Carol Holding - Poems 1997-2007

Carol Holding

October Sonnet..................................................................3 Colchester...........................................................................5 Cat........................................................................................6 Three Haiku........................................................................7 Three Haiku........................................................................8 First Conker........................................................................9 Looking in.........................................................................10 Imagination......................................................................10 Winter Wobbles...............................................................11 Treefigure..........................................................................12 Sky......................................................................................12 Red Bicycle........................................................................13 Sonnet for P.S.R. 1949 - 2003........................................13 The death of democracy..................................................14 Summer 03..................................... ..................................15 Quaker Social Testimony................................................16 Vase...................................................................................17 Travelling (light)..............................................................18 Karelia Suite......................................................................19 Time: A slippery thing.....................................................20

The low sun forces through my lashes Beech mast crunches and the earth is dark Orange and yellow leaf fall flashes And fungus smells both soft and sharp Shortening days and watery splashes My shoes leak and my face glows Wild wind in the bare tree crashes There's an nip in the air forecasting snows.

Leaves on the path lie slushy or dry birds soar shrieking from a forage below Berries and nuts then tempt them high And squirrels stock pile, for these riches will go.

Bonfire plumes reach up reach up smelling of musk Thoughts turn to toast as day turns to dusk.

Chiricahua, Arizona

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Near Carcassonne

4

This town is full of history - My town For me it represents my adult life.

In that there is no mystery - Back down from grandmother, mother to new wife.

But as we know, its roots go back To Angles Saxons, Iceni and Danes, We gave the imports from Rome the sack, And the legacy of each of them remains.

High on its hill it supported the people With Artesian well and tidal river flow Timbered houses or slated Steeple.

These as part of history will go.

From the nursery rhyming Taylor sisters, Humpty Dumpty on St Mary's walls.

To water tower Jumbo's Victorian vistas, Music of Wilbye and marbled halls.

In its long-term standing as Queen of the East Brave Colchester lives on, From King Cole, to Cromwell at the very least In minds of men of Camulodunum.

The fishing and the port are gone Upping the pace of life with snarl of cars Our feelings for its past is nearly over run And yet this Town is surely ours.

5

My cat is honest in her dishonesty She had reflects us all but more so The opposites we are in simple form.

She tells us lies about her food Has no notion of being good.

One moment fierce the next one calm.

Soft and pliant on my knee Her essence entirely fur and purr For the moment she is in love.

A mouse is heard- cat is alert She has no qualms about causing hurt To play and prod to make it move.

Now she is a structure hard Of sinew and bone, focussed and tense Claws and teeth will give no quarter The game is great so why not prolong The quarry's anguish- she sees no wrong She's honing skills, and rewards come after.

Because we talk in words, we need To justify and extol our deeds There is more than fear of retribution Yet in life’s chase we'll cringe and cower Like a guilty liar, thief or lover Unlike the cat we need absolution.

6

Botticelli saw Its cradling protective strength Hambling’s child of now.

Scallop holds us all Innocence imitating The birth of Venus

Shipwrecked, thrusting, strong Natural form in metal Holds and comforts us.

Scallop Girls

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Slow snail trail of slime Not wanted in our small plan; Part of His pattern.

Sprawling summer weeds; Sticky Willy, Herb Robert; Naughty pretty boys.

Luxuriant warmth Summer’s abundant spreadings Lift my spirit up.

The Gallery, Little Glebe

8

Mixed feelings- fruit of shorter days Sign of fulsome fecundity and fulfilment Moving to a fading, even a frisson of failure The leaves are first in spring to open their freshness Now brittle and lacy ready to crumble Giving their strength to the next generation.

The bright green case is round and hard Short prickles - not ready to split It's fullness contrasting the browning leaves.

Ever onward - there is no going back This premature baby, shiny and pristine white Lying in my hand, even now is turning brown.

As one born too soon it wrinkles within hours.

Wrested early from its soft white womb This first fruit is old before its prime.

If I plant this child, it may recover To be part of an everlasting cycle.

If I keep it, I can never be its mother.

9

I am by the window With the lights on Reading a book I am outside in the dark I see my huddled form Not worth a second look This isn't like the real thing Where a curiosity rules and The inside looks inviting Then the imagination is king.

I can only see from where I am I call it mind set siting

I am gripped by the play A visual feast and An array of emotion The actors pull me into their world I am changed by it and their devotion When I have to be on stage All is light and fright But I can simulate I can stand and rant and rage Or radiate great calm But unchanged is my state

10

Hibernation- how about that!

It's hard to lift my head from the pillow These dark mornings- and yet There's a lovely red blush on the stems of the willow.

The surge of energy to change my ways Didn't last long. To stay in bed would be nice.

There's much to do and things to see, But the rat race and cars don't mix with ice.

Grumpy, grimy, greasy and grey, Imagining spring is quite a feat And summer seems a lifetime away, But the lawn is green and birdsong sweet.

I ate too much and the habit lingers, The spring cleaning urge is only half there.

New brooms for idle fingers Seem pointless with so many troubles elsewhere.

I can face the future - I am the lucky one.

But O how much it easier it is in the sun.

La Celle Guenand, France

11

The tall and graceful crab apple spreads her delicate arms all ways up Central and dignified on smooth green carpet In front stands the climbing frame which seems to cage her body in a tight-waisted tubular crinoline It gives her an hourglass figure.

The metal shape mockingly mirrors her escaping branches above.

Her winter nakedness is poised to be covered in leaf. But the see-through cage makes us feel we are prying.

Cyclamen

March '07 There is a sharp division in the sky The colour yellow-white below And angry dark and grey on high The pale part with birch twigs laced And vertically by castle wall is sliced Pattern and drama relating in space Time and sky are moving on The upper part threatens less Pure azure now but drama gone Later still and home again The dark outside is uniform.

Cold calling about TV is a pain.

“I'm sorry” I say to the man “But you see we don't have Sky”.

12

In this quiet place You are so much on my mind I won't forget your elfin face Nor these memories outlined.

You strove, O nephew, with feeling Your talents clear to see Athletics, music, healing And all with humour free.

A close knit family is grieving For husband, father, brother, son.

So unexpected was this leaving It seems that joy is done.

Yet your shorter life was fine And wove its own strand in the line.

Peralta, Italy

It leans rakish and rusty A different red from the old brick wall But very much part of it With its unshiny light and silent bell.

Its dusty nakedness Now wears a dark green dress Of passion flower fronds Transforming mechanics into magic.

It no longer accuses of sloth It has its own life and space Now sporting an extra saddle cushion of snow Now a miniature mill wheel of dripping spokes.

In the sun it almost tempts a ride But who would disturb a resting bike?

13

How can they live with themselves, Bush and Blair?

For us who marched and hoped and prayed For sanity to prevail, this could mean despair.

Our energy is sapping and our nerves are frayed How can they justify the killing of the weak And ignore their people’s voices?

They profess to be religious and meek But fail to understand the moral choices.

Might is right and unstoppable it seems.

The threat they see has been invented To mask the dominance of their dreams And from seeing other ills, prevented.

Murder and mayhem is how we see it.

We are appalled by the unimaginable cost.

The people of Baghdad cannot flee it, And already many lives are lost.

How can we stop those cruel hands?

It's tempting to feel violent as well, Or hide our heads or emigrate to other lands.

Yet, we must stand up the world to tell.

Written on the outbreak of war March 2003

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Why the continued push of such aggression?

Post-war plans revealed as less than naught.

The so-called liberated still daily fear oppression.

This was our prediction and is our daily thought.

History is clear and should teach us the truth.

Three wars with the Dutch in one decade From the birth of Quakerism and during its youth Should have reminded us what violence unmade Far more lives have been lost post war On all sides in this year of shame.

It's painful to watch lies triumph, and fear When we have marched and cried “not in our name.�

Now we want our rulers to fall Such is the circular way of the world A negative response which is sure to pall And continue the process of evil unfurled.

West Bergholt Bluebells

15

What's the matter with the Western world The cult of fear and the rise of “Terr” Celebrity, profanity, nonentity, titty The antidote- let's not go there.

It’s virtual this and Cyber that Indoors with artificial air.

“Experience the volcano” they say For what is real we no longer care.

It’s said repeatedly we can't go back To use less, eat less, give more and share.

Cars now dominate: Walks are out Along with good debate, I know not where Idealism is a dirty word: “spin” not so.

Self-justification is the aim.

Learning from history takes too long.

It is easier to have others to blame A rainbow should give pause for thought As well as patterns on the ground.

Living close to other creatures Brings understanding profound Pastimes will cost the earth And greed will cause its death.

“Living simply that others may simply live”, Might give it back its breath.

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Little Glebe

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La Celle Guenand

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The thing about a classic vase It works from every angle One can mess about with modern shapes And transfer patterns on boring plates But the material should dictate the whole Except for the happy accidental I love this little vase. It is so small It sits within my fist but has no use Its function to be only decorative Its size is secret and comforting.

It has elegance but is not tall And it's shape and pattern are fused.

Perfection is a demanding state And yet quite possible within a limit I know the wood turner aims high With an image that is grand, But this vase that has so little weight Contains the world within it.

19

Beyond the window grapes Screaming summer swallows On farmer's phoneline alighting Now there are hundreds and the sky Is swirling full of commas and dots Before filling the thread with knots The noise is all involving I drink their excitement High above it does not deafen But is marked by sudden quiet Off again they wheel and dive To settle silently one by one Who commands this repeating dance?

No obvious leader to me is shown Answerable for so many lives.

How many times this practice run?

How many days before the off?

How is the communicating done?

What are their feelings?

And where are their things?

Before I know it, all is still This time they have not come back And I am bereft and alone.

Only now am I registering The great event that I've been shown Distant continents and days without rest Are for only the unimaginably fit Who have such instinct driven zest.

20

What is that stirring marching tune?

Why does it haunt me so much later?

This composer with his depth and passion I have not heard in years — It matters How could such colours go out of fashion?

My parents visiting his northern land, Saw the desk where he composed.

Bought souvenir ashtray made with His cigar bands collected by his fans And gave it to my grateful boyfriend.

It is these connections from master to me Which give it special resonance.

The dish broke early- My parents diedThe music was replaced by other needs.

But the student in me is reawakened.

Peralta, Italy

21

Time: you are fickle and not straight with me You push me sometimes to make a choice Otherwise you shrug and say “don't bother�

Just when I think I might have got an answer.

I too reflect this duplicity.

What nags me now has no substance in the morning.

I try to hold you by the sleeve or tail I try to make you take my path You look and laugh and give me the slip Like a ball of mercury your shape is elastic Now round and expanding: now slim and running I wish I could see the invisible spaces And channels which inform your being So that I could understand you better.

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