Jewels of the beach

Plash…keesh… plash…keesh

the waves throw themselves
onto the pebbly beach,
but as if they regret their own angry generosity,
pull back a sieved undertow of finer pebbles
mixed with rogh toe-grating sand;
their generosity the swathe of larger pebbles
which gleam like jewels, before the salt-water
dries them into centuries of scratched, scoured surface,
dull as familiarity.

That swathe of jewels – magic to a child;
but now I’m older, yields a mental miracle
of nature ceaselessly at work:

green bottle-glass pebble – rounded to a smooth, safe shape
for the child to spot and pick up –
that’s easy to trace: from fishermen’s magic globes, the net-floats,
or bottles thrown carelessly overboard

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0181 Mr and Mrs Andrews Seated In Their Estate

Beware, if you’re a portrait painter,
of being born in England. And if
you’re skilled at background –
the rolling landscape which they're
so proud to own – or painting highlights
upon a silk or satin gown…be doubly hesitant –
we ruined Holbein and we ruined Van Dyck,
with our demands to make us victorious,
happy and glorious, long to reign over others
in our stately home, later in
the auction house, in
the ‘collection’ of the recent millionaire, in
the public gallery; though while you live, Sir Portrait Painter
we'll enrol you in our club as temporary gent…

Beware - if you’re a potential patron -
of being painted by the great:
in the corners of their flattery
whose price you resent but need in greed to have,
lurks truth. You, sir, looking so judicious,

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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It's joost not FURR! ...

From my extended family,
the indignant cry rings out –
‘It’s joost not FURR! ’…

Whingers all? Ah – but listen
to the sound behind those words…
this is not the ‘Yokshire’ voice,
standing square on the earth
as if it always owned it…

this is the sound of centuries –
two at least - of men’s sense of injustice:
forced off the herding on the lovely hills,
the fresh cleansing air, or
the market gardens of Lytham and the coastal plain,

down to the water-valleys and the foggy, smoky air
of the mills; the cotton dust into wheezing lungs
shortening their lives as they listen bed-bound
to the clatter of the morning clogs:

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Goodbye Routemaster

The iconic (damn, I swore I’d
never use that word..)
red London bus
was designed by the lively minded
for the active lively – those who
take a few chances with life,
look for a little excitement,
test their limits, enjoy
– the French have a phrase for it –
the little happinesses, sweetnesses, or
good fortunes, it doesn’t
translate quite so well –
let’s say, exhilarating moments?

viz.:

the back platform, a step
nearer the ground, is open; rubber-floored;
a central vertical bar,
wound with a grip-fast plastic,

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0021 Santa Claus Franchises Inc: A Public Statement

We the undersigned have been requested
to issue the following statement on behalf of
Santa Claus Franchises Inc in the light of
recent serious allegations:

SCI as an international organisation
takes its responsibilities to the public
extremely seriously, while at all times
being sensitive to contemporary issues.

SCI defends itself vigorously
from suggestions that it projects an image
of extra-terrestrial benevolence
which may lead to later
adverse effects of trauma, mental and physical
ill-health, etc. All SCI Franchise Outlets have an
authorised notice that ‘parental discrimination
should be exercised at all times’.

There are no similarities to the tobacco industry

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0009 On Being Caned, Frequently

Ooh! Ow! ...I'm a victim! ...I've got a psychic scar! ...

not in my schooldays,
I have to say;
how quickly the world changes!

Life was straightforward at my schools –
you disobeyed the rules, you got beaten, caned –
simple as that.

And if you were the adventurous type,
you disobeyed often, just for the hell of it,
got beaten often; the heroic aura glowed from you;
modest hero too – you never showed the marks when asked…
though perhaps paused a moment longer
when putting your pyjamas on
if you were at boarding school
to show you hadn’t stuffed any foreign substance
in your pants. You quickly learned
that cardboard made a giveaway hollow sound,

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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City of the Mindful Heart. For KV.

The inhabitants are rightly proud –
let’s take the guided tour…

they show you first (they’ve never been inside,
themselves.. though they know someone who has…)
the Palace, it’s still called,
the seat of government… throughout
its sometimes turbulent, sometimes complacent rule,
it’s stood for that central place where golden hearts
seek unity in national multiplicity;
and seek to care for multiplicity…

not far away, that great domed building,
it’s been temple, church, mosque in its time,
been desecrated, restored, so many times;
and truth to tell, while it’s the symbol
of the nation, there are many more
who are proud of it, than have entered it…
here too, a quiet place to find
the unity in multiplicity…

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0029 Monte Carlo

So this was it. I'd passed through years ago
as a hitch-hiker, spinning out our 25 pounds
max allowance, over three hot weeks of France
until I was sick of tough-skinned monster tomatoes
and baguettes without butter; as we made our sweaty way
to Monaco's, surprisingly, Communist youth hostel
beyond the gas works and the soccer ground,
around the path at the foot of the cliffs...no romance there.

But here I was, as a journalist, two nights in a hotel
of grand aspiration, where guests left empty
the spacious restaurant and its tasteless menu.
Monte Carlo out of season; shrunken to a provincial town;
the waves hitting hard and cold against its promenade.

Tired after a day of work, foot-hot amid white-gloved uniforms,
I felt I should squeeze something memorable from the single day
as the lights went on. Too travel-stained to enter the Casino,
placed where the pier would be in an English seaside town -
but I hovered. It was a stage set which had rashly intruded

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0005 Letter to a Younger Poet

Thanks for your letter. Though
you’ve caught me at a rather awkward time –
I’m going into surgery tomorrow – a rather
risky op; so I’ll try to put all the answers that I’ve got
into this one letter;
I hope you'll understand...

and that helps me to make my first point to you:
write as if you, too, may not live
beyond tomorrow – write as if
it’s the last thing that you’ll ever write –
give it everything you’ve got,
hold nothing back;

or better still – write as if
the world will end for everyone tomorrow:
write so that in their last hours, too, this
will make them feel, will make them know
we’ve faced life fully, faced it so complete
that death is relatively unimportant now…

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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In the steps of Rumi 88: Metaphor

Simile – what looks like something else –
that’s a fun game for the senses,
for the mind: oh look Dad,
there’s a scarecrow in that field
that looks just like a man, does it
really scare crows?

Oh look Dad, there’s a beggar in the street
who looks just like a scarecrow,
I wonder if the same crows
see him too?

But metaphor – ah, that’s something else:
explanations don’t quite explain it:
you see something; it brings to mind
something very different; maybe
you just forget it, pass on; maybe
you’re a poet, and you think,
that other thing casts a subtle light
on this first thing, I’ll see if others

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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