Tuesday, 28 April 2026

 

A FEW MORE POEMS


Porthgwarra

by Tim Veater



Yesterday, I thought, “Tomorrow,

I'll do a trip, and venture to Porthgwarra.”

And so I did, and so I saw,

A newly appeared and terrifying thing:

In modern parlance, a 'Sink Hole'.

In fact a collapsed sea cave,

Unfenced and shear.

I stood entranced and petrified,

Requiring nerve to stand beside,

The unguarded edge and lear.


Where fathoms far below,

The rounded boulders,

Of an ocean floor appeared.

In dread imagination feared

It might collapse some more,

Even the very location where I stood.

Or what creatures plunged with it,

When all the ground had disappeared,

Or if by chance an unspecting walker,

Had slid into that ghastly abyss.


It was with some relief,

I walked away from it,

On narrow sandy path,

Past monoliths of granite,

Lichen-whiskered with salty time,

Topped by a cap of mustard yellow;

Buttoned on one side, white with Thrift,

The other, Bluebelled Oxford blue,

Led back to Porthgwarra Cove.

And there, next to the tumbling stream


Out to the limitless sea,

I sat and ate my quiche lorraine

And gazed in wonder

At the tireless, timeless waves.

Aware alone, I sat again,

After the many years had passed,

A vista dotted with yellow flags and gorse,

The spotted gold of lovers lost

And passions drained,

Into the blue and icy main.


The endangered Choughs,

Which protected, about here live,

In formal black, fly by aghast

And squawk their scornful laughter

At the curs-ed human far below,

Prayerfully partaking his repast,

Whilst rugged cliffs resist the ocean's roar,

Of Neptune's hammer blows.



The long love that in my thought doth harbour]


The long love that in my thought doth harbour 
And in mine heart doth keep his residence, 
Into my face presseth with bold pretence 
And therein campeth spreading his bannèr. 
She that me learns to love and suffèr 
And wills that my trust, and lust’s negligence 
Be reined by reason, shame, and reverence, 
With his hardiness takes displeasùre. 
Wherewithall unto the heart’s forest he fleèth, 
Leaving his enterprise with pain and cry, 
And there him hideth, and not appearèth. 
What may I do when my master fearèth? 
But in the field with him to live and die 
For good is the life, ending faithfully.


Thomas Wyatt, (1503 - 1542) a prolific poet, is accredited with introducing the fourteen line sonnet to England. The above is a take on Petrarch's (1304 - 1374) 'Amour che nel penser'.


WIKI:  "As the book fell open, Petrarch's eyes were immediately drawn to the following words from St Augustine's Confessions:

"And men go about to wonder at the heights of the mountains, and the mighty waves of the sea, and the wide sweep of rivers, and the circuit of the ocean, and the revolution of the stars, but themselves they consider not.[23]

"Petrarch's response was to turn from the outer world of nature to the inner world of "soul":

"I closed the book, angry with myself that I should still be admiring earthly things who might long ago have learned from even the pagan philosophers that nothing is wonderful but the soul, which, when great itself, finds nothing great outside itself. Then, in truth, I was satisfied that I had seen enough of the mountain; I turned my inward eye upon myself, and from that time not a syllable fell from my lips until we reached the bottom again. ... [W]e look about us for what is to be found only within. ... How many times, think you, did I turn back that day, to glance at the summit of the mountain which seemed scarcely a cubit high compared with the range of human contemplation[23]"

Lost Love by Tim Veater

Larger than life it got away,
Oh for the grace to let it go.
Where is the joy that went astray?
Gone on the howling gale that blows!
Familiar the face that looks my way.
Who would have guessed they knew me so?
Funny the funny games we play,
Making so sure that no one knows.

Bleached the colours. Faded the hues.
Where is the orchard that once we grew?
Gone in the chilling swirling river,
Blown by the wind, swept with a shiver -
Playing the part of the indifferent swinger -
Mountain peaks shrouded in icy-blue.


April 2026 by Tim Veater


So it is April yet again,

Yet again, yet again.

I like the sound of it,

Like a distant train,

Like a distant train,

Travelling the tracks,

Clicking the cracks,

Of an earthly time machine,

Thrusting its way, ever onward,

Into a tunnel of love,

Never to be seen again.


This little blue orb,

In its beautiful garb,

Is set like an opel in space

All blackness around

And ne're ever a sound

Until Artemis too,

Splashes down on its face

And the smell of the sea

And the sound of the waves

Salt splashing the ears

With an earthy refrain.


It's April again

Now freshened with rain

As the photons of light

Kiss the leaves,

For here it is yellow and green

And everyone's seen

What in April the sunlight can do,

To this small patch of garden I view.

Though none can explain

Whether particle or wave

Or absolutely nothing, tis true.


The light from a star

Falls right where we are

And somehow makes everything glow,

From the eye to the brain

I'll say it again

It's a mystery no one can know.

Exquisite, unique,

Of its beauty I speak

This April, this Spring,

Of it let us sing, 

Ere we drown in a blood-thirsty stew.


My gggGrandfather Thomas Veater's (1787 - 1857) mother was a Rose and he married a Parfitt

A lot of Gloucester 'Bishops' back along.

Robert Bishopp

Birth 1585 • Norwich, Norfolk, England

Death 1660 • Norwich, Norfolk England

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