If you have enjoyed the poems on this blog then you will love The Rush of Lava Flowers by Lydia Popowich. Her poetry collection explores the subjects of migration, family and hereditary trauma. There is love, tragedy and above all, hope in these confessional poems with a surrealist twist. Buy it now on Amazon.
Discuss…
“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.” – Desmond Tutu
“I think it’s a mistake to ever look for hope outside of one’s self.” – Arthur Miller
“He who has health, has hope; and he who has hope has everything.” – Thomas Carlyle
“To live without hope is to cease to live.” – Fyodor Dostoyevsky
“The miserable have no other medicine but only hope.” – William Shakespeare
“Hope is a waking dream.” – Aristotle
Do you believe in hope? Please share your thoughts.
There are times when it’s hard to spot the signs of hope hidden amongst the negativity and gloom that surrounds us at present. As UK appears to sink beneath another wave of a more virulent strain of Covid 19 many of us are teetering on the edge of despair. Today when I opened my front door to another cold and frosty winter’s day I noticed the teeny tiny shoots of crocuses emerging in a plant pot. They were almost invisible amongst the moss, weeds and colourful pebbles but they were definitely there. So however grim our lives might appear at present we must pause and look for the good stuff and remember tomorrow is another day.
There was nothing but the hunt,
the pain, the struggle, the dark.
She had to keep running. Run!
She could barely recall a time
before the breaking of branches.
She could barely recall her time
of being human, of skin
touching skin and naked picnics
when she gazed boldly at the sun.
In her upright days moss and wild
flowers sprang from her every
footstep, birds sang her every word.
Now she ran on all fours. Run, run!
Her cloven hooves were raw, spiked
by thorns. She was pierced by nine
arrows, fur rank with pus. Venomous.
Calculating. The forest was silent,
a lifeless zodiac of roots and branches.
She could no longer recall her name
or why she had to run. Her lungs failed
and she fell in the shadow of a crippled
tree. As she waited for her joyful exit,
forked lightning unravelled silver
threads of hope across the night sky.
Note:- this is an ekphrastic poem based on Frida Kahlo’s painting shown below.
Somewhere in the Hambleton Hills
I took a right turn down a track not
on any map and edgy with yesterday.
Like Alice I plunged down a tunnel
of yellow gorse, silver birch and rocks
that had danced in the Book of Genesis.
A large pink dog, the sort that calls
a spade a spade was waiting by a stream
where the track vanished in a tangle
of weeping willows and a warning sign
Check depth before entering. Deep water
and shadows beckoned. The dog wagged
his tail in approval and I saw beyond
the ford; a fertile valley and sheep
like ballerinas in tutus and a rainbow
house on a hill in a dazzle of sublime
clouds. I saw a smiling face and a hand
waving, an orchard and a rose garden.
I smelled strawberries, fresh bread
and wood smoke. The whispers of leaves
and birdsong drifted on the breeze.
The dog waited, his eyes wary as hope
while I considered the darkness
of the crossing and judged it too deep.
we gather at the edge
white feathers falling
in the dark
staring into the void
we are alone
the children wave purple lightsabers
kitted out in knitted hats
adorned with pom-poms
there’s a sense of urgency
mother and child move quickly
the wrong direction
teenagers pace and stiffen into poses
words fade with the wind
the burning of wood
the Ivory Tower
the crackling of flames
taking hold the awe
exploding the shock
we gasp smoke
sparks rise shimmering bat-wings
it is beautiful
the stars weep green roses
silver snakes carved
in the perfect dark
a father thin and tired
carries his daughter
to the edge
holds tiny pink hands
in huge gloved fists
nuclear dots burn
in the emptiness
we hold the fire
and only the wind
HAPPY NEW YEAR 2020 to all my friends and supporters!
Happy Winter Solstice to all!
New painting from my Delirious series. Hope you like it!
Frosted mountain wings
ripple across horizons
silver winter clings.
Together but alone they come in from the rain,
wait at the counter of The Wicker Man Café.
She admires his shark grey boots and denim thighs.
He looks back, meets her eyes. She smiles.
She orders chocolate cake and tea.
He orders a bacon roll and coffee.
They take separate tables, numbers two and five.
She sits facing the street, looks at the harbor.
She admires umbrellas, orange boats, blue water.
She thinks – is this the start of a long lasting love affair?
With sparkle and poise she spreads a hard knob of butter.
She thinks – find extra pleasure in the small.
She thinks – the possibilities are endless.
He sits with his back to the window, scans the jobs page.
He clocks the breasts on the young waitress.
He thinks – should never have quit the rig.
He tries his phone, searching for a signal.
He thinks – I’ve no more fight.
He thinks – it’s all too late.
She tries not to stare when he stumbles out the door.
On her way home she buys roses scented with moon-dust.
The Purple Hermit 