T h e R e m e m b r a n c e r s
and it’s difficult to say exactly
what they do, or
how useful that task really is
for like the ideal rulers
of ancient China,
the better they do their job,
the less we notice that
you could say, they are
remembrancers:
they hold memories for millions of people:
they remember people, good people, poor people,
and honour them as we should wish to honour them;
they remember heroes and the dead;
they remember history; and how
things used to be done, when they were done well;
it is their duty, over a whole lifetime,
to remember what is so deep in all our hearts
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Me and Teddy Bears - The Truth' (Exclusive)
I’ve never owned a teddy bear (aw…)
my parents read the child-rearing bibles
of the time, maybe that’s what it was
but I’m not pleading deprivation or
mental abuse; into my life
came Rex the lion cub
we loved each other from the moment
I set eyes on him. We were about
the same age, that was taken for granted,
since he was my best friend and
of course, since I can’t compare
lion cubs with teddy bears since
I couldn’t at the time, I’m guessing
what the pros and cons might be:
Rex wasn’t someone you could easily
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The eyes of the ikon
The door creaks as she opens it
and the fall of the heavy iron latch
echoes through the empty church.
The atmosphere inside, this cold day,
is heavy, as such holy places are,
locked now at night; heavy,
with what? Anticipation? Memory,
of all the human emotions
that have passed through them?
There’s still the clinging promise,
the fragrance of yesterday’s incense;
it could almost be a midnight forest
in its wood-scented mystery.
She lights a candle, drops a coin
slowly, as those do to whom
each coin has a meaning.
She is small, shrunken as the aged are,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Love and loss and love again - a poem for Jenny and her friends
Loss can be good for us,
researchers say (Nolen-Hoeksema
and Davis,2002) – it’s called
Post-Traumatic Growth…
When we ‘lose’ someone
we seldom see these days,
yet always love, we are in some strangely beautiful way
the gainers –
lose someone who, caught a glimpse of
down a school corridor, is like
a mirror in which you’ll see reflected
yourself as nothing but pure love…
and when you meet her then, it’s just as if
you meet love – and a modesty almost uncertain:
as if she had been bestowed the awesome gift
of a part of sun and sunlight, and told,
bestow this wisely…
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0021 Under the bridge of time
Oui, c'est beaux, le jardin... at this time of year;
mais... for myself,
a little too overgrown – but Monsieur
prefers it that way… you see him down there
by the lily pond, the nymphées?
He’s nearly blind now, yet he’s out all day
and nearly every day. He draws life from the garden,
je crois; and though there are some who laugh
and say, his paintings are now
mere daubs, when I see them
and then go out into the garden,
there’s a truth there, beyond what we see…
what passes, what floats serene and unaffected...
what floats on time itself...
You may find this fanciful, but I’ve watched Monsieur
over the years: first he had the garden made,
when he could afford it, and the bridge and then the pool
that slows the river… then he painted the lilies which we planted,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0027 Dog and Man
Beside me as I sit here typing is a golden pool, of relaxation,
alertness, patience and trust, uniquely brought together
in one glorious being. Do we really deserve each other?
surely anyone who has brushed the coat of, let’s say,
a golden Labrador, should be instantly converted
to belief in God? Or at the very least,
in an evolution which is more miraculous, more glorious
than many people’s view of God…
the long, smooth, silky, strong hairs on the back;
the trailing, slightly grubby hairs
of that emotional telegraph, the tail,
the magic gradations of the head hairs,
from sleek and flat around the collar; so fine in the ears;
laid so beautifully on the bony forehead which seems
so intelligent as you touch it, gently, on the centre,
watching the brimming, trusting, wary, luscious eyes; with
those almost hidden, expressive eyebrow hairs;
to smooth and wiry snout hairs toward the jaw,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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As Parents To Our Parents
They never teach you this at school;
they'll try to teach you reading, writing, 'rithmetic
in their own instructed ways;
but now, if anyone suggested it, there'd be howls
about the impertinence, the interference,
the rights, the dangers of this and that -
but all the same, they never teach you:
how to get on with your parents.
Oh there are books and books and books
telling your parents how to look after you, but hey!
there are two parties here! Mom and Dad
can ask their own parents (sometimes - because they
were in the same situation as you are now and so,
reckon they can do a better job...) but
who can you, ask?
Philip Larkin told us memorably that
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Ikon
The door creaks, as she opens it
and the fall of the heavy iron latch
echoes through the empty church.
The atmosphere inside, this cold day,
is heavy, as such holy places are,
locked now at night; heavy,
with what? Anticipation? Memory,
of all the human emotions
that have passed through them?
There’s still the clinging promise,
the fragrance of yesterday’s incense;
it could almost be a midnight forest
in its wood-scented mystery.
She lights a candle, drops a coin
slowly, as those do to whom
each coin has a meaning.
She is small, shrunken as the aged are,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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We as parents to our parents
They never teach you this at school;
they'll try to teach you reading, writing, 'rithmetic
in their own instructed ways;
but now, if anyone suggested it, there'd be howls
about the impertinence, the interference,
the rights, the dangers of this and that -
but all the same, they never teach you:
how to get on with your parents.
Oh there are books and books and books
telling your parents how to look after you, but hey!
there are two parties here! Mom and Dad
can ask their own parents (sometimes - because they
were in the same situation as you are now and so,
reckon they can do a better job...) but
who can you, ask?
Philip Larkin told us memorably that
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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What A Wild Wind Today
What a wild wind today
in Wimbledon Park,
80 mph they say,
mischievous, shameless,
wild child, it cannot distinguish
between fun and destruction
here in the park
it does what it can with the boating lake;
but the ripples are barely waves,
and the boat club has wisely shored its boats,
no fun to be had there
but wait – here’s a woman with a covered pram
walking along the path beside the lake…
the crafty wind dies down, then
one huge gust – whew, that was a near one,
she’ll remember that next time..
now it’s spotted three laughing nuns – what fun!
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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