From Different Skies – An Anthology by Poetry ID

Poems by Dennis Tomlinson, Gareth Writer-Davies, Yuko Minamikawa Adams, John Gohorry, Barbara Wheeler, Ann Copeland, John Gartland, Nicky Phillips, Ríonach Aiken, Dick Jones, Rose Saliba, Ian Harding, Emily Harkness, Jay Ward, Sue Aldred, Richard J.N. Copeland, Luisetta Mudie, David Van-Cauter, Kim Simmonds-Hurn and Adam Warwicker

From Different Skies

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Visual haiku

John Gohorry’s recent post reminded me of what I had created for  Poetry ID 100 Boxes ten years ago. It’s in haiku form in Japanese printed inside the blue shape but I cannot translate it into English with the same syllables.

In English, it means ‘Rain falls on a jumper. Smell of sheep in a field.’

Yuko Minamikawa Adams 南川優子

Jumper

The Present

Magpies wag their tails
on the rust-brown tiles,
excrement-streaked
with yellow-brown lichen.

Spring has come to swing
his hammer, to drive
crocuses forth
from the leaf-scattered soil.

Look at the workmen
raising their scaffolding,
opening roofs
where the old tiles lay.

This is the building
of a new time:
while daisies peer shyly
towards a pale sun

I up and depart
on the camouflaged back
of a frog who leaps
over gardens.

He follows the scent
of the damp embankment,
the tangled road
to the gold-paved city.

Between the Gothic
spikes of Parliament,
over the Thames we fly,
beating cold air.

Beside the gleaming
science-fiction towers
cranes are pointing
vainly at heaven.

But our business
lies on the living streets –
and a flash of sun
bursts the long whale-cloud,

lighting the yellow
crowns of dandelion.
Now all animal
hearts are burning.

After ‘The Future’ follows ‘The Present’. This one turned into a spring poem as I was writing it.

 

Unspoken

This poem sprang out of our ‘voices’ Poetry ID workshop at the end of February. Thanks to Luisetta for sifting that topic from the ether that evening.

 

Unspoken

 

The first time I heard your voice

it touched me so closely

I almost hung up.

Who was this stranger who spoke to me?

My voice hid in the business of practical detail,

peering out from behind the leaves

newly aware of its nakedness.

Now we converse, sometimes

cloaked in familiarity,

sometimes skin on skin.

 

Ríonach Aiken