Poetry of the week – urban and rural
| July 31, 2012 | Posted by Georgie Tindale under poetry |
Rural solitude of the soul
I roam a grassy plain gazing at the stars.
From here I can be in peace and sometimes even stare at beautiful planets like Mars.
I’m alone like a shadow on a wall.
In solitude and isolation where no one can come to call.
Yet I feel at peace, all is calm and tranquil.
Yet even here that face haunts me still.
Though it’s not painful but more bittersweet.
The one person I wish to be with, the one goal I am only able to hope I will someday meet.
I gaze upon my reflection in a river and ponder my future and what will be.
But I am at peace here, nothing can hurt me and as for my recurring thought
I know that over time the person who will provide me with the answer is me.
By Alex Dib-Bennett
The Train from Westgate
The man on the platform is not happy.
Margate has sapped him dry,
The tawdry splendour of Dreamland…
He must leave it all behind.
The ticket is clenched in his fist,
His suitcase sits alongside the bench,
The train from Westgate is coming…
He must leave it all behind.
The boarded up shops on the prom,
Lie in the shadow of the broken high-rise,
Beyond the empty beaches…
He must leave it all behind.
The train from Westgate is coming.
He walks to the edge of the platform,
Stepping into the empty void…
He left it all behind.
The ticket expired weeks before,
The suitcases were all empty,
He fell under the train…
To leave it all behind.
By Fergus Doyle
Whitby
Late evening: the shadows lengthen.
We perch on rocks great and jagged like giants’ teeth.
Across the bay, the jutting headland lurks under the bruised sky,
a leviathan wak’d from age-old slumber.
Gaunt, black, threatening.
It looms over the dark water, itself terrifying in its enormity; hunched
back stark, predatory.
The breeze wrinkles the water, chill now. we shiver, turn to go.
Yet we stay, captivated by the beauty of the waves, glittering wide with
the rays of the dying sun.
By William Taylor
Stranded in Haxby
There isn’t a lot to gain here
There isn’t a lot to lose
by the disabled loos and
the pick and chose weight loss blues.
Brief hellos and bemused glances
are your armoured weaponry, you
residents of a town where
not much happens, really.
Changing into dresses
by the duckpond,
in the sweltering
melting mid-July
overwhelming fug.
Skulking past buses
which may well advertise films
from April.
The pigeons roost
in the church rafters
causing complaints
of unwanted heavy missile fire.
Front page news
in Haxby.
By Georgie Tindale
Each week The Student Review publishes a collection of poems about a particular topic or theme. For this week’s theme, or to submit a poem, go here.
