded card: that’s four smallish sides to fill.
An appropriate seasonal smile on Page One;
Page Two requires nothing,
blank but room for something else to say
in lieu of that family catch-up print-out page
your children will have helped with; or maybe not..
Page Three offers a seasonal message – but
watch out these days – ‘you can’t use
THAT for THEM…’ oh of course, they’re,
what exactly? Crypto-Buddhists?
Lapsed Amish? Richard Dawkins and
his, er, dour or smiling family ?
Page Four – the great let-out
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0036 National Gallery
A ‘School of..’ painting, it’s sometimes on display,
sometimes in the ‘Secondary Collection’; rather like
its subject, it’s subject to circumstances
beyond its own control. But this is no pupil’s homage
to the master; quite the contrary. He’s telling us
something very clearly – but, he’s just not telling us exactly
what he’s telling us - as might a living artist tell
for a curator’s fussy footnote; all the ‘program’;
it’s art, you have to look…
So shall we start from foreground? It’s a horizontal canvas,
a road runs straight across; in the middle of the road
a golden-haloed, blue-robed saint is being stabbed.
The helmeted pair of ruffians
are clearly sent by secular authority
to do the deed; this we may guess. The saint
at this sharp freeze-frame moment, leans slightly back –
not aback in reaction or retreat; but rather,
to make it easier for the knife to do its work.
Had the painting been two centuries later,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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