Carol Holding Poetry 2007 - 2017

POETRY 2007 -2017 CAROL HOLDING

Tea for One

Hot air balloon

BALLOONING The envelope lies limp A multicoloured stain across the grass is stretched.

Do we trust our human frames to this fragile silky smear? my dream seems quite far-fetched Cold air is blown to give it form And we hold its mouth to help it breathe.

The swelling cave begins to pull and the time to get aboard is now as the basket rolls over to leave.

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Flames are blown up and the anchor thrown down.

We are afloat in one blink And far underneath us the ground.

It’s goodbye feet-of-clay now for Now it’s our head-in-the-clouds trick The earth is now distant but detailed The roads are angular snakes Where throbbing juggernauts Become tiny humming boxes Between many fields and lakes.

We see it all passing but feel no speed Dogs bark but we hear no other noise.

Flocks of white sheep scatter Making flow patterns on green Other fields ploughed or stubble lie Around stately homes. With pools of water.

Minuscule yet majestic trees Seem to pass faster as we descend It’s nearly over and we brace for landing The stubble thumps our feet a bit Then the basket tips over and we Rush along sideways in a cosy upending

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Norman Church Door

WHAT HOPE IS THERE FOR ME? I can hold firm in abstract thought If it relates to Faith or politics.

Images can of course be caught But can I hold them long enough To link them in a pattern?

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Patterns to light up other minds than mine To shock or resonate The poet of whom at least one will say I wish I'd thought of that.

My poetry is private and yet I want All to feel my fire or pain Too many ideas pushing but being pushed expand By doubts: swarming but swerving; Nothing lingers long enough.

Exciting or moving, mockingly laughing.

I want to hold them, mould them As I never did my children.

I spread myself too thin, darting Hither and thither like a moth I know the light I’m aiming for But never give it time enough.

When someone I admire can say, “But doubt is all a poet knows False encouragement it’s true But can I follow just one one path through?

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French Village

Poetry Discussion 6

Spoons

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Peralta Terrace, Tuscany

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Poet Aspiring Poetry is fact with feeling But having the special thought Needs recording, or else It dries too quickly in the sand.

To worry at it; building shaping, Gives onward purpose A more lasting image.

A memory bond.

In an intense phase of mind Time must be taken and used Rework, let other things go, it’s special So above all, WRITE IT DOWN

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Tucson garden, Arizona

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Sudbury Garden

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Reconciled My mother the calm provider, or so I thought one day reacted to me with a fierceness unsought I’d answered rudely to her interruption of my reveries and she replied with force A passion not seen or felt before And we met in the garden both crying reunited by shock and each seeking pardon.

Dorset 12

Meeting House A Place of welcome and Worship For party, peacefulness or prayer; A Friends' home from home Is to be found here.

In this and all seasons May we be strong: Spread our love: May all belong.

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ARTISTIC TENSION My eye is sliding along the smooth slim horizontal branches of the fig tree.

They cross each other, converge or drift apart and split in three.

Much more uniform is the multitude of catkins, each unique But vertically hanging in repetitive clusters making The perfect see- through yellow backdrop for the snaking fig.

Behind this curtain rears a roof covering three different sized gables.

The power line swoops before it, making a cross with telephone cable.

This view is broken by the lattice window. Slats of fence and frames of doors Are divided endlessly, as is the herringbone brick path.

Repeating image or small frames for the infinitely big.

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Winter Tree

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two Haiku Cat feeling friendly Puts tentative paw on page.

Really needing knee, — Cheeky park starlings Scrapping over flapjack crumbs Heads cocked eyeing me

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COLORFALL Amounts of sugar and lack of light, or so we’re told, Are responsible for such variety of hues so bold.

I find these facts and this luminosity contradictory in nature Just as these floral swan songs presage both death and promise of future.

Dewlish, Dorset 17

Thames Barge Rigging

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Walberswick

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Crackington Haven, Dorset

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SITTING UNCOMFORTABLY A child of three waits and waits Uncomprehending on a trunk At Liverpool docks in the middle of war While strangers sort our fates.

No wonder it is blotted out: The memories of seasickness And the last disruptive days.

The girl of ten understands all By now, but has not the words.

An older sister’s death should make us close: But the girl sits silent on the sofa Thus seeming not to care And is deemed to be protected By her youth from sadness.

An Articulate adult still finds Words elusive in times of stress Waiting on a hospital chair.

Irrational feelings of being Invisible and being punished Unsure and full of fearfulness Just because of being THERE.

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Lily

working in THE RESTAURANT Everyone arrives at their appointed hour Chef’s mind has been busy since before dawn.

Chef’s body has been everywhere Cold store, fresh market and now this room.

Organisation and speed are its keys.

Those whose heart is elsewhere finds strife.

For those in love with food, it frees: For them this gastronomic whirl is life.

The pace hots up — the deadlines near, Pulling together, people and pans.

This day in the life is distinctive, clear But must be as good as any before.

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The guests, they must be remembered as such, There’s no enjoyment if resented.

Give them time- This may be a special lunch.

Take good care with the food presented.

It’s hard — you’ve slaved so long You know what it all means.

They fuss and change or come on strong, Your feet ache and your head spins.

It’s steamy and hot and the best laid plans Begin to slip and your hands sweat.

Irritation fights your good intentions: You long for a break from all this heat.

Chef goes on in love with his job: A feeling only fleeting with the rest of us.

Clock watching may creep in as tiredness grows, But he sometimes brings out the best in us.

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