unavailable (poem)

the book of me is found
inside a bookless room
within a bookless house
reading breath by breath
what can and can’t be said
pupil to the iris silence
enscribing every moment
recorder of presence
that special collection
hardly ever read
upon which all rests
but never can be leant

A. H (late August 2020 & 25th February 2021)

a deep warm burnt orange (poem)

the smell of baking bread in a loved one’s farmhouse kitchen
welcome – rich – holding promise
perhaps a rusk as when we’re small
it sounds a silent gong like the sun at dawn
watches patient – speaks in light
it will always be
waiting to be found

A. H (20th February 2021)

a lockdown brexit yule

book read and exercised
all the means at my disposal
cannot out-turn the turning year
the coming to a close
in darkness
hoping

A. H (14th December 2020)

still, life

leaden december leaf loss lit
a heavy sunday afternoon
stuck in a hope of it

dawn risen to a coloured week
truth unwanted
but for the smile of it

A.H (14th December 2020)

Lost Highway

still don’t know the depth of it
their narrative shift
identity switch
all’s buttoned down
who knows the half of it
would have to be their half-wit

A.H (14th December 2020)

despite the season’s darkness

today the sea is blue
the sky’s gates lie open onto heaven
Angels are amongst us
riding horses in the waves
dancing with every grain of sand

A. H (15th December 2020)

to boot

he brogued my ballet slipper reverie
how my tongue lolled
hot hot hot
that mocassin fall summer . . .

history repeating

in childhood i was often quiet
they told me i was patient – good
as gold, teacher’s pet, the prof, swat
honestly i didn’t know my standards
like Ginger Rogers equipped for going back
i had to take the lead, Miss without her heels
but is it even this, . . .

comparative history

my patient temple crashed to the ground
around the time we swam at Areopolis
and further south then flew back
bloodhound sick to Athens . . .

orienteer

come, pass with me
toward true direction
pick up my pace
understand my measure

A.H (6th October 2020)

xxviii (’20)

she’s arrived bent at this snapshot of her golden hour
her flame still whispering to the loves she flowers
captured for a moment as only what she represents
not the meanings she carries gold in heart
another grandmother from the fringes
. . .

update

blog update after taking it down for a while

green shoots and heart beats on a turn around my blog

When I tidied up this website to become a way for people to learn about my poems I decided to take a turn at blogging. I think it’s been a good thing for me. But in doing so I was keen to avoid working too hard at it to make it too smooth, to seem too pushy in a way. My ‘about’ page links this to Wabi Sabi. Maybe. Or maybe really that is a way of saying it after the fact . . .
read on here

Poem included ‘We are the Change-Makers’ anthology

Another of my poems has been published. It’s called ‘They Think’. It’s published in We are the Change-Makers: Poems Supporting Drop the Disorder edited by Jo Watson in PCCS books, an anthology.
. . . read on here . . .

Poems Published in Poetry Express

Survivors’ Poetry’s newsletter Poetry Express has published three more of my poems in the latest issue (#61). The poems have been published here previously and are:

(read on here)

lost love song

i hadn’t really reached you yet
i wasn’t up to you
even though i’d passed myself
to burn a summit sun
distant from myself you see
distant from the world
i didn’t have the faith you know
to share with you my poem
to say the gentle words of love
to still the thunder of our blood
to let us be our own

A. H (2nd August 2020)

grey summer day

there are days the sky just weeps
north by north west prevailing
Manchester, lakes, Portland, Seattle

clouds weep their bodies out to nothing
to be reborn on the word of the sun
tickled into a new shape of pain

to rain a world’s tears and water hope
zero sum non zero sum give and take
vapour of vapours alembic distilled

whisper on the breath of a sun aethereal
they know the golden light unsustainable
and fall towards the garden of their shadows

around the grain of imperfection

A. H / K. H-H (27th July 2020)

terms

they’re not bothered with
instead just insist you dance
to their call of the tune

A. H / K. H-H (27th July 2020)

rose

thorn bush needle tree bare
air spiked striker at the year
dying back head deaded pruned
your sap gathers toward growth
a summation of all your points
all it’s left to you to be
delicate, silk petal fragrant flesh
concentrate of beauty’s hope
the natural conclusion
to your briar scratch upon the world

A. H / K. H-H (20th July 2020)

try two of my other poems about roses –

albertine

and more recently:

some tide has moved the season of a heart

growing

what is this dry season
fed, watered
hesitant

A. H / K. H-H (14th July 2020)

i don’t usually say anything about poems, sometimes think they explain themselves, and i guess they don’t always. the dry season here has been a very long one, unsure where to go, maybe it is a trans thing in a cis world, or that is a part of it — it also may relate back to a poem like observations – a bit of a poet thing, or a holistic view thing, in a world that offers compartments, or even a world that i picture as offering them and a need to fit to them, or else little idea of how to make a world in which i have made my own infinitely flexible one

i’ve been attending the wonderful webinars with poet David Whyte in April May and now July that look at this journey we’re on in ourselves this year — relevant to me now through lockdown and yet broader, like this, in my life – i keep setting out on roads already made, a source of so much trouble – and we all need maybe to be flexible between fitting in and our own vision . . . maybe it could be an exciting time, but sometimes of a morning with a meds hangover it just seems barren, where do i start, no matter where i got to yesterday . . .

maybe its my own craziness too . . . and maybe is a lot more material than this short poem gets at . . .

it’s like one view – another may be verdant in fact – close my eyes and try and open them on that – but part of this view comes from how i measure where i am — i think of that writer’s tip when writing do not write all of what you have on your mind, leave the writing for the day and the next day it’s easier to pick up at that point, you already have more to say . . . maybe its the meds, maybe i’ve often done it, started as though at the very beginning again, or counted it as such as the end is not reached . . . but should just keep playing, i’m not nowhere just because no one else sees where i am . . . i know this , i forget it, writing this discovers it again . . . and of course in the world of jobs and product or direction it can suddenly seem like this again, be it maybe that world of jobs is particularly regimented it seems to say what has value has to be certain ways . . . or maybe that is just how some have made it . . . or maybe this is in a time of change

for another

my heart is locked
by such a combination
until you dial it true

A. H / K. H-H (6th July 2020)

girlhood, politics

getting her hair done
highlighted liberation
another prison

A. H / K. H-H (6th July 2020)