Susan Brazier
HOME
Swifts have returned,
School has closed down.
Coach tickets booked,
We’re leaving town.
Goin to mamgu’s fferm,
Freedom to roam
Only once a year but
It still feels like home.
Peat bogs to cross,
Horses to catch
Hay to bring in
Chickies to hatch.
When I am grown,
And living alone
I’ll move there for good
I’ll simply, go home.
Where the curlews cry,
Where the skylarks soar,
Where the bracken grows.
Where the waters roar.
That’s where I will be,
When you look for me
That’s where I will be,
Where my soul flies free.
BABI YAR
Winds blow soft there,
Trees are quiet,
Grass grows long there,
Birds are mute.
Why so hushed there?
Why so wary?
Why? Because it’s Babi Yar.
Build it straight
And build it far.
Cover the dead of Babi Yar.
Wrap them in a shroud of tar,
But don’t forget the dead of Babi yar.
FANTASY
There is a demon, deep within this cavern
I must fight.
I can hear his dark throat growling,
I can smell his foul stench,
I can feel his fearsome might.
But I know of no escape
Bar the one he guards so well,
His armor darkly polished
His sword unsheathed and, high above,
A bell.
And the bell will toll the ending
As it ever did before.
And the bell will sing the story,
Who will listen? Who will hear the
Outcome.
None shall hear the golden bell
There will be no tale to tell.
For I have not the courage
Nor the weapons by my side to
Enter.
Instead, I’ll stand within this gloomy cave
And listen to my demon rave below, and wait.
Ill wait until the spirit tires
Ill wait until the body fails
Then,with one last speck of courage
I will sink my dagger deep within my heart
And laugh
As I rob my demon of his delight.
Another Rainy Day
Time and time and time to spare,
Time to laugh and time to share.
Time to sit amid the hay
And tell the deeds of yesterday.
We climbed the hill beside the house,
Then crossed the peat bog and kissed the cows.
We threw stones into the well,
Gran says it goes right down to hell.
Well, I did something bad as well,
I chased the pig as pulled his tail.
Time and time and time to spare.
And time to dream and time to share,
And time to sit and kick our heels
And wonder if the flowers ‘feel’
And wait until the cows come home
Then beg for milk and drink it warm.
Time for tea, then games and bed,
Candles held above our heads
Fingers crossed and eyes shut tight
We pray the rain will end tonight.
THE DREAMER
In my dream I see the child.
She stands alone within a field,
Close beside the hawthorn hedge,
Dress as white as blossom on the tree.
She’s waiting for my dreaming,
But in all the years of waiting,
In precisely numbered days,
Not a movement or a sound escapes beyond
The aura that surrounds.
Small arms raised to clasp behind her neck,
Forearms pressing tight against her ears,
Mouth wide open in a silent,
Never-ending, never-changing elemental scream.
She’s waiting to be rescued.
Within my dream I call a name and move
Toward the child but,
My voice is swallowed by the scream.
My warm hand reaches out to comfort or console but,
Fingeretips dissolve the child into motes of
Sun-kissed dust
So here we stand, you and I,
Close beside the hawthorn hedge,
Both the dreamer, both the child, both,
Waiting to be rescued.
Within my dream I turn away
I know this dream is not of me but of the child.
This place of gentle meadow
And softly folded hills,
Was spun by infant thought
To keep away the spiders of insanity…
I close my inner eyes to stay within the darkness
Where the shadow of the child is seen
Beyond the false remembering that brought her here.
It is then I see the child IN a memory that sits behind
The mind of reason.
The darkness of a shuttered eye is
Nought to that wherein the child stands
In cellar dark she stands alone
Close beside a wooden bench
Dress as grey as shadows in the dust.
She’s waiting to be rescued.
She waits to be devoured by the darkness that surrounds her
She waits to be consumed by the sounds that she can hear.
Sounds to feed her childish fears,
Sounds to change those childish fears to terror.
And here she stands throughout the many years of waiting,
One hand clasped behind her head,
The other is held within the jaws of a cold metallic vice.
I gently call her name and move towards the vacant child but..
The voice is lost amongst the folded hills.
I vainly try to touch
Reaching out a hand to comfort or console but…
Fingertips touch ice-cold stone.
Warmth cannot penetrate the silent scream.
So here we stand, each one alone,
You in your dream me in mine
Both the dreamer, both the child
Both waiting to be rescued.
Could I but sleep
A whole night through,
Who knows what I might write.
RUBBISH!
It’s only at night when
The silence crowds against the window
And the darkness hides the
Mediocrity,
Only then, will the words come.
Only then do the phrases form in the brain.
Sunlight brings confusion to the mind.
We have three new poems from Susan Brazier, in the same vein - all of exceptional quality. We are publishing them for your perusal and feedback, as we do all poems.
WYLDWOOD
I did, on that bright day,
Descend the hill and
Hearken to the beckoning wood.
Oft times before, I heard it call
And listened not.
But now, when all hope had gone,
The gentle sound sang sweetly in my mind. Across
The field of head- high corn,
Crackle dry in summer heat
Through meadow grass,
Down stony hill
I moved toward the leading tree.
I stood before the guardian tree,
Reached out my hand and,
As I touched the living bark
The forest soul reached into me.
Long hours I stood to hear the tales of eons passing.
Saplings broken by the wind, ancient beeches felled by fire.
But, all are one amid the mass
And all protect the Wyldwood.
Then, with one last smiling backward glance,
I crossed the dappled glade of oak and stepped into
The darker shade of forest true.
DEPRESSION
They want us to show you the depth of depression,
They want us to share what that word means to us.
They give us a word, they call it a label
They tell us, describe it they say, ‘share’ your pain.
IT IS;
The absence of light on a bright summer’s day,
The absence of warmth in the hot summer’s sun.
The absence of love when holding a loved one,
The absence of hurt when friends turn away.
The absence of time though the clock keeps on ticking,
The absence of wants though the needs still remain
But, without all of these, maybe we could go on
If there wasn’t ALWAYS the absence of hope.
US AND THEM
Do poets dream of different?
Worlds than we?
Do they see swirls of colour beyond?
Our range of fantasy?
SOMETIMES, the string of words
Arranged upon a line of verse
Is so obscure that it’s perverse,
And yet-----
Once read aloud,
With commas in their rightful place
And pauses given proper space
The words return and colour thought
And make us ‘see’ with different sight
And even ‘though’ a rarity,
Can bring a light into our lives
That haunts us forever.
TRIBUTE TO DYLAN THOMAS
Splinters of glass
Fall from the pen
to the page.
There to lie in wait
To wound the unwary reader.
BEWARE!
The mind of the poet
Can poison the blood
And send a shaft
To the heart
That can kill.
WRITERS BLOCK
Without their tablets
Brain’s on fire.
Poems tumble over each other
To be born.
Words, phrases,
Iambic perfections
Drop easily from the pen to the page.
But then,
When the mind tires and
The flow becomes sluggish,
They come and say
‘you’re ill’.
They give me pills and
Drown my mind in
Sickly honeyed logic.
STARS! MY MIND IS FILLED WITH STARS.
Bright, achingly white
points of sublime inspiration.
words form of their own accord,
lit with penetrating
iambic perfection.
each star, a poem.
quick, catch a falling star and
capture it in ink.
WORDS
Words words and yet more words,
Jostle for space within the
Jumbled attic of my mind.
Dusty, half forgotten
Boxes of dying memories
Form into shadows of experience.
Darkened corners defy
the light of my pen,
Will not give up their secrets
Nor lie quiet on the page.
Instead they withdraw into the darkness,
And ever, fade into obscurity.
Cigarette
ONE more cigarette,
just one more.
each one brings
another poem.
inspiration drifts
within the smoke.
cats and dogs,
death or love
glow as brightly as
the embers in the
ashtray.
Here we have an accomplished poet, using a medium she is comfortable with, which shows through the rhythm, to portray her deepest thoughts.
Dark recesses of the mind can be brought to the fore and bring magic to other peoples lives.
The cigarette poem will enable many a smoker to relate to this feeling of - just one for the road.
Take off your hat, settle down and let Susan remind all us strivers of our lives, of our trials and tribulations and then carry you with her into triumph in the form of star bursts bringing that longed for and worked for inspiration.
Susan you make a sufferer smile.
