Poetry Collection by Adrian Spendlow 08 2017

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Poetry Collection by Adrian Spendlow 08 2017

 

If by chance

If by chance a fairy came this way the air she danced upon a glistening pastel pattern of an atmosphere inter-linked with lilac, puce and purple edges of the burgundy issuing images of thought inside you of an informative description messaging to reach for this in all the impossible the actual the so now real She gives you She gives you gifts made possible from within the everything If by chance a fairy being fluttered by us yes she did and this is ever-time where one foot steps and feels the dew rise to lift one slightly Never ever again walk at surface earth or quite the same for you are otherkin and everything is happening Reach within and step beyond to

 

by Adrian Spendlow

 

 

Bum’s Rush

I am moving back up, onto the edge of the toes

By the minute; go the moment

Hang it and dump it this not able to cope

Sickness, bereavement, anxiety, recovery

Slowly, ponderously, dealing if possible

Begger that darlings. It is a whole just as shite

When you are ready for it. Up at it every day

Mind set and healthy fit

Though don’t expect to get the better of it

Get on them timbers and shout out for attention

Not expecting though

To be immune to an afternoon snooze

Or a complete flip out

Take all your happy snaps

Begger that too honey. I am ready

And I am right on the edge of the toes

It’s called living

And bum cheeks are clenched

 

by Adrian Spendlow

 

 

The Noise in the Corner There

 

Most people are just not that pretty

Or interesting in appealing ways

Miracles are manipulated to achieve

Off the peg fits for their additives

Thank the gods of unloveliness

There are evening socials

Groups to join, sufferings to have

Places we hate to work – Thank God

Not being interesting is quite bad enough

Hey, we don’t know how to engage with you

Or to take turns either

Those botched eyes haven’t quite related

To your semi absenteeism

Inept appearance is hardly our worse aspect

Let’s form a club, or work hard to have staff night outs

Goggle at each other; at our google eye unbeauty

Let’s have a get together

 

                                       by Adrian Spendlow

 

Just Any Two People

God it was exciting to be alive

Back when another human was encouraging

Things there were to say of each other

Habits turned to possible activities

I was interesting by god

So were both of us

Shadowy gangs of hangers on

They realise

They used to be people we knew

They were excited too

No, actually, they were exciting too

It was us, and we were new

 

                                   by Adrian Spendlow

 

 

I Spotted A Victim

I admire the survivability of survivors

A whole rainforest of tears shine this morning

Just thinking of playgrounds and wooded areas

Just thinking of the homes which disparage the word

I admire the survivor

The ability to look in a mirror on waking

And ‘make-up’ to be like other people

Other people other than perpetrators

Surely there are other people

That’s why we do our hair of a morning

To be like those other people we have heard of

I admire the survivor for keeping writing as tears

Blur the ink of this growing poem

I admire the survivor

For I am sure they can see me

Reaching out as we know you know

Monsters make us doubt ourselves

Yet a chance moment allows

An unstable old person, a poet,

And an eight year old

To look around sat on hay bails

And acknowledge

I don’t know you, either of you

But I do know

I know you admire me for I survive

I do admire survivors

I admire the survivability of survivors me

 

                                              by Adrian Spendlow

 

 

I Dreamed of a Village

We built a tepee village here

And the bunny boiler

Killed my kid

“Goat stew” he said

A whole herd has lost

My favourite little friend Fifi

He belittled me in other ways

These days I look back at

The rolling meadow utopia

We physically built there

 

                             by Adrian Spendlow

 

It Never Happened

It is my honour bound duty

She whispered kindly to her

To keep a child with her mother

I am a family nurturer

In many situations I would do this

In your case

It would be a wickedness

Over my dead body would they

Put you back with that monstress

Bless you child

That you have no memory

Wild as you are

You are a miracle you see

 

                       by Adrian Spendlow

 

And a couple of old ones from way back…

 

Something Inside Me

I set the default

It doesn’t work

There is always a reset

 

But I go

 

I try

 

Old as I am

There is no wisdom

 

There is only

A new direction

 

I wait here

And wonder

 

What it is…

 

AS

 

Poetry Is

 

Poetry is a flickering grit of rock

Cast within the wide forever black

Poetry is a rare viewed

talismanic artefact

Poetry is the disallowed

Clutching at the edges of the past

Poetry is no longer held

As other than the esoteric

Bring it back

Poetry is – no longer

Gone the way of the storyteller

Gone the way of the Shaman’s chant

The way of the dance

Where is all your ritual

The spiritual – The festival

Gone the way of the

Soon to follow songwriter

When such as Dylan die

Who will sing

Just for the sake of truly saying

Poetry – Poetry is gone

No longer inspiring the simple soul

To go live the life of the Troubadour

Poetry is no more

And yet

It leaves us all bereft

Help us poetry

Why don’t you call

Reach us like a joy to share

Gather people – Listening hearts

Or have we hardened

Pushed aside for solid ground

The will to even care

Poetry is dead

And at it’s wake

The quaffer’s smack their lips on

Garish fayre

Did they forget

Or is it there

Seeded in the genes

the memory of gathering

Simple childhood harmony

Poetry is

A stoppered flask

Lingering as an inkling barely heard

Lost, stamping,

just beyond the daily word

 

Poetry is

The victim of the

“That’s not”’s

Judgement takes her

Poetry is

The scoffing stock of

“No time”’s

Avarice despise her

Poetry is the metal of the spirit

Turned away for what seems sharper

Poetry is

The laugh of Gods

Gouged out by heartlessness

A vision that the modern self

Just will not see

Set it free

Set it free

Say ‘Poetry’ have a home in me

Poetry – Poetry – Poetry

 

AS

 

 

0123 ev group flipped

 

 

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That Which Links is Silken Thread

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That Which Links is Silken Thread

I think the little differences intrigue because inside them is the similarity. Connections unspoken received and encouraged. I embrace you as you are. I embrace you as I am. I embrace you. For we are.

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Adrian Spendlow

A Glimpse (poetry)

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After just over a month of blogging I was delighted to see well over a thousand copies have been viewed via email alone. Topics to date have included Vikings, fairy, recipes, poetry, medieval, storytelling, haiku and Norwegian farming. Here we have poem and art which comes with a warning; you may be effected emotionally and reach out to another.

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A Glimpse

The little boy inside
Dragged himself slowly
Along

Sure, that he would not
Be able to find his way back
To the thing he had had
The thing which was called
Happiness

Perhaps if he dug deep
Below the hard rooted turf
He just might be able to find
That which he had buried
Then eventually managed to forget

If he could find the place
And had the strength in his fingers
What was it which lay hidden?
What was it? – So long ago – What was it?
His heart

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To book an appearance or to read more please visit www.adrianspendlow.co.uk

Now try my Haunted House blog

Memory of Otternes

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Memory of Otternes

Otternes Farm, Flåm Valley, Sognefjord, Aurland, Norway

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When I sit here, I have sat here before. I am hobbit-like and living. In my sense of belonging, I know: I know this place.

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Families are thin, thin on the ground, of the mountain. Long line of families in the mountains, dug in, right into its rock and earth and grass. There are long deep roots which hold us in place. Some say if you chop too many the whole mountainside will slide with us into the brakk below.

Yes here I belong, and feel I always have and if it is so and I have visited before it would have been in ancestral time a momentous occasion.

I still feel, when I stand there now, the haunting presence of one unallowed to love, ghostly appearance in the corner of story. Even with a broken heart one can still be of use up on the farm, never allowed to leave, no matter how the visitor requested. The corners of this history are cluttered with such figures. Then look upon the well. The well so deep and wide it speaks. Its dangers are voiced within its memory, “Do not throw yourself down here, as I did.” “As I did.” “As I did.” “As I did.”

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For there is beauty here and love and light…

…and even in the dark-times-long there is the promise; the promise of moisture, the recollections of growth which knows it will return.

Others will come, for such is the way of a mountain farm. Love can be found in such a meeting. Small farm memories of seasons with only each other to survive and flourish for. Yet there will be gatherings and visitation where young hearts can view across the clans-collecting and see eyes; eyes which sparkle only for you.

This is why we bury the salmon. As a promise and a way of surviving. They will leap again, as will hearts.

We shall go down from our steep sides as will everyone among the wide spread hill families.

The leap. The leap will come. Nets will spread and one of us will leave one steep farm to join another. Here and there love will flourish among the catching.

The bounty is there in the grave. The grave of the fish, saving us throughout the winter.

So came the sheep. The flourishing is here too, with care. They also visit. New faces, growing adults, turning from teens, turn their flock this way.

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The drove is long and this is a place where we can rest; to replenish. Fish is brought from grave, berry from jar, and water from the well is hung above the fire.

Some of these creatures have journeyed far, as have I. An instinct inside me sees the path. It twinkles elusively in my mind. I believe it is ancient. As the brown sheep belong here I am of a different wool.

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Other drovers journeyed over the more flowing lands where I am from. Just as rugged, these moors were traversed to sea-going vessels which sailed up this very fjord I see flowing below to bring the trade.

As these pathways arrive here. I see them glittering as timeless memory moving in upon this land to spread and trade, spread and grow. My path stops here.

As soon as I sat upon this stoop, as my eyes twinkled, my long past had led me here and settled.

A part of me will always be here and always has. My path stops here.

For more on Otternes and Gudvangen including Adrian the Lamb and Johnny Chicken see here Farmer (Adrian) Giles

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http://www.otternes.no/en/

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My full blog selection

My opening speech at Gudvangen

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