Stark

Whilst out for a walk this afternoon I stopped to admire the stark beauty of a harvested field and this poem jumped into my mind, I hope you like it.

Stark

They harvested the maze
a week or so ago.
Now the field lies barren,
dried stalks flattened low

Amidst the mud and stubble
a pigeon lies in death,
its grey feathers ruffled
by the cruel wind's breath.

Atop a naked hedgerow
Corvids bicker and caw;
chill autumnal beauty
ahead of winter's maw.

John Carré Buchanan
05 October 2019

Emotions High

Image: A Barroom Brawl - Anton Otto Fischer (1882-1962)

The theme for last nights Open Mic was; 'a poem based on an article in a newspaper or magazine'. The Guernsey Press headline; "Mourners involved in Town fight", caught my eye and the following poem was the result. I hope you like it.

Emotions High

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust;
to dust up.
Down into the ground,
down into town,
down the hatch,
light the match.
Emotions high
tempers fly
a fan smashed,
headline splashed;
"Mourners involved in Town fight"
police ask for insight,
whilst down with the worms
the departed turns.

John Carré Buchanan
7 November 2014

The Breakfast News

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I was in the Gym this morning and the TV was playing the breakfast news. The all too familiar image of cross hairs hovering as a smart bomb destroyed a compound played out on the screen. This gruesome clip was accompanied by the anchor’s sombre but upbeat soundtrack.

Having witnessed the sort of damage the ordnance being used causes, I was suddenly aware of just how biased reporting can be. I don’t condone the actions of IS, they are horrendous and they need to be stopped, but I couldn’t help wondering why watching the deaths of numerous people could be considered reasonable breakfast fare whilst the death of one was not. Don't get me wrong, I don't want to see the images of hostages being murdered any more than I want to see exploding smart bombs but both pieces of film footage were designed for the same political / propaganda role and I personally don't want to see either.

This train of thought led to the following poem, which aims to remind the reader that all death caused by war is tragic, and should never be celebrated.

The Breakfast News

The unfortunate kneels in front of his assailant
dressed in orange.
Rhetoric flows as cameras turn
and then,
and then the world recoils in terror.
Images banned, taken down,
the action condemned.

Grainy crosshairs in black and white
float on our screens
hovering over a nondescript compound.
Suddenly the image flares
and fades back to a pall of smoke
clearing to reveal ruins and smoldering vehicles
overlaid by a gloating anchor's voice.

Injustice?
One solitary death, gruesome
condemned by those it aimed to terrorise
yet a compound, filled with mutilated corpses
and screams of the injured
sanitised by distance and a grainy shot,
is somehow seen as good.

John Carré Buchanan
29 September 2014

Please

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My continued battle with CRPS has been particularly difficult recently. My decision to go drug free has had mixed blessings as cost/benefit analysis of side effects versus pain relief and depression plays out.

It has taken eight months to come off the opiates and anti-depressants and my first 'drug free' day (ie. no base line) was marred by the need to resort to breakthrough opiates during the evening, a fact that depression was quick to focus on.

Last night as I sat head in a bucket and racked in pain I wrote the bare bones of this poem. It is not cheerful, but it goes somewhere towards illustrating what living in constant pain is like.

Please

Dreams lie scattered, shreds in life's wake.
Tattered and torn, an ensign in a storm.
Cut the halyard, set it free
to soar - unbound - on the tempest.
God on high, hear my prayer;
Cut the halyard, set me free.

John Carré Buchanan
25 January 2014

My friend Rick Shepherd kindly put this poem to music. The tune is an Irish air called Inisheer composed by Thomas Walsh.

Bereft

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A poem on loss, I'm not sure if it still needs a little work, but for now I'm happy with it.

I hope you like it.

Bereft

He sat, bereft.
The powerful youth of yesteryear,
the man who’d faced all-comers, without fear;
gone.
His shrivelled frame trembled in a chair.
Fingers caressed the picture in his hand.
Monochrome locks on porcelain face,
she had always been his Grace.
Now he sat all alone,
in the house they’d called, home.
Cold walls closed in.
His broken heart,
left their home, bereft.
The fighting spirit;
gone.

John Carré Buchanan
16 September 2013

The Hood

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A friend of mine recently had to make the very hard decision to have her cat put down. This was clearly a terrible decision for her to make and she was very distressed by it. She asked me if I would write a poem for her. This was the first time that I had done anything like this and I was not sure how things would go, but I agreed to do it if she gave me some notes.

I was not sure what format to take or how sensitive I would need to be. In the end I decided to write a poem which at first might seem hard hitting but would have a gentle closure offering a degree of hope and comfort.

I asked a few people to read the poem before I gave it to my friend in order to ensure that it was appropriate and they all gave it thumbs up. I then gave it to my friend and it was several days before she was able to give me her feedback, which was fortunately positive. I hope you enjoy reading it.

Hood

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I glance at the armchair as I enter the room
expecting to see two topaz eyes watching me
from under his pure white fur,
but the back of the chair is empty.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I scan the top of the cupboards as I make the bed,
hoping to glimpse the tip of a tail waving at me
or perhaps hear a disgruntled purr,
but Robin, ‘The Hood’, he’s not there.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I check the flowerpots as I tend the Garden,
will I see four huge paw prints in the soil?
His claws will need cutting soon.
Then I remember - he has gone.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I sit and knit in front of the TV,
he does not make me stop.
I can no longer run my fingers
gently through his soft fur.

He has gone,
Yes – The Hood has gone.
I slept in this morning,
The alarm clock ran past snooze.
There was no soft paw upon my face
To wake me should I doze.

Yet - as I straighten cushions in the lounge
a patch of white fur appears before me.
Should I drop a stitch as I watch the TV
I feel his celebratory purr on my knee.
Yes - You will always be a friend to me
I just have to close my eyes to see.

John Carré Buchanan
01 February 2013

A Prayer

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A Prayer

Floating,
muffled sound,
grey darkness,
through soft shut lids.
Warm body,
cold thoughts.
so cold they burn-
as they roll over me;
like water on a
wave washed shore.
I am laid bare.
Warm body,
cold mind,
oh;
that the body were cold?

John Carré Buchanan
18 May 2012

Bilbo – A Hamster's Tail

Image: Bilbo by Elanor Buchanan

Last night my daughter’s hamster, ‘Bilbo’ died. He had lived a fair life for a hamster and his passing was not wholly unexpected. He was buried under a rose bush in our garden and in keeping with his name Elanor read the following words from J.R.R. Tolkien’s ‘The Lord of the Rings.’ over his grave.

‘End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path... One that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass... And then you see it………White shores... and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise.’

I must admit that Bilbo’s passing seemed to affect me more than it did Elanor, who had been expecting him to die as he was very old for his breed. I kept feeling jealous of Bilbo as he has moved on, whilst I remain here trapped in a pain riddled body longing for an end to my current life.

Before I reveal my poem I should explain the references to the Lord of the Rings. Both Elanor and I have a great love for these books, indeed Elanor’s own name is derived from Tolkien’s ‘The Return of the King’, when at the end of the book Frodo suggests Sam’s daughter should be named after a flower in keeping with the old custom in the Shire. Sam agrees, but says; ‘if it’s to be a flower-name, then I don’t trouble about the length; it must be a beautiful flower, because, you see, I think she is very beautiful, and is going to be beutifuller still.’

Frodo suggested the name ‘Elanor’ after the sun-star, the little golden flower in the grass of Lothlόrien, both Sam and I agreed.

And so to the poem;

Bilbo – A Hamster's Tail

Sometime during the night
the rhythmic tapping ceased.
That irritating, yet somehow comforting pulse
that played every night; stopped.

The nocturnal cacophony;
click, click, click of the water bottle valve,
grate of enamel on bars, rattle of a turning wheel.
These barriers to sleep; ended.

Snuggled quietly in its den
the soft, sand coloured fur became still.
No longer did it trap the warmth that rose from within.
The warm bloods circulation; ceased.

There, on a star filled night,
while the cats prowled the house and garden,
and the family and the dog slept peacefully,
Bilbo the Syrian hamster; died.

The sun rose into a clear blue sky,
A sand coloured body was buried under the rose bush,
as for Bilbo; he sees; ‘White shores... and beyond,
a far green country under a swift sunrise.’

John Carré Buchanan
13 May 2012