.

Reading in Bed

Crowded years from now, and late one wintry night,
a certain turn of phrase or trick of poetry
will summon me. Pillowed in the warm lamplight
perhaps you’ll look up from your book, and, placidly,
with crow’s-foot eyes, begin a smile; then wonder why
I choose that random moment of tranquillity
to haunt, and visit you, and catch your inner eye—
for you’ll have turned away, all but forgotten me.

Though crowded years ago I wrote what now I write,
your greying head will understand, and reunite
your then with now. You need not trouble to explain
my youthful ghost, and how a trace of me remains
within your care; but when that poet turns his key
you’ll find me, waiting, dormant in your memory.

.

.

The Shadow and the Shade

Someone lit these torches that ignite
Dim friezes dense with all fantastic forms
Of nacreous bivalve, argent trilobite,
Giant spiral ammonitic swarms
Of armour glinting in the taper’s light,
Detritus of remote primeval storms
Of teeming dead, identical, distinct
Embedded copies of an archetypal print.

Someone pierced these strata, hewed these steps
Down galleries of tooth and scale and bone,
Bridged the chasms and plutonic clefts
Where torrents shoot in darkness out of stone;
Others have preceded you, and left
A rumour in the waters—not alone.
Still you descend, a shambling carapace,
To rendez-vous at the appointed place.

*

Feet untold have smoothed the jetty floor.
You, the only passenger, embark.
Without one word the boatman dips the oars
And pulls you gently, gently, through the dark
Beneath a towering stalactitic jaw.
Within the utter silence of that cave
Forgetfully you rise and step ashore
Into the peace and comfort of the grave.
Death, after all, was nothing. Unafraid,
Cast off your shadow and become your shade.

.

.

Camera Obscura

What is this unfamiliar menace in the room?
Staring into nothingness he longs to know
the front door safely slammed and voices down below.
Night claws at the window. Why don’t they come home?

Since imagination came of age, he nurtures fears.
Afraid of sleep, he dare not close unblinking eyes
on dark: it hides incipient truths that paralyse
with dread the promise of those coming sunny years.

Smiling Disney faces stencilled on the walls
drop their masks like traitors, and beneath their breath
leeringly propose a new idea, “death,”
that in monstrous shape out of the future crawls

to cheat him of his childhood. All at once he’s old,
he is a sacrifice, he must set out to spend
his newly shortened life preparing for its end.
The light and warmth were false. The room is black and cold.

.

.

Martin Briggs lives in Suffolk, England. He only began writing in earnest after retiring from a career in public administration, since when he has been published in various publications on both sides of the Atlantic.

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6 Responses

  1. Roy Eugene Peterson

    Martin, all three poems are morose, morbid reminders of life and death that perturb the soul with catchy and creative images. As in the first poem, I have often wondered if someone is thinking of me and/or my poetry in later wizened years, as I clearly envision their haunting youthful image when writing poetry or in my dreams. While I am thinking of them, I then wonder if the feeling is transferred to or comes from them at the same time. Casting off the shadow and becoming the shade is a fascinating way to close out the second poem. For some reason, I was never afraid of the dark, but I could feel the trepidation in your third poem with nightfall. All three are excellently sculpted.

    Reply
  2. Paul A. Freeman

    There are indeed ghosts summoned by a turn of phrase, a sound, or a smell, bringing the person into focus. I liked the way you wrote Reading in Bed from the ghost’s point of view.

    ‘The Shadow of the Shade’ – what a great title. Time related through fossils and prehistoric artifacts bring us up to a trip across the River Styx, if I’m not much mistaken, in the care of Charon. Weirdly, I wrote an article about ex-planet Pluto and Charon last night!

    ‘Camera Obscura is perhaps my favourite of the three, Martin. With lines like ‘Since imagination came of age, he nurtures fears’ and the dark mention of Disney, this piece had me shivering. Very Edgar Allen!

    Thanks for the reads.

    Reply
    • Martin Briggs

      Thanks, Paul, for the positive reaction. Too late I realised that my three pieces were uniformly “morose” and “morbid” (see above); but an occasional memento mori does no harm, I suppose.

      Reply
  3. Susan Jarvis Bryant

    Martin, these poems have most certainly engaged my imagination by conjuring images and ideas that make me think… long and hard. I am especially drawn to the two final stanzas of “Camera Obscura” – you have painted a vivid linguistic picture that has swept me up in its poetic revelations. I am at a stage in life where I realize that most of what I’ve seen and heard is pure theatre – a danse macabre waltzing me to the grave… and these stanzas sing to me – they thrill me as they chill me. Thank you!

    Reply
    • Martin Briggs

      Thank you Susan. I’m continually surprised by the way readers get more out of a piece than I put into it! And I’m determined that, if ever I reappear in these pages, I shall have something more upbeat to say.

      Reply

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