brian289
15 Nov 2011: 12:09PM

Seeing the pictures of Stephen Laurence again has reminded me of the sonnet I wrote at the time of his murder. I'd like to share it.



THE FACE OF STEPHEN LAURENCE

The face has become an icon; the gentle smile,
The chiselled features, look from every page.
There’s comfort in that face. Icons assuage
Our grief; we make the image ours. The vile
Corruption at our heart denied, we embrace
The image as if we had a right to share
His grace, that we had always had a care
For Stephen, killed by bigots to our disgrace.
There’s naught for our comfort here. Those eyes
Smile not for us; they regard our guilt.
The murderous urges in those thugs were built
Inside our house. We have to exorcise
The evil, cleanse the house, to make a place
Of honour for the icon, the smiling face.


Brian Clark

brian289
6 Dec 2011, 10:41AM

For my EPT I offer this sonnet which is one of dramatic sequence I wrote some years ago.

We're made like a jigsaw, with many puzzling parts.
And over our lives we're committed laboriously to try
To make the picture whole - with many false starts,
And we earnestly long to complete it before we die.
Over the years we learn it's impossible to do
With only the pieces provided at the start.
There are gaps, huge holes and no edges too,
Just links to the bigger scene of which we're a part.
Others' jigsaws have parts that fit our own
And parts of ours will find a home in theirs.
We come to acknowledge when we're sadly alone
The smallest group for coherence at all, is pairs.
But finally, the complete picture will only be seen
When a part of each fits every other's scene.

brian289
14 December 2011 12:12PM

I wrote this sonnet on the day that the coalition government was formed. Seems as though it's coming true. For the information of those who do not live in Britain, Relate is the name of what used to be called the Marriage Guidance Council a counselling organisation.

 CAMERON AND CLEGG

The whirlwind courtship’s over; the two are wed.
A shot gun wedding. No time for gentle kisses 
Sweet nothings, fun, the times when he misses
The point but recovers, just the rush to bed.
What kind of marriage is this? Not so odd – 
Where one is fiercely macho, the other gentle. One tough, the other slightly sentimental.
And, amongst the families, always an awkward squad. The problem is, no time for a honeymoon.
Some space to find each other, discover when
To give and take, and when to think again.
No gentle night. Immediately high noon.
The stress of marriage can turn love to hate;
How long before the counselling at Relate?

The new born waits, a mouth and podgy fists,
Unfocussed eyes and waving arms and legs.
In every part an urgent need, she begs
With every cell for contact, love; insists
She’s held so closely to her mother’s breast,
She hears that soothing sound that pulsed her growth.
She finds the nipple; sucks to feed them both
With bonding joy; she’s safe within the nest.
A body only -  within, unseeded mind.
Her journey’s just begun for she must build
A self that’s strong and free and yet be skilled
In seeing others’ need, and her need to be kind.
She needs protection for the journey’s tough;
Only her mother’s love is armour enough.

Posted in the QCC
April 21, 2012

© Brian Clark

brian289
March 2012 5:06PM

I'd like to thank you (civvie)(See below. PP) for your beach poems by posting one of mine. This is real hubris. And deserves punishment - but what the hell! I do hope that I haven't posted it before and bore the caff with repetiion and get us both chucked out. I think they won't; they are a generous lot!

THE MOTHER

With hesitant steps, the child approaches the sea,
With backward looks to his mother, watching him.
She wants him to be brave - to learn to swim,
To love the water, and yet she's never free
From fear. Within her heart she wants to call
Him back, enfold him safely in her arms,
But also knows that she must still her qualms
If he's to grow, to break another caul.
The sea's the primal mother, where we start,
As six short years ago with waves of pain
And tidal breath, she beached her son, again
And again expelling him from beneath her heart.
There's painful joy in following nature's plan -
Encouraging him away, to become a man.