J.C. Milne's Blog
May 16, 2021
Tulip Spring, to D. © JC Milne
This morning's poem was a belated anniversary gift to my husband (who brought me red roses and dark chocolates!). It obviously refers to more than tulips!
Tulip Spring, to D. © J C Milne
Rich banners of an army declare this spring,
blood-red, cup-gold, sun-yellow, all flung
brilliant in the breeze, bold bright sheen
a tapestry of delight, a shout, wave, broad
ripple in their worked hostelry of earth,
forecourt of lawn, splayed canopy of leaf.
These blooms are ordered, ranged, defy
the wilderness of new light, the march
of hooded crow across the timid lawn,
the startled flight of sparrow, the crook
and sprawl of roses past the fence’s screen,
the gleam of rocks held in the sea’s sheath.
They are no accident, no spawn or career
of the year’s haphazard swing to warmth
in this microcosm of the north; rather they are
your produce, you lover of tranquillity and joy,
your work, to foster these, your endeavour
christens them, your gift, and your resplendence.
Tulip Spring, to D. © J C Milne
Rich banners of an army declare this spring,
blood-red, cup-gold, sun-yellow, all flung
brilliant in the breeze, bold bright sheen
a tapestry of delight, a shout, wave, broad
ripple in their worked hostelry of earth,
forecourt of lawn, splayed canopy of leaf.
These blooms are ordered, ranged, defy
the wilderness of new light, the march
of hooded crow across the timid lawn,
the startled flight of sparrow, the crook
and sprawl of roses past the fence’s screen,
the gleam of rocks held in the sea’s sheath.
They are no accident, no spawn or career
of the year’s haphazard swing to warmth
in this microcosm of the north; rather they are
your produce, you lover of tranquillity and joy,
your work, to foster these, your endeavour
christens them, your gift, and your resplendence.
May 1, 2021
Raptor ©J C Milne
Anyone who read my earlier poem "Spring" will perhaps remember 'our' dove.
Raptor © J C Milne
Moon, peach-hued, glowing to our door,
light shed to ribboned curl of cloud,
in stream, path, or winding fallow,
luminous on the resting sea,
balm to the worn breast
Day’s break, haphazard sun, and frisk
of spring, chill of breeze and flair,
in charm, catch, or merest flit,
sumptuous with a candid breath,
tongue to the moon’s fall
Door’s gape, one open step, proclaimed
no dove. There, on her nest, egg-laid,
no dove. Her homely clutch had been
well hidden by our wall; and she, soft,
our household guest
It seemed that in the light-swept night
the moon had witnessed terror, flaw,
scarred at a scream, paled at feathers
loosed, in the draught that cupped
steel wings, the livid claw
Swift, with speed uncountenanced,
Death fastened on our harmless bird,
all menace, on our bird, maternal,
patient builder of a wary home;
outrage without parallel
Each outrage without parallel, each
rape of quiet and of motherhood
an outrage in the dark; each figure
who once glowed, in human night
and fell to claw or bite
Each flight of wing to torment lends,
under the wing bright talons honed;
O pray that from their mountain ledge
they dance not before our moon,
or small sustenance;
And when they come, no longer pray,
the moon is fallen and her cheeks cold,
daybreak stiff with shock, the daily bread
beyond our ask; the dove is gone,
the nest forlorn.
Raptor © J C Milne
Moon, peach-hued, glowing to our door,
light shed to ribboned curl of cloud,
in stream, path, or winding fallow,
luminous on the resting sea,
balm to the worn breast
Day’s break, haphazard sun, and frisk
of spring, chill of breeze and flair,
in charm, catch, or merest flit,
sumptuous with a candid breath,
tongue to the moon’s fall
Door’s gape, one open step, proclaimed
no dove. There, on her nest, egg-laid,
no dove. Her homely clutch had been
well hidden by our wall; and she, soft,
our household guest
It seemed that in the light-swept night
the moon had witnessed terror, flaw,
scarred at a scream, paled at feathers
loosed, in the draught that cupped
steel wings, the livid claw
Swift, with speed uncountenanced,
Death fastened on our harmless bird,
all menace, on our bird, maternal,
patient builder of a wary home;
outrage without parallel
Each outrage without parallel, each
rape of quiet and of motherhood
an outrage in the dark; each figure
who once glowed, in human night
and fell to claw or bite
Each flight of wing to torment lends,
under the wing bright talons honed;
O pray that from their mountain ledge
they dance not before our moon,
or small sustenance;
And when they come, no longer pray,
the moon is fallen and her cheeks cold,
daybreak stiff with shock, the daily bread
beyond our ask; the dove is gone,
the nest forlorn.
April 7, 2021
Pontypridd © J C Milne
This poem was written many years ago, so please forgive it any poetical failings! Bridges are so important.
I was going to add a photograph, but am never sure about copyright, and instead decided to include a reference to a picture by Dave Lewis, also from Pontypridd. Dave is a Goodreads author and the poem below was submitted last year to an annual competition he runs.
http://www.david-lewis.co.uk/wp-conte...
Pontypridd © J C Milne
Old Bridge; a child’s first peek at ages past,
a blindly savoured cherry to be sucked;
dear growing, then, by this old town, though
floods dismembered banks, stones, roads,
my Auntie Blod’s piano naked in the street;
and same old floods, in eons gone, swept
through our arch of soil, our lovely bow,
and rushed it down the Taff that raced below.
And when I learned a wooden bridge was raised,
in my head its splinters flew, the river sang:
My cup runs fast, and roaring through.
I joyouse on, while all these faces watch,
Who for my splendid show have laboured long,
Have cut and bent and joined their little bridge,
And watched it go, ripped in my surgent flow.
Then in the wake of chaos flowed new arch of stone,
hollowed out to take the flood, and bless the vision
And the toil. This stone stood firm, shoulders now
New Bridge, offspring of the rib. Similarly stand,
Beside New Town with all its modern sheen,
Evan and his brother James, statued near,
Monuments for lovely Wales. Say with pride,
Ynysangharad, Pontypridd. In the saying, still
Slips the flood of ages through this sweet
Land of our fathers, hen wlad fy nadau,
Old in the blood, the birthplace of our song;
And ever, on land or stream, the foot and span.
I was going to add a photograph, but am never sure about copyright, and instead decided to include a reference to a picture by Dave Lewis, also from Pontypridd. Dave is a Goodreads author and the poem below was submitted last year to an annual competition he runs.
http://www.david-lewis.co.uk/wp-conte...
Pontypridd © J C Milne
Old Bridge; a child’s first peek at ages past,
a blindly savoured cherry to be sucked;
dear growing, then, by this old town, though
floods dismembered banks, stones, roads,
my Auntie Blod’s piano naked in the street;
and same old floods, in eons gone, swept
through our arch of soil, our lovely bow,
and rushed it down the Taff that raced below.
And when I learned a wooden bridge was raised,
in my head its splinters flew, the river sang:
My cup runs fast, and roaring through.
I joyouse on, while all these faces watch,
Who for my splendid show have laboured long,
Have cut and bent and joined their little bridge,
And watched it go, ripped in my surgent flow.
Then in the wake of chaos flowed new arch of stone,
hollowed out to take the flood, and bless the vision
And the toil. This stone stood firm, shoulders now
New Bridge, offspring of the rib. Similarly stand,
Beside New Town with all its modern sheen,
Evan and his brother James, statued near,
Monuments for lovely Wales. Say with pride,
Ynysangharad, Pontypridd. In the saying, still
Slips the flood of ages through this sweet
Land of our fathers, hen wlad fy nadau,
Old in the blood, the birthplace of our song;
And ever, on land or stream, the foot and span.
March 7, 2021
Availabilty
Just to say that my books are usually available from
www.feedaread.com or from Amazon. Or I can post one to you! It has come to my notice that there can be weird prices on them elsewhere.
www.feedaread.com or from Amazon. Or I can post one to you! It has come to my notice that there can be weird prices on them elsewhere.
February 28, 2021
Spring © J C Milne
The sparrows, the sea and the swirling winds
fanfare the spring; the rough rustle of the hedge
flurries feathers and wings, the crackle, crack
of foliage ripped by salty gales and slamming hail,
the sparring in the wreckage for birth-nests,
the searching out of holes and dens in walls,
the squabbling, screech, the bold, loud chirp,
the sprout of maleness in the morning.
The dove, cooing, asserting, beyond and above,
her nesting whim, makes for the rusting shine
of, and this surprises, a satellite dish; she likes
the warmth of wall and safety of the log of twigs
brought to the broad hinge; she sits, day on day,
cooing through breakfast, noon and even
through cautious steppings through the door,
anxious, when her young peek and explore.
The shore casts off its winter blight in weed,
rich, spoiling for the sound brown earth,
red, remembering iodine wealth of yore,
offering, browning then in sorrow for the lost
heyday of harvest; the sea moans for its store,
throws wave on foaming wave, replenishing,
tending the drying, neglected fronds that once
were life or death when the potatoes rose,
heavy and supple, with the wonders of the ocean
nourished. Spring renews, cherishes new-born
of song thrush, sparrow, dove, and the sea’s yield;
this morning a linnet sang to burst her tiny lungs,
rock pigeons found their docile wives; the robin
and the starling shared their feed, nuts and seed,
the old year’s plenty brought to the new, cast
and mould, in which we live and breathe, aglow.
fanfare the spring; the rough rustle of the hedge
flurries feathers and wings, the crackle, crack
of foliage ripped by salty gales and slamming hail,
the sparring in the wreckage for birth-nests,
the searching out of holes and dens in walls,
the squabbling, screech, the bold, loud chirp,
the sprout of maleness in the morning.
The dove, cooing, asserting, beyond and above,
her nesting whim, makes for the rusting shine
of, and this surprises, a satellite dish; she likes
the warmth of wall and safety of the log of twigs
brought to the broad hinge; she sits, day on day,
cooing through breakfast, noon and even
through cautious steppings through the door,
anxious, when her young peek and explore.
The shore casts off its winter blight in weed,
rich, spoiling for the sound brown earth,
red, remembering iodine wealth of yore,
offering, browning then in sorrow for the lost
heyday of harvest; the sea moans for its store,
throws wave on foaming wave, replenishing,
tending the drying, neglected fronds that once
were life or death when the potatoes rose,
heavy and supple, with the wonders of the ocean
nourished. Spring renews, cherishes new-born
of song thrush, sparrow, dove, and the sea’s yield;
this morning a linnet sang to burst her tiny lungs,
rock pigeons found their docile wives; the robin
and the starling shared their feed, nuts and seed,
the old year’s plenty brought to the new, cast
and mould, in which we live and breathe, aglow.
January 20, 2021
Héronesque © J C Milne
Sans chien, sans distraction humaine,
au quai, il arrive parfois que je rêve,
me plonge dans l’eau, mais, arrête !
C’est l’automne; fait froid là-dedans.
Cet héron, il sait nager ? Il se lance,
S’enfuit, ses ailes majestueuses
battant, lentement, lui embêté,
chassé de son poste orgueilleux
par une seule mouette taquine,
pas par moi, qui me tenais debout,
silencieuse. Le cou tendu, l’œil
tout-voyant, enfin disparu, il a dû
achever le cap lointain, s’il ne s’est
pas noyé. Le cap, son infini, tout
fortifié par mer, rochers, falaises,
protégé de moi, l’infâme, l’humain,
même si, bouche bée, je n’ai pas bougé
mais que j’ai quand même désiré,
capricieuse, de voir l’oiseau en vol,
pour mon plaisir et pour sa grâce.
Coupable en ceci; mais la mouette
qui a, sans doute, causé sa fuite,
m’exonère, m’éloigne de mon crime
ou désir, inoffensif, mais cause, exagéré,
de la méfiance superbe et de la terreur
de la mer inouïe, de la terre splendide.
au quai, il arrive parfois que je rêve,
me plonge dans l’eau, mais, arrête !
C’est l’automne; fait froid là-dedans.
Cet héron, il sait nager ? Il se lance,
S’enfuit, ses ailes majestueuses
battant, lentement, lui embêté,
chassé de son poste orgueilleux
par une seule mouette taquine,
pas par moi, qui me tenais debout,
silencieuse. Le cou tendu, l’œil
tout-voyant, enfin disparu, il a dû
achever le cap lointain, s’il ne s’est
pas noyé. Le cap, son infini, tout
fortifié par mer, rochers, falaises,
protégé de moi, l’infâme, l’humain,
même si, bouche bée, je n’ai pas bougé
mais que j’ai quand même désiré,
capricieuse, de voir l’oiseau en vol,
pour mon plaisir et pour sa grâce.
Coupable en ceci; mais la mouette
qui a, sans doute, causé sa fuite,
m’exonère, m’éloigne de mon crime
ou désir, inoffensif, mais cause, exagéré,
de la méfiance superbe et de la terreur
de la mer inouïe, de la terre splendide.
December 30, 2020
Poem: Snow on 30th December
Snow on 30th December © J C Milne
The year dies, here, on this western isle,
with a light tread, mere footfall, slight step,
trackless. I am insensibly drawn, unsure,
to this fringe of snow, what it may show
as the gold sun lifts above the arc of sea,
flings light and warmth as might a monarch
in times gone by, to passers-by, those
who have walked with death and cold,
unused to smile, or sing, or count
the green buds brilliant, in the white
of this first snow.
To take the measure of this miracle,
I stand before our loaded winter store,
barricade, cheer against the dying year;
fir, stripped of root, star and angels high,
green of indoor leaf, vermilion bloom,
comfort to chase the winter gloom
and copious dark. That there are those
who cannot scald their ghosts, enter bold
within some festive door, whom cold
dispenses, homeless, hopeless and in fear,
shrivels the eye.
Outside the glaze, beyond the gilt array,
a gleaming vista, skirting blue-white skies,
tremulous. Snow. Evanescence, disbelief;
the early kiss of sun has travelled, dulled by
looming grey, low upon the brow of sky.
This earth the guileless sparrows cannot fathom,
as cannot I. Swift wing-lift, scuff and scramble,
hop and flight, in the scutcheon of the snow,
not every falling sparrow lifted, marked; no
rainbows promise, snow astound; granted,
only a scant soul.
The year dies, here, on this western isle,
with a light tread, mere footfall, slight step,
trackless. I am insensibly drawn, unsure,
to this fringe of snow, what it may show
as the gold sun lifts above the arc of sea,
flings light and warmth as might a monarch
in times gone by, to passers-by, those
who have walked with death and cold,
unused to smile, or sing, or count
the green buds brilliant, in the white
of this first snow.
To take the measure of this miracle,
I stand before our loaded winter store,
barricade, cheer against the dying year;
fir, stripped of root, star and angels high,
green of indoor leaf, vermilion bloom,
comfort to chase the winter gloom
and copious dark. That there are those
who cannot scald their ghosts, enter bold
within some festive door, whom cold
dispenses, homeless, hopeless and in fear,
shrivels the eye.
Outside the glaze, beyond the gilt array,
a gleaming vista, skirting blue-white skies,
tremulous. Snow. Evanescence, disbelief;
the early kiss of sun has travelled, dulled by
looming grey, low upon the brow of sky.
This earth the guileless sparrows cannot fathom,
as cannot I. Swift wing-lift, scuff and scramble,
hop and flight, in the scutcheon of the snow,
not every falling sparrow lifted, marked; no
rainbows promise, snow astound; granted,
only a scant soul.
September 17, 2020
Poem: Brevig
I have recently learned the value of a good editor, so this poem has had one or two minor changes!
Brevig © J C Milne
I
This mild day, the grey sea, calm upon its brow,
lapped the old pier; the islands, unveiled, stepped
from mist and myth, conjured as by ancient cast
and I said, “No, we are further yet, we are
the fabled Tir nan Òg, Land of Youth, we are
west of man’s abode, dream, desire and spell.
Surely this edge, this landscape of the west,
was where I had to be, though beyond
the lochs and wooded glens I vowed
I would not leave. But heaven was not
designed for me; this barren, rocky isle
I chose, not knowing then it fits my soul
to the last insubordination; to the rough
scrape and scree, which, incomprehensible,
dour, is me, should be me, to the core
of feasibility. I was not made for softness
or the crowd; this island lives in fastness,
wears endurance like a battle shroud;
though now I see, behind me on the slope,
that feathered grass has swathed the scar
where hill was scored by flood and slide,
and softer growth accords discretion
to the dank haunt of geese, where river
lulls the bridge, acclaims the sweep of sea.
A white boat lolls, by the wall; of Gull Isle
no sign; the tidal rock, debris of molten rage,
swamped by the sea in flux, skulks below.
You would not know it there, if, stranger,
you lit upon this bay; but islet rock and sea
in counterpoint sustain, remain, prevail.
II
I met upon the pier a woman with her dogs
who had known loss, knew pain and age.
Near, a grey seal dipped, rose; she sang,
her rising call a bond from land to sea,
a plumb-line, twine of sound, symbolic
cord umbilical, mystical fusion, vow.
The seal kept close; could it but sing,
it might have done; could it displace,
as legend tells, its skin, it might have done;
but for the dogs, who watched and heard
the singing spell; who waited jealously,
claiming their own, their god, their known.
The woman sang, a high, endearing call,
melancholy, beckoning, pure as she
knew how; the grey seal dipped and rose.
But all of this was tale, and wonderment,
in their chains only a brief rapprochement,
curiosity, momentary intimation, hint;
and one of them would break, release,
choose closure, hearken to a dissolution,
make their easy, indisputable return.
III
This enchanted year the days unfold,
speaking, if we could but hear, of miracle,
roaming at large upon a chastened world.
The next day trembled between showers and sun,
a fresh wind sauntered, foliage shivered
uncertainly, unfastened to the sea.
And in this rain and sun, a flower bud,
ecstatic in the mesmerising light; I saw,
a strand of hair across my eyes surprised,
I had become a prism in the morning;
through me the world was new, and bright;
a visual hymn, seal’s call; gift of lament.
Brevig © J C Milne
I
This mild day, the grey sea, calm upon its brow,
lapped the old pier; the islands, unveiled, stepped
from mist and myth, conjured as by ancient cast
and I said, “No, we are further yet, we are
the fabled Tir nan Òg, Land of Youth, we are
west of man’s abode, dream, desire and spell.
Surely this edge, this landscape of the west,
was where I had to be, though beyond
the lochs and wooded glens I vowed
I would not leave. But heaven was not
designed for me; this barren, rocky isle
I chose, not knowing then it fits my soul
to the last insubordination; to the rough
scrape and scree, which, incomprehensible,
dour, is me, should be me, to the core
of feasibility. I was not made for softness
or the crowd; this island lives in fastness,
wears endurance like a battle shroud;
though now I see, behind me on the slope,
that feathered grass has swathed the scar
where hill was scored by flood and slide,
and softer growth accords discretion
to the dank haunt of geese, where river
lulls the bridge, acclaims the sweep of sea.
A white boat lolls, by the wall; of Gull Isle
no sign; the tidal rock, debris of molten rage,
swamped by the sea in flux, skulks below.
You would not know it there, if, stranger,
you lit upon this bay; but islet rock and sea
in counterpoint sustain, remain, prevail.
II
I met upon the pier a woman with her dogs
who had known loss, knew pain and age.
Near, a grey seal dipped, rose; she sang,
her rising call a bond from land to sea,
a plumb-line, twine of sound, symbolic
cord umbilical, mystical fusion, vow.
The seal kept close; could it but sing,
it might have done; could it displace,
as legend tells, its skin, it might have done;
but for the dogs, who watched and heard
the singing spell; who waited jealously,
claiming their own, their god, their known.
The woman sang, a high, endearing call,
melancholy, beckoning, pure as she
knew how; the grey seal dipped and rose.
But all of this was tale, and wonderment,
in their chains only a brief rapprochement,
curiosity, momentary intimation, hint;
and one of them would break, release,
choose closure, hearken to a dissolution,
make their easy, indisputable return.
III
This enchanted year the days unfold,
speaking, if we could but hear, of miracle,
roaming at large upon a chastened world.
The next day trembled between showers and sun,
a fresh wind sauntered, foliage shivered
uncertainly, unfastened to the sea.
And in this rain and sun, a flower bud,
ecstatic in the mesmerising light; I saw,
a strand of hair across my eyes surprised,
I had become a prism in the morning;
through me the world was new, and bright;
a visual hymn, seal’s call; gift of lament.
