POETRY BY GUY MARTYR

 

Forked lightning and thunder skies

mark the night,

while pulses of rain

renew earth

like destructive love.

 

The child in you is scared

of the bangs

and the ghoulish glow:

a reach to inner fears,

engendered in wombs.

 

100 years ago it was shells,

the whizz-bangs of the western front,

lighting the sky at night,

turning grown men to children

or shrivelled rags,

so keen for the comfort of mother,

or a fag and a smile

from Woodbine Willie.

 

2015

 

I'm freezing cold

because it's cold;

and perhaps I'm just not

               eating enough.

 

Or I might be out in the cold,

writing poems for nobody,

cocooned in fears,

kept just warm enough

by Jesus and Mary.

 

Time to think about this

                in Lent;

and time to let fear go,

. . .

though I don't need to be

                giving up chocolate!

 

2016

Waiting in the wings

 

Waiting in the wings

for shiny things

to zing.

 

My heart's beats'

heat treats my feet,

normally neat,

to greater feats,

a longer reach

if pumping adrenalin

doesn't tip into fear

when all I can do

is trip on the stair,

my mind 'leer'.

 

These foolish things!

These skittish wings . . .

The peal just rings.

 

2015

All of the colours

don't amount to

all of the colours

 

Try to catch

every light -

a fool's game

 

A nuance

is accidental

and attractive

 

Like a wild flower -

to be left alone

to grow in peace.

 

Smile if you see one,

clap, when your painting

rings true

with a couple of colours

picked by you.

 

2012

 

Billions of bricks have been layed

- looks easy, until you try it:

try rolling the mortar,

laying the level course.

 

Look out of the window

- so many made by joiners' hands,

little monuments:

myriad histories

blinked past

unique skills,

experiences

and tales

un-numbered.

 

Basic, priceless,

    beautiful.

 

2016

It marks a good day

if you talk about Nature

with someone unexpected.

 

Sometimes a dull cocoon

is rendered sparkling

by sudden sunshine.

 

Sullen faces are ours,

not the flowers'.

 

Ever-present Nature contains us:

the supposed Queens and Captains,

tolerated by dull earth, stones

and free air.

 

The wind in your hair,

a splash of rain on your face.

2016

Tales of tragedies trickle,

the point pierces the heart:

life ebbs from the wound

to satisfy drains and ants;

best human wants

surround the sun

and summer sky;

all primary colours

are represented here

in awful tension,

the good and bad

side-by-side,

as they always

seem to be.

Guy Martyr, November 2016

Christmas creeps,

jogs then runs 

towards us.

Stressful preparation

is but a smoke screen

for sweet, rich cake.

It'll be all right

on the day

for the homeless

and the lonely.

Strife at home

will have an adversary

for a moment,

all too brief

but sweet and rich. 

Guy Martyr, December 2016

May the management theories coalesce,

       Philosophies of life resolve,

            Religions and none

                       Unify:

            Agenda, point one

       Plan for enmities to dissolve

Say: Humanities offer to caress

        themselves,

        the earth,

        the sky

        a hymn of praise

        in any tongue

        for everyone

                                  everyone.

Guy Martyr, January 2017

I am PASSIONATE about:

Passion,

Life and Love

and Falling in Love,

the Best and Worst of things.

This is Holy week:

the days tick by

till, you know,

X marks the spot:

then: sunny deliverance!

Daffodils!

Blue bells!

New green.

I'm passionate about all that!

Guy Martyr, April 2017

April Showers

This year April gave a mini drought:

I felt for my seeds

planted in hope

and our two new trees.

Now as the month draws to a close

 Lo and behold!

   It snows!

You could call this global warming - 

global freezing, more like!

whichever way the science

             does it for you . . .

The facts are inescapable:

a white dusting, hardly imagined,

     settling on the waste.

Guy Martyr, April 2017

Ungraspable

A shadow,

nor a fairy light

will succumb to apprehension:

my hand will never

           enclose them:

mystery, intrigue

draw me,

but sense keeps me at bay - 

I know how near to tread,

then drop foolish notions

            of understanding

the un-understandable,

get on with my real life,

no matter if the shadow

             darkens deep,

or the fairy falls.

Guy Martyr 23/5/17

Forever Young

The face I have 

is yours, smiling, 

full of youthful zest,

hardly yet

exploded with love

or

marked with rejection.

 

Your mark was small,

but real,

joyous,

zealous,

you wore the ermine of a prince

and strode, or ran

insouciant,

oblivious to ditch or wall.

When I stare at your photo,

or glance, walking past

holding all those 

imaginary conversations,

I don’t try to imagine

your matured features,

or the moment

you fell, 

were blown up,

went missing

or whatever

(I never took too much notice).

No, you didn’t come back

       of course,

I got a letter,

       a visit

     and a flag,

       and a little later

           a box of trinkets,

but none of that was quite enough

when I wanted your 

carefree laugh

to come bounding in the door,

dumping a load of washing

and telling me about some 

crazy adventure in Cyprus.

That’s all past now - 

cried away on all

     those rivers.

I enjoy life again,

I remember the light of 

        your sun,

cherish the years I had,

while you remain

in my heart, 

forever young.

 

 

Guy Martyr 2014

Box of trinkets.jpg

'Box of Trinkets' 2019

Grey descends:

symptom of October,

the October of the soul.

Mist suffuses 

all detail

to a 4H shading,

the base grading

of year's end, 

longing for a firework.

You'd think the sun would

never shine again,

or a ray a smile induce:

the soul's dark juice

slowly draining. 

Guy Martyr 18/10/17

Suffused by the sky

To pale pink-grey

An uncertain glow

that nets us all.

It's January,

and History

in tandem,

the cosmic bicycle.

Suffused by the sky

the clarion-call from on-high

strained through cotton wool

so we strain to hear.

What was that?

What did you say?

Suffused by the sky,

the high vault 

constrains us by day,

sets us free at night

to gaze and dream.

Guy Martyr January 2019

Sunday

Been to church

. . . 

Sitting on a bench

. . . 

Magpie, and buzzing fly

and a bit of bird song nearby.

. . . 

Sun and gentle breeze

are urging away the morning haze.

. . .

A little more song, amid the 

faint hum of traffic is the

tune I hear.

Far away summits may tower, 

but down here, me and the wheatear 

and the scented flower near this                                                         chair

don't care.

All that is solid

melts into air. 

Guy Martyr 10/6/18

Hewing: 

the slow chipping

from far-yielding stuff - 

granite, life,

till it begins to reveal its shape.

One for the patient:

satisfying and draining 

in equal measure.

Perhaps that's the secret.

 

How easy the thought 

of a button-push

to obtain any outcome;

how empty-like-froth

the final form.

Guy Martyr 6/3/18

Peace:

I reach for Peace

I speak for Peace

In peace, I believe.

I start here:

the man whose shoes I wear,

I'll try, I swear;

Now I've an idea

That peace inside = 

peace outside

when I sleep,

or work and strive,

or drive.

It's time, I'm sure

To be that alive . . . 

Guy Martyr 28/2/19

Suffused by the sky

To pale pink-grey

An uncertain glow

that nets us all.

It's January,

and History

in tandem,

the cosmic bicycle.

Suffused by the sky

the clarion-call from on-high

strained through cotton wool

so we strain to hear.

What was that?

What did you say?

Suffused by the sky,

the high vault 

constrains us by day,

sets us free at night

to gaze and dream.

Guy Martyr January 2019