Hurrah! Forward Poetry is releasing an anthology of poems associated with service men and women past and present and That Dark Suit has been chosen to be in the collection. This has made me quite giddy and ever so slightly gob-smacked. The Colour of War is being published 30th June 2011 and will be sent to libraries and museums across the UK as well as a selection of military bases. They have also asked for photos so I am sending one of Grandad in his uniform - we shall have to wait and see what happens. I will post more about it when the anthology is in circulation but for now I am a very happy chappy.
Did I tell you, I dreamt of you the other night?
Your were standing on a creaky old sailing boat-
Like the picture we have of you at home,
You had on a dark silk scarf wrapped around your hair,
And a dragonfly brooch pinned to your lapel.
I walked along the sun-bleached planks,
And stood before you,
No longer a three-year old but a full grown woman,
You took my hand and squeezed it lightly,
As we watched the horizon bob up and down.
You were taller than me,
But not by much,
You closed your eyes and smiled,
Tiliting your head to the sun’s rich glow.
We stood like that for ages,
The boat never moved,
just sitting on the waves,
not needing to be anywhere.
We didn’t say a word,
We didn’t need to - you’d been there all along,
At school concerts and exams and my first day away,
You kept really quiet not making a fuss,
Just a warm feeling inside letting me know.
My memory of you is faded around the edges,
Like a sepia photo that has been left in the sun,
But your ring fits my finger,
Reminding me that you are there,
Somewhere close, keeping watch...
I look at pictures now
And remember that dream,
Perhaps you will sail by again someday,
And perhaps next time I will see the Captain again too.
And perhaps next time I will see the Captain again too.
© 2011 Charlotte Chase
Photo from Google
Last night I dreamt
that their names came alive,
floating down from my shelves
transforming into glorious embodiments
of their previous forms; lords, ladies, lovers and friends -
My footsteps creaked on the cold planks
as laughter rose like a flute's pure notes,
skipping along the vaulted ceiling,
arching overhead leaving behind a trail of stars -
Light bounced off the frame
as the smooth handle turned,
bathing me in a gentle warm glow,
carried by the current of a hundred years -
They were sat either side
of the longest oak table,
my place was reserved,
a throne for their host -
I don't think I had a point of realisation,
the knowledge was always there,
an innate awareness weaved into my mind,
clarity and logic together entwined-
These people were not strangers
but friends from before.
It was their books I had chosen
afternoons dawdling in charity shops-
It was their pen and ink I had traced
with my finger in the soft autumn light,
lingering over the pages,
turned golden by time-
I had brought them here,
for years they had grown accustomed to me,
my habits, my ways,
sitting in rows leaning one against another-
Through their bindings,
their stories had seeped through,
leaking into each other,
colliding and separating -
The song started lightly seeping into my ears,
louder it grew and grew,
a raucous noise both beautiful and strong,
a song just for me.
Painting by Jules Grun.
© 2011 Charlotte Chase
We have a visitor coming to see us today, Winter Son.
He is gentle and quiet - doesn’t like to intrude.
His visits are rare and fleeting but when he arrives
Everyone smiles and says his name,
Oh, so happy to see their Prodigal Son.
His brother is Summer Son,
He is the popular brother,
Everyone cheers when he comes to visit,
He stays for a very long time,
Arriving early and not leaving until late.
In the autumn they take turns
To visit their friends,
Some days it’s Winter and some days it’s Summer
It all depends on their plans
And other places they need to be.
Today I am happy to see my old friend
The Winter Son has made a promise,
That his brother is on his way
“Just a hang on in there”, he said to me,
“Summer Son is not far away”.
© 2011 Charlotte Chase
Picture from Photobucket.
With Remembrance Day approaching I wanted to reflect back on a generation that experienced the true meaning of bravery.
I sit down on the floral settee with her
And ask her about him, Our hero.
She smiles at the gas fireplace,
His portrait gazes back from a distant office party,
That dark suit, that warm smile and that dimple.
He was a gentle Quaker and had been a young chorister,
His books and music still on the shelves.
A young man he battled the internal war between Pacifism and Justice.
He said that to watch and not to help
Would be a far greater sin.
The sepia tones still curl around his frame as he stands
Slender against the dusty civilian backdrop,
A comrade at his side,
Boys squinting into the lens,
Cigarettes comforting their shaken nerves.
She says he didn’t like to talk about the days before the party.
About how someone stole his sight,
And the bed in the Italian infirmary,
Where uncertainty played on his mind,
Not knowing whether the darkness could give way to the light.
The bandages fell and the office reopened,
Men now in suits with meetings and nightmares,
He would later talk quietly to Dad about the conflict and the struggle,
Not wishing to unsettle his domestic bubble,
He moved on with his life and left the darkness alone.
© 2010 Charlotte Chase
Photo from Photobucket
Walking up the incline
the inky ceiling darkens,
strands of silver ribbons
float through the air.
A sharp intake of breath,
the senses tingle,
something being created
as the skin brushes cold air.
'He's down in the garden'
she nods and smiles,
a whisp of smoke
suspended in air.
Hands deep in bubbles,
pots steaming in the far corner.
Home at last...
some things never change.
The heady scent of woodsmoke
the evenings creep closer,
drifting in across the carpet,
toes curling under,
escaping the chill.
Beams become arms,
embracing ones dear.
The occasional spark as the
embers glow brightly.
Lights dwindle down,
The house becomes silent,
the night becomes calm,
dawn is in the distance,
suspense is in the air.
© 2010 Charlotte Chase
Photo by Authspot.
I don't know why they call it Memory Lane,
I think of it more like a slide,
Falling, swooshing and delving
into the deepest corners of my mind.
One sign leads to another,
a jolt and and a break.
A smell, a sense, a hazy idea
of something resting in the passages of time.
Grasping, clutching at the wispy memory,
distinction lost as the memories blur,
faces whirl by smiling, laughing
the warmth of unknown sources
stirs nostalgia in the tummy.
The song, the lyric, the beat,
muscle memory strums along necks
and fingers dance along tables.
Forgotten knowledge surfaces,
never lost, just sleeping.
© 2010 Charlotte Chase
I think of it more like a slide,
Falling, swooshing and delving
into the deepest corners of my mind.
One sign leads to another,
a jolt and and a break.
A smell, a sense, a hazy idea
of something resting in the passages of time.
Grasping, clutching at the wispy memory,
distinction lost as the memories blur,
faces whirl by smiling, laughing
the warmth of unknown sources
stirs nostalgia in the tummy.
The song, the lyric, the beat,
muscle memory strums along necks
and fingers dance along tables.
Forgotten knowledge surfaces,
never lost, just sleeping.
© 2010 Charlotte Chase
Gargoyles warn of an impending doom
as you take a breath and leap forwards
into an unknown marble darkness.
Faces glazed in an eternal solitude,
crying out for their patronage from forgotten corners.
Hushed voices and pointing fingers,
searching, looking, finding,
the Green Man.
Under the Madonna
he loiters and remains.
The constant reminder of a nation divided.
Vandalised memorials beg for attention,
subtle murmurs of a lost dignitary and an
unyielding faith.
Hands locked together in prayer or
on the skull of an anonymous acquintance,
Placing their fate in the careless whispers
of a bored congregation.
They will always remain where we fleetingly dwell.
© 2010 Charlotte Chase
© 2010 Charlotte Chase
