Her fingers press the keys With skilful muscle memory Of adolescent compositions.
But now, her fingers are clothed In the jewels of promise And the band of union. Her fingers press the keys With skilful memory. A would be forgotten melody Is slowly remembered, Quickly played. But her fingers have changed. They have reassembled the shards of me, They have studied my skin, They are now clothed With the jewels of our promises, And the engraved band Of our union.
I wrote this poem in 2014 for my wife Silje soon after we were married as she played something she’d written years before. I was watching her, and struck by the simple image of her playing a piece she’d written with fingers that are now clothed with our wedding and engagement rings.
When it snowed in Montpellier in February 2018 she was playing Prelude in C Major by J.S Bach. I thought the image of her playing with the snow outside would go well with this poem, so I recorded her without telling her. She can be very shy about her music. But don’t w…
It's been a while since I've posted any new poems, but let me assure you that I have been writing! I've been kept quite busy with work of different sorts, but that's not the only reason. It has actually been eight months since I last posted. It was the poem 'Her Fingers', a celebration of my amazing wife and her creativity. One of the reasons I have been so busy is that, for the last eight months, Silje and I have been preparing for the best of changes in our lives. We are expecting our first child, a baby boy, in time for Christmas! As you can image this has inspired a great many poems about the prospect of fatherhood, the miracle of life, the impending responsibility, of journeying through pregnancy with Silje, her courage and strength, our boys developing body, mind and soul, his kicking and jumping within the womb, the glimpses of his face at scans etc etc etc. So I'm really excited to share with you one of the latest poems that I've written for our …
There was a world, displaced from its axis by repeated tragedies of its own making, as the inhabitants attempt to grasp the credit for it's own creating.
An entire macrocosm misaligned by
embezzling clutches and throning lusts.
Who's history is marked by a needless taking,
and just in case, a pious faking
to appease a possible divinity
as either a patsy or a machine. There was a world, decomposing in it's own folly. Spinning itself dizzy flailing after impervious redemption. And inside that world there was a
people displaced from its milk and
honey by a ruling superpower. As the globalising tar of Rome spread to paint the Empire one
culture, this people had been waiting. Listening in silence for the reason of their plight, Waiting for the sword of a
rallying leader to severe their shackles, and the throats of the
chain-bearers, alike. Waiting with the same attitude that inspired the
silence, a misunderstanding of what it
is to be ch