It’s been a long time since
I’ve ventured into
this new studio of mine—
dust has settled like ashes
on the unshelved books
and the jars of brushes
still packed away in boxes
that intimidate me.
Since I’m already here
I might as well unpack
one carton of my past.
I slit the tape on a box
labeled Miscellaneous,
not knowing what I’ll find.
Inside, a parrot, a toucan,
some triangles and French curves.
And buried deeper —
a chambered nautilus,
a Royal Doulton mare and foal,
and a photo of my daughter
in the beloved red clogs
we bought in Reykjavik—
and which she took to bed with her
each night ‘til she outgrew them —
legs crossed like a diva,
already queen of her small world.
The room watches in stillness
as I lay each relic
in the light like an offering,
and with each one
the unfamiliar space
begins to feel it might really
become my new studio.
Something in me loosens—
and begins to believe it too.
My knees crack as I rise—
it’s not exactly
a resurrection, but it’s
close enough for a Thursday.
I dust off the windowsill,
open another box,
and let the light fall in.
Maybe, just maybe,
I might be home at last.
Categories:
reykjavik, absence, anxiety, art, courage,
Form: Free verse
A ship’s last voyage
The tank ship that looked like a schooner finally
made it from the black sea to Reykjavik in Iceland
The ship dry as the dust of the Sahara surrounded
by undrinkable water, the crew was eager to go
ashore and find a watering- hole selling beer.
Back then, Reykjavik was a dark town with few
streetlights and in the throes of temperance
There was no booze or wine, only watery beer that
was awful but in our situation better than nil.
The first café we came to was full of individuals
reading books in silence; we didn’t know Iceland
is a literate place everyone reads or write
books when not talking about literature but for
us it was a boring café we wanted fun and light.
We found a café selling beer, and the crew got
hold a bottle of homemade booze; in a country
where alcohol intake is restricted, people make
their own wine or liquor.
The voyage had been long and arduous; the ship
and her captain had survived the war and hoped
their voyage would last forever; it didn’t last
Of all ironies, the ship returned to Odessa and sold
as scrap iron.
Categories:
reykjavik, best friend, devotion, integrity,
Form: Blank verse
Happy Hour is one drink short
of a buzz,
I try to determine the moment
it all went sour.
I’m looking into the empty glass
wondering where the ‘happy’ went,
did it dissipate on a curling lip
or a sigh?
I find the remote in the back of my mind
where remoteness lives and has its bunker.
It’s been a tough past year, and we’ve barely sipped
this new one, bad joo-joo everywhere.
what with all this apocalyptic crap going on.
Occasionally a camera will capture a look
in a strangers eyes, and I see my thoughts there.
We are all lonely inside our eyes I guess.
The barkeep picks up his tip and nods to my fading presence.
The taxi home gets lost between Reykjavik and Lahore,
we all arrive just in time to watch the day show up
on the 6 o’clock news.
Body counts and empty faces talking through mealy lips -
time for another drink.
Categories:
reykjavik, poetry,
Form: Free verse
There once was a jockey from Reykjavik
Who'd hit his horse with a freeing ice pick --
The horse, it would stumble
The jockey, he'd grumble --
"Shut-up, you old nag, I've a charcoal brick!"
Categories:
reykjavik, horse, hurt, pain,
Form: Limerick
The maiden voyage
My first voyage on a ship was on an old tanker
who took us to Novorossiysk in Russia to load oil for
Iceland (Reykjavik.) It was an arduous voyage
in the Black Sea, we got stuck on the ice for days which was
better than the darksome Novorossiysk where we could
only go to restricted places.
Reykjavik too was a dreary little place but we could
walk about as we wanted and the people were nice
only it had no restaurants to speak of and the cafes
sold ghastly beer.
Then the ship was bound for Curacao, a Dutch island
full of bars and whores, it was on that voyage I wrote
my first poem “The Ship plough on” it was met with
amusement of the type I disliked and did attempt to
write anything for the next 30 years but read hundred
of books.
Categories:
reykjavik, break up, cute love,
Form: Blank verse
Jon always does a Rubix Cube,
Before swims for his nerve,
He’s a self-confessed motorhead,
Loves driving Lamorghini’s.
Born on the 30th of May in 1991,
With mild Cerebral Palsy,
He has a BTEC in sports, science,
And trains in Manchester.
He is coached by Mick Massey,
And in Beijing won silver,
In the 100m backstroke, S7 class,
Paralympic glory to know.
In 2009 in the Reykjavik Euros,
He won 4 golds, 1 silver,
For the backstroke and freestyles,
A silver for the 50m free.
In 2010, the Worlds, Eindoven,
In the south Netherlands,
Jon won another strong, solid gold,
To add to his collection.
The London Paralympics smiled,
And he won the gold,
In the men’s 100m backstroke,
To choke slightly, podium.
Montreal 2013, Canada’s plane,
With the World Champs,
Here Jon won a gold, a bronze,
For the back and free.
Then came Funchal in Madeira,
Which is Portuguese,
2016, and for back and freestyle,
Jon won gold, silver.
In Rio he was on the defensive,
To keep his Para title,
For the backstroke 100 metres,
But was sad with silver.
Categories:
reykjavik, sports, strength,
Form: Blank verse
Mary , Mary quite contrary
How did my garden grow ?
You know darned well
It's just been hell
With Winter's frost and snow .
Bought expensive seeds
That were colored weeds
That grew and grew some more
So , just like I said
It is wrecking my head
And my green finger is getting sore .
My daffs were a laugh
And my posies can't pose
The buttercups all turned sour.
The ducks in the pond
Are beyond the beyond
And the ivy is poison , for sure .
My frog , Mr. Toad
Took to the road
To meet a Princess
Who is loaded with cash .
I'm sore , sad and sick
Because of Reykjavik
What ain't weeds
Is now covered in ash .
Inspired for Dane-Ann's garden contest .
Categories:
reykjavik, funnygarden,
Form: Rhyme