The Drum

Whilst swimming this morning I became aware of my pulse beating away in my head, this triggered a thought process which resulted in the following poem, I hope you like it;

The Drum

The drum beats,
B-boom, B-boom,
its steady rhythm
constant,
metronymic,
filling the body
with a soft, deep, pulse,
B-boom, B-boom.
At full charge,
or a mere murmur,
it matches the pace of life;
as the drummer beats
the backing track
through the whole gig.

John Carré Buchanan
04 September 2014

Sculptures In Eden

A few weeks ago I visited a friend who lives in a lovely house set in a beautiful garden. On stepping out of my car I was immediately aware of birdsong which seemed to fill the air.

Whilst we sat and chatted over a coffee, I couldn’t stop admiring the garden which had a number of stunning sculptures in it. The garden inspired me to write this poem.

Sculptures in Eden

Manicured lawns drop toward still water
tightly constrained beyond the tree line.
An Acacia shaped Hawthorn leans casually
to cast dappled shade and invite a picnic rug.

Light, dances in the watery mantle of a sculpted orb,
ethereal images flicker deep within the crystal ball.
A robin briefly joins the axe head on its pine-butt plinth
his steely facsimile glints in its gleaming cheek.

This glorious opera house, filled with bel-canto
is a living metaphor for the flooded vale below.
A tranquil oasis, envisaged and sculpted by man
yet filled with beauty crafted by a greater hand.

John Carré Buchanan
27 May 2014

For Pam

Music With A View

I went to the Moulin Huet Tea Room yesterday to listen to the fabulous Ukuladeez launch their new album. They were joined by The Crowman and Esther Rose Parkes who had come over from Jersey.

The trip down to the Tea Room was very hairy (I was in my wheelchair and gravity was stronger than traction), as for the trip back.....

but what an afternoon, we even had a fly past from a Merlin helicopter.

While I was there I wrote this poem.

Music With A View

Strings vibrate the air,
the garden fills with music.
Cocked, sun-hatted heads,
listen appreciatively.
The perfect view,
constrained by the steep valley
opens to the bay,
guarded by granite cliffs
whose Jagged teeth pierce the horizon.
Within the garden,
bordered by hydrangeas
the crowd gathers,
and the excitement grows.
The band strikes up
harmonies fill the air,
heads nod, feet tap, shoulders sway.
Stunning view,
beautiful garden,
and foot stomping music.
A perfect end,
to a perfect day.

John Carré Buchanan
21 June 2014

Elevator Music

Image Source:

A friend of mine has encouraged me to have a crack at writing poems which do not use end rhyme. This is perhaps the start of something new. I hope you like it.

Elevator Music

Water dances over the stone obelisk
making sweet music as it tumbles and turns.
The joyous sound, natural, calm, peaceful.
A tranquil environment, sit, lighten the load.
Yet, there is an alien tune, an intruder.
Insipid, plink plonk of piano, sax, bass.
Riffles of Jazz on endless loop.
Someone, somewhere played this
image of a dark smoke filled room.
Worse still, someone bought it
and inflicted it on tranquillity.
Why?
Turn it off, let the natural order return.
Let the rivulets run.

John Carré Buchanan
15 January 2014

Sark Folk Festival 2012

Image Source

The beautiful Island of Sark lies 9 miles to the East of Guernsey. It is the world’s first Dark Skies Island having so little light pollution that the nights are practically pitch dark, with only the stars and moon to light the way.

The Island has no cars and the population gets around on foot, bicycle, tractor and horse and carriage. Over the last few years Sark has hosted a Folk Festival, something which given the Islands remoteness has been a logistical challenge.

This year I went over to the festival with my Family, a trip made possible by my new wheelchair. The Festival was fantastic, with a three stages running full time and a number of other locations hosting groups or soloists.

Having spent much of my childhood in Sark I was not sure what to expect when I went over, but it was fantastic. I had to use a considerable amount of medication and all the pain management techniques I know to survive the two days I was there but when I got back to Guernsey I felt that it had all been worth it. Unfortunately over the next week, which was dominated by a major setback that view changed and I doubt I will be able to do it again.

I started writing this poem whilst I was over there and finished it today, I hope you enjoy it.

Sark Folk Festival 2012

The field stretched to hedgerows
which touched the sapphire sky.
Tall flags rippled in the breeze,
they stood like masts
or man-made trees.

Musicians and singers plied their trade
in the bowels of white marquees.
Harmony flooded Island wide
As the festival grew
Tide by tide.

An eclectic crowd on Sark landed
dressed in many styles.
Jeans and T-shirts, hippie print,
and designer labels
that cost a mint.

Cowboy hats and summer scarves
dreadlocks and bands of posies,
They sat on rugs or camping chairs
Or danced and sang
To tuneful airs.

Rich and poor had gathered there
to share a field of music.
For what really mattered there in Sark
was that everyone
Should have a lark.

John Carré Buchanan
08 July 2012