RSS Feed

Daily Archives: August 4, 2013

Hamnavoe By George Mackay Brown – Your Favourite Poem


My father passed with his penny letters
Through closes opening and shutting like legends
When barbarous with gulls
Hamnavoe’s morning broke

On the salt and tar steps. Herring boats,
Puffing red sails, the tillers
Of cold horizons, leaned
Down the gull-gaunt tide

And threw dark nets on sudden silver harvests.
A stallion at the sweet fountain
Dredged water, and touched
Fire from steel-kissed cobbles.

Hard on noon four bearded merchants
Past the pipe-spitting pier-head strolled,
Holy with greed, chanting
Their slow grave jargon.

A tinker keen like a tartan gull
At cuithe-hung doors. A crofter lass
Trudged through the lavish dung
In a dream of corn-stalks and milk.

In the Arctic Whaler three blue elbows fell,
Regular as waves, from beards spumy with porter,
Till the amber day ebbed out
To its black dregs.

The boats drove furrows homeward, like ploughmen
In blizzards of gulls. Gaelic fisher-girls
Flashed knife and dirge
Over drifts of herring.

And boys with penny wands lured gleams
From tangled veins of the flood. Houses went blind
Up one steep close, for a
Grief by the shrouded nets.

The kirk, in a gale of psalms, went heaving through
A tumult of roofs, freighted for heaven. And lovers
Unblessed by steeples lay under
The buttered bannock of the moon.

He quenched his lantern, leaving the last door.
Because of his gay poverty that kept
my seapink innocence
From the worm and black wind;

And because, under equality’s sun,
All things wear now to a common soiling,
In the fire of images
Gladly I put my hand
To save that day for him.

Your favourite poem sent in by you.What’s yours?

Eyes of a child – Promote Yourself

the_innocent_eyes_of_a_child_by_olivia_mira-d3bur9kI sometimes look into the eyes of my child
And pray to God and the Holy Virgin for forgiveness.
I knowingly brought her to this world.

When I seek evidence of a soul,
I find it in her. Animated, trans-substantiated.
Her very being in existence.

Proof of the divine is not etched in stained glass,
Nor the Masons folly of heaven ascending spire.
Instead a window reflected in dazzling blue.

Was my sin in creation absolved, as rough nails drove home.
Am I to be punished more than in thought verse and prose.
Belief is not opinion.

What shapes the paradox of my sinful act of creation.
How can beauty and innocence be wrong.
I do not create this world.

I sacrifice upon its altar.

John Bullock 

My first poem in >30 years

(Middlesex, UK)

Haunted – Promote Yourself


Memories keep haunting you
The things you did
The words you spoke
The actions you took
At that time
It all seemed fun
At that very moment
You enjoyed every bit of it
Never thought of the consequences
Never thought of the future
You thought the memories would never resurface
Never be talked about
All would be kept in the dark
You thought your secrets would be kept
They are human
Human is to error
You decide to re-evaluate everything
Make sense of things
It was all fun
Now, it haunts you every single minute
Every single day
It hurts
But, there’s no going back
Forgive, forget and move on
The memories do fade
The pain subsides
The heart heals
It’s just a matter of time.

Litbet Ragot

More of my poems can be found at

%d bloggers like this: