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Best Poems Written by Edward Clapham

Below are the all-time best Edward Clapham poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Me and Me

Me and Me

Thoughts on the cloning of a human being

There’s a me and a clone of me and if we meet, 
Then how do we know which me is me and which 
The other; and if I think I am me then am 
I the other me, or is he someone else?

Me and me: just imagine if there was a you and you;
And if you and me and clone of me and clone of you 
All met at once, would we (collectively us) sort ourselves
Into you-s and me-s that matched?

And, just suppose, the you and me that I think is 
Me and you, turns out to be me and clone of you; 
Would we know and would we care, or can we
Carry on just like you and me?

AND, and just suppose, through devices strange and 
Technical, I could add an X and drop a Y and make
Of me a she, then (I’m sure it’s legal) if I mate with me
(OK – my clone), would I then give birth to me?

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Memory

Memory

I am my memory.
This piece of the world, this brief sprouting
Amongst many thinking radishes, 
Exists only as resonances within 
Lacy neurons; Flanders’ delicate patterns 
Sustained by glial skeletons, 
Beyond the spider’s web or silent
Snowflake in elegant complexity.

I am memory: 
Identity, selfness, the compass of my person,
Shaped by the universe’s unknowingness
Of my reedlike form; yet I know I exist, 
And know of my fate,
And of the fate of the universe,
Which is the power of my memory
And humankind’s collective memory.

I am:
And therefore recreated endlessly by my memories which, 
Shallow-like, bow to my insecurities
Played out in my mind; ironically,
Feeding my own undermining,
Poignant recall of joy and bittersweet sorrow,
Given force by visceral emotion, shaping “I”
Anew, through endless rehearsal. 

I:
Who is: only in relation to you, another,
My child, parent, brother, sister, a lover,
Bosom friend; like me, the sum
Of memories, which we share
And are thus part of each other,
All one, yet separate, connected
Through memory.




The memories of you fade,
Yet do not disappear, and
Give truth to my thoughts
On memory, and my identity;
Me, whom you pursued until
I caught you, and gave
Me memories happy and sad,
That shape me still..


with acknowledgements to
Blaise Pascal,  William Shakespeare, Rene Descartes, Eric Kandel, John Locke, the Lace makers of Belgium....and Georgia

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Allegory of Love

Allegory of Love

Dressed in sombre garb the chrysalis lies
Unaware of its destiny, the world without
Watching in expectation. Nature sings its song 
To the amorphous form within, and transformation
Begins. What once was bland existence now 
Takes on a warmer hue; where once
Was sameness, now vital difference appears.
In time the insistent urge of nature
Transcends the quiescent spirit within and 
Iridescent glory is born, to shine and 
Light up the world and dance the 
Eternal dance. But nature tires of its
Work and turns away from the vibrant
Form, and it withers and dulls, spent.

And in time hope dies.

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Metaphor For Love

Metaphor

Water flows; formless form. 
The broad stream moves only ever forwards, 
Curving along the contours of life.
Here, a rock disturbs the placid surface;
Giving form and character to uniformity
Of existence, enduringly. There, a pebble thrown 
Far from the edge creates a momentary
Ripple, a brief moment of happiness, excitement,
And then is gone. Yet within the silent waters,
The pebble has altered the parallel flows, 
An unconscious eddy that spins and whirls,
Hidden from the world above, insistent thought.
So it is with you, metaphorically the bridge
Across my river from whence was thrown 
The pebble that disturbs my serenity still.

Details | Edward Clapham Poem

On the Centenary of the Battle of the Somme - the Flowers of the Forest

Waving poppies, ruffled by the summer breeze, look up 
At the deep sky and warm sun, pillows of clouds gentle 
Contrast to the green below and the scattered red faces 
With soul black eyes. Children’s voices ring like distant bells, 
The sounds of happiness and the pleasures of life, undisturbed 
By thoughts of harm.

But the flowers of the forest have no arching sky above
Only cold shadows and pools of dark water, with wriggling 
Worms the only life. No laughing children lift the heart 
And bring a happy smile, the distant bells a sombre cadence
That tolls for thee. No bright poppies shine in this decaying
World, only their soul black eyes.

And the lone piper plays his sad lament for 
The Flowers of the Forest.

Details | Edward Clapham Poem

My Place

My place

There also is my place, where I explore my understanding
Of words that are said and thoughts revealed, interpretations made;
Intimacy shared and dissected, speculations proffered and discarded,
And wisdom is given and received, the acolyte at the master’s feet.

It is my space and, like another place, is defined 
By boundaries that keep us within the precincts of confidentiality;
Although I unspokenly stretch these boundaries to my own ends,
And bring my world into the professional arena of supervision.

I look within, to my past and the life I have lived,
And Terence speaks across the centuries to remind me:
"Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto", restatement
That I am human, and live and feel as do those I counsel.

We live in parallel worlds, my client, my supervisor; and me,
Who counsels others yet who explores himself, whose 
Understandings of others are but insights into his own
Psyche and his struggles for understanding and closure.

Nothing human is alien to me, and I forget my role, sometimes;
And move into my own spotlight, that I may illuminate 
Myself with the insights gained from you, who is here,
Before me, my supervisor and unwitting therapist to me.

And you? You also watch, alert to my half spoken thoughts. 
A mirror, that bends and shapes the reflection of myself
To reveal unformed understandings, to give them meaning 
And substance; a shaft of sunlight penetrating murky 
Waters, that both teaches, and counsels me.

Details | Edward Clapham Poem

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies grow;
Their roots reach down to twine amongst the bones,
The mouldering bones.

Each skull in grinning disbelief voices 
Its eternal question, for what? And no answer comes,
No answer comes.

There are no lungs to find;
Long rotted from within, from gasping breaths of gas,
From choking gas.

No flesh remains to clothe the 
Bones; torn from limbs by hammer blows of fate,
Cruel, indifferent fate.

No heroes these, but common men
Who selfless thought to serve, to do the right thing,
Unquestioned right thing.

Their souls now wait deep underground;
Deep amongst the rusting, shattered fragments of twisting Death,
Of youthful Death.

Only the Sun kissed faces red;
That wave upon the land above, serve to remind,
Ever remind us.

In Flanders fields the poppies grow.

(With acknowledgement for inspiration to Lt Col John McCrae)

To the memory of my Grandfather, who endured the Somme and spoke not a word of it. Each year, he and my Grandmother made thousands of poppies to sell on Armistice Day for the survivors of that Contemptible Little Army.

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Mindfulness

Mindfulness

Mindfulness is being in the moment, with the past
A dim memorial and the future ripe anticipation;
Without investment of self in uncertainty and “when I…”,
Just living life in the now.

I read the book of recipes and am drawn 
Into its world of pungency, lost in imagined tastes;
And I linger at this altar of sensual delight,
And am mindful.

A glass of Riesling sits close by, cold, crisp, 
With subtle oiliness hinting at future promise;
Its acidity bites at my tongue as I imagine
Lemons in Greece might do.

Fragrant prose makes my nose twitch, as though some 
Herb, roughly chopped to embrace the warmth of spice,
Is thrown into the bubbling pot to lure the hungry,
And I think of you.

The spell of the moment is broken by your
Presence, uninvited and unwanted but irresistible,
An imagining, without form, that brings emptiness, longing,
The elements of grief.

Why do you do this, Madame, why do you 
Not leave me to be at peace with my present?
Why do you intrude, when you have been silent
This long while?

I want to be with you, or rid of you; 
There is no compromise, I cannot be an acquaintance;
There is no possibility of a hint of love, like
A hint of chilli.

I imagine inside your mind, where I have no 
Place, no presence; I am forgotten, like a withered
Posy, whose scent is as dust and adds nothing
To our pleasure.

And I live in this moment, dissolved in
My emotions, swept up in thinking, and wonder 
When it will end and you no longer disturb
My present.

The ascetic monk reminds me of the impermanence 
Of all things, and the unhealthy possession you have
Of my thoughts and feelings, putting my happiness
at your command.

Miserere mei: soaring notes wash my mind clean, no 
Thoughts or emotions can find space in this reverberant
Cathedral of penitence; transient music that lives forever,
Unlike that pure treble.

I am again mindful and you slip behind the 
Curtain of music, an actor quitting the stage,
Your speech done, the plot carried forward
To its end.

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The Witching Hour

The Witching hour draws nigh, and I stay;
Here, compelled to write, to find words
To express undiscovered thoughts and emotions.
The gentle fingers of wine coax them forth;
That I may examine them at my leisure,
To discern reason and explanation for my 
Foolish desire, that we should be one.
I seek the subtle form of verse, to impress;
But beneath, beneath, lies the passion of hope,
That drives me forward, despite your cold charity.
Verse alone is not enough, since you do not read
My scribblings nor hear me speak in rhyme or 
Reason, to persuade you to take me in.
What then do I do to have you consider my suit?

Details | Edward Clapham Poem

Night Comes

Night Comes

Night comes, the dark cloak that has swirled 
In the winds of living fleetingly hiding the light,
Now drapes the bed on which you lie. 
You lived more than the year you foretold;
Tenacity, obstinacy, lust for life, all holding 
You together, sharp witted to the end.
But the strength of the marathon runner,
The determination to build high above 
A spare childhood in impoverished times
All fade, withering as a leaf starved of water
In winter’s cold grasp.
Now only memories remain, fragments of 
A life lived well, shining candles of 
Admiration, respect, someone to aspire to be.

"Bunny" RIP 27th February 2017