Secret

Did you even know that?
I bet you never did.
You probably thought the opposite
since you were just a kid.

Had they ever told you?
I bet they never had.
You never really questioned
since you heard it from your Dad.

Could you quite believe it?
I bet you barely could.
Something so incredible
was almost lost for good.

Have you ever wondered
if there was even more?
A galaxy of secrets
in the box under the floor.

(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018 

The Sylvia Path

(After Apprehensions by Sylvia Plath)

I can help you,
or at least I could try.
I don't have the same
apprehensions.

The sky to me
is not a ceiling,
nor a canvas to paint with
your pretentions.

And my partner
believes in me,
cherishes my weaknesses
and I her interventions.


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Postcard from Mañana

Dear Me

Had no map but arrived unscathed, albeit a little breathless.
Journey here twisted and turned,
like a saga punctuated with ellipses rather than periods.

Been looking for a landmark moment. Maybe tomorrow? Maybe unnecessary?

Made a select few soul mates en route: carried each other at times. Some have travelled on, and I may meet them again.
Saw someone in a river. It was fast-flowing upstream but calm and shallow in places.

Took some photos. Lost some. Don't recognise some. Will cherish some forever.

Not missing you. But if you want to, come join me.

Me xxxxx


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Turn Of The Cards

Leave the cards alone,
my friend.
They won't give you the answer
to your question.

Put that book down,
my friend.
It doesn't know you
like you know yourself.

Kick back.
Listen to the waves on the shore.
Listen to your heart.


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

A Sense of Urgency

What do you see, my little hero,
in the garden of your mind?
Blossoms dancing on a breeze
and grasses you can hide behind:
let me share in what you find.

What do you smell, my little hero,
in the kitchen of your soul?
Bagels warming in the oven,
chocolate melting in a bowl,
the smokey hiss of drips on coal.

What do you touch, my little hero,
with the fingers of your nap?
Smoothness of a cotton dream,
around which dreamy limbs will wrap
and catch you in a sleepy trap.

What do you taste, my little hero,
in the milk of morning press?
Information pouring in
with each fresh gulp of creaminess
and nothing wasted, more or less.

What do you hear, my little hero,
in the music of your heart?
Violins blend into drumrolls
as cymbals wrench the peace apart,
just waiting for the songs to start.


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018 

Warning: Unstable Poet!

Caution:
Will not read own work in public.
Do not mix with the unimaginative.
Can be pretentious when left unguarded.

Vorsicht:
Die Übersetzung darf keinen grammatischen Sinn ergeben.

Cuidado:
Ele continuará tentando, no entanto.


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Tree of life

He took his leave for one last time
but in the place he left
a tree is growing, reaching out
to anyone who needs support.
He is its fresh canopy,
home to a million residents
and shade to passers-by.
He is a landmark,
the courageous navigate by his reliability,
follow his pointing branches in all directions.
In death,
he is the tree of life.


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Like... what's not to like?

The thing is,
like,
he was saying how he,
like,
really fancied her and it was sort of,
like,
creepy and everything: know what I mean? And she's,
like,
all confused because she didn't,
like,
like him and everything. So she's,
like,
trying to be cool and he's,
like,
kind of,
like,
embarrassed because it's all come out a bit,
like,
embarrassing: know what I mean? And I was,
like,
don't look at me. You can't help who you like,
like,
can you? And I kind of,
like,
like them both. In the same way,
like.

Like,
what's not to like?


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

The Corners of the Sphere

In corners of the sphere,
children eat raw grass for nourishment
and wear a beard of flies.

In corners of the sphere,
children stare into an opulent middle distance:
an alien nation bereft of empowerment.

In corners of the sphere,
children are breached in their own beds,
cursed forever by the smell of pillows.

In corners of the sphere,
children are driven to destroy other children:
at gunpoint, behind gunpoint.

In corners of the sphere,
children are driven to destroy other children:
bullying and sullying, trolling and controlling.

In corners of the sphere,
children are listening to the chants of demons,
trapped in a soundproof zorb.

Tumbling through the void of space
doesn't smooth these corners off,
doesn't relieve the scratching.

Meanwhile, in the final
undiscovered corner of the sphere,
there's a janitorial storeroom
stocked with flashlights
and music
and kindness
and peace
and safety
and respect
and food.
Generations have believed in a power from beyond the sphere,
but the real power is already ours.


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

ο ναρκισσός και ο Έχο

[or "Narcissus & Ekho"] 

In every hideous mirror,
you see the trace of a face -
undefined,
so empty the light shines through it.
Your monster is never to blame.

To blame. To blame.

In every vacuous chamber,
you hear the rant of a demagogue -
undignified,
so empty the air dilutes it.
Your monster is never mistaken.

Mistaken. Mistaken.

In every broad grin,
your frightened child peers from inside a failed man -
uncontrollable,
so petulant that all values turn to nought.
Your monster is never worth less.

Worthless. Worthless.

In every secret moment,
you ponder on that false alter ego -
unprincipled,
so twisted as charlatans ever were.
Your monster is not guilty.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. 

(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Peace Of Mind

They can read the disappointment
in the lines upon my face.
They can sense in my deportment
how I've tried to carry it with grace.

Now I'm cutting the ties that bind,
I'm leaving the past behind
I won't do it in a flourish
As it's taking a pool of courage
that I never really thought I'd ever find.

They say I'm swimming in confusion,
my aching limbs will soon be sore.
They think my quest is an illusion
and my renaissance is a flaw.

But I'm cutting the ties that bind
these tangles I must unwind,
and there's only one string to sever
before I drift away forever
to a place where I might get some peace of mind.


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Café Window People

Through the café window, you can see people coming to work or going to the supermarket. In the slowly filling car park, loving fathers delicately clip sons into pushchairs, trolleys crash across potholes and car washers hawk for business. Lines of trees are finally coming into leaf after a long winter, the shadows shorten as the high April sun glides overhead.

Café Window People

Café Window People.
To work, to market.
Slowly filling.
Loving fathers, delicate.
Pushchairs, trolleys, potholes, car washers.
Trees after long winter,
Shadows, high April sun.


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Bygone Stage of Empire

Onto this ephemeral stage,
come the players. Hiding their closed characters,
dressed down in grey,

pale as the shadow of the magnolia,
unscented and ill-defined.
Dim as the fog of nostalgia,

they preen with restless energy,
dowdy feathers blended with distracting plumage:
dark emptiness in their soul but not their purse.

Grey arms reach into a void:
misappropriated as a space unbounded,
but the flaking bunker of charlatans.


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018
[see Author's note for more information] 

Honest Directions

Mama never went to college
but she had wit and wisdom undefined,
a trolley of everyday knowledge
that she would shyly disappear behind.

Mama was walking through the city
when a group of students stopped to ask directions:
"How can we get to the University?"
they politely asked at the intersection.

Mama answered - sharp, succinct, precise -
and caught these intellectuals off-guard.
They grinned respect for her mature advice:
"You must study hard, folks, study hard!"


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Kickabout

There is no exclusion.
Everyone is welcome, playtime is anytime.
Lost in moments of imagination, their common instinct is their dynamic rulebook.
Excitement without words,
where a shriek of giddiness says everything.

There is no boundary.
Everyone is welcome, playtime is anytime.
As the school fence is the only proxy touchline,
the impromptu pitch becomes a seven-sided polygon.
The wall between ash tree and the drainpipe from the girls toilets is the goal,
the crossbar is the extent of an arm:
taller players concede more.

There is no referee.
Everyone is welcome, playtime is anytime.
Who needs arbitration
when you have a dynamic rulebook?
"OK, from now on you're allowed."
Enthusiasm is not constrained,
imperfection is tolerated,
contrition is acknowledged.
What's fair is obvious.

There is no defeat.
Everyone is welcome, playtime is anytime.
The object is just to try:
everybody tries and nobody objects.
Achievement is indefinable.
The scoreline melts into units of smiles:
each result is immediately forgotten.

There is no contesting the teacher's bell.
After the handshakes,
the customary tucking-in of shirt tails.
Same again, next time?

(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Halfway here, halfway there

From the first to the thirtieth,
it is a deep demand.
Now, halfway there,
I am trying to understand
why my poetry is weakening,
as tired as my hand.

Still, being halfway, here,
is a proud enough place to stand:
this adventure is exciting
and the mission grand.
The long ascent has been a challenge
but from this peak I see the land
and from the first to the thirtieth
the path is mine; as planned.


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

To dream

To dream a teacup:
there'll be a storming moral dilemma that doesn't merit the anxiety it causes.
(Or it could just mean you will wake for breakfast with an epic thirst)

To dream a seagull:
someone will intimidate you in your solitude and demand your payoff with menaces.
(Or it could just mean you are going on a coastal holiday)

To dream a dentist:
someone will cure you of an irritation as a consequence of extracting something, which though mundane, you have cherished for your entire life.
(Or it could mean that you have an appointment tomorrow)


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Élastique

If what goes up must come down,
then one's aspirations must be elastic:
hence
from the depths of our frustration
must spring our highest achievement.


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

The Patience Garden

In the grey, miserable drizzle,
the shadows fall unsympathetically
like lost men in a queue of thieves.
There is a portent,
a promise of emptiness.
The fence fights to hold back the dim evening,
but light breaks through knotholes in the damp laps.
April is having a long lie-in.

Crystal droplets fall,
camellia still unbloomed,
dusk offers nothing.


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Our yesterdays define our tomorrows

Tomorrow is Dryburn:
a dawn of a beautiful day,
a dawn of another beautiful day.

Tomorrow is Lyon:
midnight cocktails, premier suite;
later, sunken whirlpool bath, pain au chocolat.

Tomorrow is Mauritius:
infinity pool, cornflour beach,
sugar cane and street market.

Tomorrow is Catalunya:
human towers, Roman towers,
paella and local rioja.

Tomorrow is Malta:
the rooftop pool, a crystal lagoon,
penning a novella on the dark balcony.

Tomorrow is Antibes:
beach picnic and luxury ice cream,
the sea warm late into the evening.

Tomorrow is Rome:
tiramisu in the rain, cats,
timelessness on a priceless timepiece.

Tomorrow is a state of mind:
a souvenir from country of origin
and a suitcase full of possibilities.


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Multitasking

I'm watching the football on tv, WHILST I'm
cutting a slice of pork pie
AND I'm wondering if it's nicer with pickle as I
nibble a bit of the crust AND
thinking
maybe "I'll open a beer, too?" AND I'm
umming AND ahhing AND
lamenting
the fact that
I never bought any more pickle AND I'm
thinking of
asking my wife to go to the
shop. Still, she
Keeps saying I can't multitask.

Clouds in your coffee

The tower was seventy-eight storeys, each with a
glass ceiling.
Rebecca's office was on the seventy-nineth.
Ashraf was a barista in the concession on the atrium
mezzanine.

"Skinny latte, Rican roast, vanilla shot?"
"Thank you, Ashraf "

Toby was a lazy climber. Daddy bought colleagues like rungs.
At his desk, the physio massaged Toby's craning neck.

"Cappuccino, cinnamon dust?"
"Hurry up, man!"

A plot was stirring.
A sense of entitlement sweetened by complacency,
discretion puffed in an air-head of milk-foam.

The lift stopped on thirty-nine.
An orange crate with Toby's name, in gold:
security to see him down and out.

On exit, the mezzanine was silent;
then someone smashed a glass,
fragments rained like cinnamon dust.

It's often the smallest things.

"Skinny latte, Rican roast, vanilla shot?"
"Thank you, husband."


With thanks to Carly Simon. 

(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Mystery of Miss Terry

There's something undead in Miss Terry,
it's clear as unclear are her eyes.
There's a demon within her,
a terrible sinner
intent on such shock and surprise.
Yes, there's something possessing Miss Terry.

We have to exorcise Miss Terry.
She cannot be wandering untracked,
the street is no place
for a zombie to pace
in its heinous carnivorous act.
How can we recover Miss Terry?

Only one thing can rescue Miss Terry,
And we found the right magical cure:
we needed no Pope,
just laid-off the dope
and late-night TV servings of gore!
In future, we'll know the mystery -
there was nothing possessing Miss Terry.

(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Writer To Writer

You wield that pen to liberate your mind,
I'm caught in fear and sometimes left behind.

       You? A maestro with this score of words? 

       I find your lack of confidence absurd. 

You are the mirror image of myself,
an outlet to promote our common health.

       Indeed, and I am proud to be your friend, 

       Without you what is there to comprehend?

Why do I think of Durden, come
to carry pain this burdensome?

        No, think instead of Ipkiss, and recall

        That romance isn't hopeless at all.

     
You are the brave, inventive pioneer.
I'm sometimes left behind or caught in fear.

        I'm only you, and ours is void critique.

        Now, let's find our voice of confidence, and speak.

Wrapped in Vowels

If I was ever to
compare
you
to
this summer's day, it would be
because

I'd want to
play indefinitely with you.
Relaxing. We'd create
deep poetry together, deep into
the
warm night; wrapping ourselves within the
splendour of vowels, nibbling our mini
picnic of punctuation, happily serving a
life
sentence.
Lost in our lexicon, this labyrinth of love,

until we
finally found the

end. THE
END. (Okay, not the

actual end, Language:
ours will last forever, my love.)

(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

You do your best lying whilst standing up

Hey, Politician!
You do your best lying whilst standing up.
You are the zero of primes.
You are the gum in the argument, the cuss in the discussion.
You have turned my vote into a veto.


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

De la vue ci-dessus

The dandelions are everywhere
Les enfants sont partout
The clover bounces in the sun
Et sous leurs pieds mous

The tree stands like their father
Un père avec bras verts
Trying to protect them
Ses protégés couvert

The day rolls out above them
Le soleil réchauffe l'air
Yet every dusk reminds him of
Les temps laissé derrière

And when the summer withers
Si ses souvenirs sont perdu
The daisies will still be everywhere
Endormis et ingénus


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

Anxiety

Its soundtrack is the whirring tinnitus,
relentless,
with an intermittent bassline of rumbles,
like a heavy-loaded washing machine on fast spin
or a three-litre BMW high-revving in a neighbouring driveway;
vibrations. Cacophony.

It dwells in the middle distance:
never so far and fuzzy as to be dismissible,
sometimes leaping towards you with a torn tattooed grimace;
taunting. Stalking.

It pulls your cheekbones up into your eyes,
a hazy film of tears blurs colours as in an artist's glass,
deep breaths stab you like a fell-runner hitting the wall.
Perspiration tickles.
Rain pours from the overloaded grey bucket of the sky,
into the grey bucket of the dirty gutter;
saturation. Headache.

It immobilises,
but you are conflicted anyway
between the momentary safety of a known pain
and the flight instinct;
stranded. Vulnerable.

Yet, it is manageable.
Closed eyes swab, reboot the view,
fire licks in the exhaust of pursed lips,
a fresh shower swills the stickiness and clouds,
talking neutralises an indigestion of the mind;
relieved. Onwards!


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

InterMetro Saint-Dominique

                     < Grand-Ouest >
                            Auguste
                             Belem
                          Alfandega
                              Sima
                      Magdalenaville
                             Doura
                            Gauntry
                            /            \
Villeneuve-de-Vue      Cascadette
                            Valence
                            /            \
Avenue des Pins           USD  >  Belleville  >  Vallée des Rochers / Boulder Valley
              Arcadia                                ¦                                    Sandoux
               /           \              [Rives-Historiques]              Clermont-sur-mer
Parc Arcadia     \              [Place Arnaud]                     Jardins du Soleil
Forêts Basses   Gare Centrale     /                                            Lyon
                                     \                  /                                        Golden Bay
                Pont de Liberté Belvédère                                   Porto Plato
                                 |~~~|                                                  < Grand-Ouest >
                Pont de Liberté Iremia
                /                          |
Aéroport                           |
(1 > 2 > Terminus)           |
                                     Honoré
                Annieque-Château de Malais
                  /               Archipolis
Harbourside             /             \
Port Marie      Delacourt    Belle Vue
                         Abrie            Port Bienvenue


(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018 

Touch of breakfast

      Light switch.
Tumbler.
      Fridge.
             Jus d'orange.
      Oven knob.
      Oven handle.
             Pain au chocolat.
Cereal bowl.
      Cupboard.
             Granola.
      Fridge.
             Skimmed milk.
             Semi-skimmed milk.
      Drawer.
Spoon.
      Cupboard.
Plate.
      Oven handle.
             Pain au chocolat.
      Oven knob.
Plate.
      Decaf pod.
      Pod machine.
Coffee bowl.
      Steam.
             Semi-skimmed milk.
      Drawer.
Spoon.
             Demerara.
      Fridge.
             Semi-skimmed milk.
Coffee bowl.
      Lips.
             Pain au chocolat.
Plate.
             Crumbs.
Coffee bowl.
      Fridge.
             Yoghurt.
      Drawer.
Teaspoon.
      Lid.
Teaspoon.
Coffee bowl.
      Spectacles.
      Handkerchief.
      Watch.
      Stool.
      Dishwasher.
Plate.
Spoon.
Spoon.
Cereal bowl.
Teaspoon.
Tumbler.
       Dishwasher handle.
       Dishwasher tablet.
       Dishwasher buttons.
       Stool.
               Skimmed milk.
       Fridge.
               Granola.
       Cupboard.
       Fridge.
               Jus d'orange.
       Recycling bin.
       Yoghurt pot.
       Mixer tap.
       Hand-wash.
       Stool.
       Light switch.
       Door handle.

(c) Andrew Halsall Smith, 2018

A Multiplicity Of Voices

In this crowded room, I sometimes struggle to hear or be heard.
Like gutters into a conduit, the flood of conversation
is constant, discharging pearls amongst debris,
each demanding attention.
Overwhelmed, I shift between them,
losing all sense of continuity nor hope of participation.
I do my best. Though.
My occasional interjection
is always passive and betrays my breadth of subject range;
less dialogue than confirmation.

You are here, it seems, but do not hear.
Your place, the space you occupy is your platform not your scaffold.
Your lips are flickering, shaping words that remain soundless,
untold.
You carry a poise of poignancy, frustration and perseverance.
Yet, on your tongue is a seam of gold
yet undiscovered, les mots justes.
Yours could be the splicing that pulls these loose lines in to hold.

He is a pleasant mind to listen to in private company,
but he doesn’t say a lot when in a crowd.
In such social situations, his discomfort is inescapable,
though his drops freshen more than some who pour aloud.
Less disconnected than misconnected –
not aloof but off-centre: more unsure than cowed.

You should hear this: accept your invitation.
You’re looking for an excuse to stand and watch through glass,
your brief entry thanks to others opening windows. Assert
yourself, infer permission not to let the moment pass.

I am justly here. My voice adds to this room, my view attends.
We shall all hear. As I shall speak unto these gathered friends.

(c) Andrew Halsall Smith 2018

Alternative Love Poem

I enrolled you on a mission
To repair my broken heart,
But I showed you scant contrition
When your own one fell apart.

I watched you make arrangements
At the cinema and gym,
Cancelling engagements
You had meant to share with him.

I implied the depth I cared for you
In a convoluted way.
A truth confused, impaired for you:
Just enough to make you stay.

Of course, we shared some pleasure
In these intervening times.
Still, what dark in equal measure
Has been worth my secret crimes?

I took your love for granted
And, to my eternal shame,
Left an honest man supplanted
By my reckless, hollow game.

In those heady days together
We were the envy of the school,
And for then – if not forever –
You were quite my April Fool.

(c) Andrew Halsall Smith 2018