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Best Poems Written by Virginia Betts

Below are the all-time best Virginia Betts poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Virginia Betts Poem

When Birds Sing Sweetly,

When birds sing sweetly , 


bright notes fall on deaf ears.

My sightless sockets
no longer watch the setting sun descend 
in orange splendour
behind purple hills.
My fleshless limbs reach, suspended 
in un-returned embrace,
and hope sleeps in earth’s damp bed.

I once walked in your place, above,
treading soft amongst the stones,
my mind fixed firmly on the stars;
warm wind stroked my face,
framed by a pale blue sky.

I gave no thought to those below;
long chains of lives laid out in rows.
I brushed aside insistent whispers,
growing louder year on year;
Time’s breath at my back,
closing in an ever-shortening shadow.

I am so close I could call out to you-
stretch up to grasp your ankles as you pass;
but my soundless cries are impotent 
as dust on stone
scattered by the merest breath of air;
all thoughts dissolved
in earth, 
and flesh to grass.

Details | Virginia Betts Poem

Two Benches

Two benches. 


I never imagined this.
Outside a blank, white room,
with its blank, white walls.
Inside, the clock unwinds;
seconds drip steadily down the line,
waiting for Nature to call Time.

On a cold metallic bench
I wait, suspended;
Stop-motion faces speed by;
nothing changes,
but nothing is the same.

Streaming in, glassy light is prismed through the pane;
the sky bright and empty;
seagulls scream silently; 
white ornamental frieze, framed against the blue.

And later, on a broken bench in the bay,
I watch the white-topped waves constantly returning home;
still in the blank, white room;
still seeing your blank, wide stare.

Details | Virginia Betts Poem

Lost Property

Lost Property


If I collected all the lost keys – 
the ones on rings, or chains,
that drop into drains, 
unclaimed,
and squat there,
sequestered out of sight,
rusting behind bars, 
far below blue sky,
in dank, stale beds,
just beyond light;

all the buttons, hanging by a thread,
that fall, unnoticed,
and fag-ends, and bits of cotton gone astray;
credit cards, 
slipped slyly from shallow pockets;
lipstick, abandoned by a sink-side;
drawing pins and tacks that nestle in soft pile
poised to pounce,
and pierce the flesh of hand or foot

like nails,
evading hammers,
spiralling from empty shelves
dropped down loudly
to swearing curses;
under sofas, between cracks,
rogue staples worked free, 
sending loose leaves
scattered to the wind;

If I could gather these,
place winking silver coins 
beside the rest; 
create small change;
collect them in a shiny tin;

then I might thread the needle,
mend the holes, 
pay my debts,
unlock all the doors,
and let the world back in.

Details | Virginia Betts Poem

Tourist To the Sun

Tourist to the sun.


Fired-up for take-off,
wearing my asbestos suit, designed to deflect,
I bring with me a cabin full of un-marked baggage for the hold.

Wing walker without a rope,
hurtling to the light fantastic,
untethered.

First to sign up
to step off the map;
where even the silvery surface is marked by dark spots;
even the brightest star is already dead.

With outstretched arms I 
surrender to the sun,
glide, star-shaped, licked by flicking tongues of flame,
into the white-hot core;
white heat devouring sound,
eclipsing time,
searing conscience and 
annihilating thought.

Not arrogance that brings me here,
but fear.
The elemental need to fly, unfettered,
to pilot my own craft;
to pierce reality,
and seek the truth behind it,
and, in seeking, half expect to find it.

And thus, avoiding bird-strikes,
negotiate safe water-landings
when at last I am earthbound;
within my hand,
a brand to fire my piece of earth’s story

when I return
scorched and burned.

Details | Virginia Betts Poem

Echo

Echo 

A web waves in the warm breeze,
caught between ancient wooden struts,
indefensible, beneath an empty seat.
It splays to breaking point; 
fine-knit, like a fibre-glass veil;
delicate strength resisting air.

Behind, purple bell-shaped blooms bow their heads in unison,
deferring to the weight
of a sprinkler’s misty jet,
that fans out in the shape of victory.

But it is not these shimmering droplets
that crystallise quietness;
nor the opaque haze,
as heat warps the scene into film;
it is not even the web, hanging on, precarious,
like angel-hair, suspended,
where even one breath might fracture the whole.

My quiet distils
to single drips
echoing inside a hollow barrel,
like an insistent broken tap
in a sleeping house at midnight,
incessantly filling night’s spaces
until dawn arrives again.

Details | Virginia Betts Poem

An Afternoon Walk

An Afternoon Walk. 

It is after midday,
And, filled with wine and warm food,
We flatten the wet grass
With clumsy trudge.

Leaves reveal the sun’s prismatic flashes,
Intermittent arrows that offer
Blind comfort.

The damp air smells of twilight,
Though the day’s hardly done.
And each stone, weather-worn,
Deflects a close inspection,
In shades of shadowy blue.

We tiptoe around the grassy mounds,
I, imagining the shivering rows, turning,
Where we step,
Disturbed.

We hold hands, but I am 
Not there.
I think I hear ancient hymns drift and catch
On the breeze,
And whispered voices slip from slumber, 
Diffuse across time, without words.

All that remains is a feeling.
The chipped and crumbling stone fragments;
My thoughts dissemble into shards
On the grass.

And I am in this earth-
This soft, brown, enveloping ground,
Absorbed,
Where no light or sound 
Can reach me.

This strange, bleak and hollow silence,
Surrounds me fold on fold,
Where no bird sings,
And stories never told 
Fight to surface.


I hear the distant mower drone,
And lamb bleats murmur,
While high above, an engine of the past 
Hums peacefully across the sky, 
The thin smoke trail connecting you, and I

To be wrapped within this silent world;
To cease to be;
Where all deeds die,
And somehow slip away

In time, we are all just stories;
Our vain attempts to make our mark,
Melt like sandstone in rain; 
Like chalk into dust.

Our names carved in art
Fail to be indelible,
And who knows
Who lies here?

Our fingers find their meeting point.
I think this moment should be suspended.
For jealous Time trivialises the relentless 
Crawl upon the wheel, 
And shatters us,
Scattering our thoughts to be blown to the wind.