Category: Poetry

When the sky grows

There is a wildness to these last days of May; an energy long pent-up that rushes from the thrusting ground to meet the brightness of the glowing clouds… The whole locked in some exotic equilibrium, one pushing, the other pulling, until, racing past the middle of June, they sight the shimmering solstice. ©Stephen Tanham 2022 Stephen Tanham is a Director of the Silent Eye, … Read More When the sky grows

The Quiet Places

They live concealed within the ebb and flow of life recycled. That very nature is why they are so hard to find. The extraordinary hidden in plain sight… Their camouflage is the blindness caused by seeing what we saw, before, and not what is before us. A spell so strong, it takes our will to see it, differently. To reach into what seems to … Read More The Quiet Places

A Deeper Summer

To a deeper sun I felt I had respondedSoft light behind the eyesLike crossing tidal lines upon a beachA scent, a fleeting touchA feeling words can seldom reachThe light like artist’s silk upon the breezeI struggle to define this placeOr point a finger at its heartSave that it was as far again from summerAs summer is from winterAs entered space yields motion Whose duration … Read More A Deeper Summer

Summer’s Retort

A circulating seedThat knows no deathFinds purchase in the soilOf spring’s awakened greenAnd in the silky, shortest nightExplodes. Born a child of solstice lightThe summer’s lust for lifeEmbeds itself withinThe coalescing heart of flowerTo fall as seed returnedThe forms of life are eatenBaked and rolled As harvest yields tomorrow And bonfires mark the end of lightCasting free this single sparkProjected, angel brightInto the heart … Read More Summer’s Retort

Green Fingers

The heat, it must have been the heatThat teased and turned my stepsThat stepped a different thrust and beatA moan of limbs on fire where once were feet. The green, it must have been the greenThat cooled me in a light I’d never drunkThat drank me in a way that drew a sighSurrendering to what, before, I had not seen.Into the trees; I went … Read More Green Fingers

Green Fingers

The heat, it must have been the heat That teased and turned my steps That stepped a different thrust and beat A moan of limbs on fire where once were feet. The green, it must have been the green That cooled me in a light I’d never drunk That drank me in a way that drew a sigh Surrendering to what – before, I … Read More Green Fingers

Rotating Hope

Rotating hopeAs a Captain in a blackened stormScans a ravaged horizonTo find rotating hope- Not only where but who;The ship, by edge of darknessLocates the world beyond the seaSo we, with storm and prayerScanning signs of inner lifeFind voyage in a pulsing lightA presence: there, then goneReturning if we will but stare,And hoping, count the circles©Stephen Tanham 2021 ©Stephen Tanham 2021 Stephen Tanham is … Read More Rotating Hope

Days of Sky

When days roll, heavy hearted, by And dusk has turned a darker hue Where breathing’s choked and not so free I rest my back on bark of old ash tree And whisper words into electric blue Discovering solace in the sky ©Stephen Tanham Stephen Tanham is a Director of the Silent Eye, a journey through the forest of personality to the dawn of Being.

And tomorrow…

And tomorrow we will gather Within this garden country, rich with life To gaze, inside, upon your memories And tell stories of your laughing fullness ➰ Outside our garden guest-house I found this quiet group Of faded, used-out artefact Held close in tulips’ embrace The whole, sun-wrapped And I thought of you. ➰ ©Stephen Tanham Stephen Tanham is a Director of the Silent Eye, … Read More And tomorrow…

Old and grey, and Father Time

When I am old and grey, and Father Time has had his wretched way with all the bits that move no more… I will live in a simple dwelling like this top floor, with endless sea beyond the veranda’s edge, and mountains to the other side, behind the cluttered bookshelf that used to be a windowsill. And Mags will feed me, not because she … Read More Old and grey, and Father Time

Two journeys, one destination

I remember listening to T. S. Eliot reading his poem The Four Quartets for the first time. The words held me spellbound: “We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time.” My wife and I had first travelled to Inverness four years ago, we came … Read More Two journeys, one destination

#ShortWrytz : three things

Sometimes there is a kind of poetry in the arrangement of objects in a landscape, not seen, fully, before the finger presses them into personal history. The symmetry, the visual song, is seen later, as here with ancient rocks, weathered and waiting; the out at sea lighthouse; and the distant volcanic dome, worn down into a bullet by millennia. The arrangement is not created, … Read More #ShortWrytz : three things

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