Archive for poetry

Dawn 1945(a persona poem)

Posted in Poetry, revolution, Uncategorized, War, writing with tags , , on January 12, 2016 by Graeme Cooper

Grey light creeps across the ashen paving

With purpose as deadly as the foreign boots

Of the infantrymen who hide still

In the suburbs of Berlin.


The new sun interrogates us who are left,

The morning breeze lifts fallen banners,

Insinuating shame underneath.  As if,

They have the right to question!


The Fuhrer will pound his fist and defy

The very air to bring its scorn near

Our glorious purpose.


But this morning,

He is dead.  All is dead.


The proud promised future is litter

and ash and I

Stand, as if naked,

In this cold dawn, listening

for the whisper of tanks.

Left Brain Right Brain

Posted in Art, maths, philosophy, Poetry, sales, science, writing with tags , , , , on September 11, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

“Can there be poetry in numbers?”

I mused to a mathematician,

“Is there meaning in arbitrary symbols,

Devoid of emotional significance, resolving

Themselves into seeming patterns?”


“The poetry is in the seeming”,

She replied (in an unconsciously grotesque

paraphrasing of Owen),

“Since it is not the numbers

Which organise,

But the mind.”


I dwelt upon this

For sometime, unsettled,

Unhappy that poetry should be reduced,

To intellect and cleverness


Then I observed

Her smile as she solved

The equation and slowly shifted

Her eyes to the window.


I saw that numbers had made

Her world more beautiful, had brought happiness,

Had not explain, but affirmed.


Now I see poets designing diggers,

Mending roads, performing surgery,

Sweeping floors.  Each increasing

The beauty of their universe,

And , in turn, mine.


The only place I can find

No poetry

Is in selling,

For, there, is only numbers

And cleverness

Scribbled in a Thunder Storm

Posted in Poetry, revolution, War, work in progress with tags , , , , , on July 23, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

The violence of lightning,

Smashes the stranglehold,

Of oppressive air,

Returning water, exiled

As vapour from excessive Sun,

To turn grateful earth green.


Now nurtured by more,

Democratic Helios, his

Power tempered by mighty Thor,

Fields flourish and the revolution brings,

Prosperity from violence,

Tranquillity from war in the sky.

Death on a Summer Evening

Posted in death, Poetry, work in progress with tags , , , on July 2, 2013 by Graeme Cooper

The evening breeze carries Autumn’s shadow,

Her substantial form, I shall never breath,

For a darker night, for me, must follow,

Than this which Summer’s last mist enwreaths.



The Curse of Optimism (or Why Do We Try?)

Posted in Poetry, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , on August 31, 2012 by Graeme Cooper

Why are we bedazzled by our own destructive rites?

Drawn to them as moths to suburban lights?

Why do we toy with mortality’s blind hand,

As a curious child pokes at the crab in the sand?

Why are we cursed by ambition’s hollow rush,

As a snail dreams of flying until lifted by a thrush?

Because we are human and because we are frail,

And because, for reasons unfathomable,

We know that, though we might fail,

We might achieve things unimaginable.

Thursday Revisited

Posted in Poetry, writing with tags , , on August 17, 2012 by Graeme Cooper

Big black dog of a day,

As Thursday crumbles in my hands,

And plans within,

Ooze through sinking fingers like blood,

And soak into dusty ground,

There to grow,

Into wild, savage fantasies,

Which seep into dreams,

And trouble the slammed shut door,

Of my security.

But it will pass,

Sky will clear,

Or, at least, shelter come,

Eyes and mind slowly refocus,

Peace uncertainly return.

Then when, resignedly, silence settles,

Still stubborn lingering whispers persist,

Becoming background sound,

Dripping softly behind the walls or words,

And the simple,

Everyday things,

Soak them up.

On the Line

Posted in olymics, Poetry, writing with tags , , , on August 8, 2012 by Graeme Cooper

So I stand here,

Facing the fear,

Staring down the here and now,

Take a bow.


Time to run,

Time once again to succumb,

To come undone,

To crash like Icarus into the sun,

To be the one that might have been,

To slip away unseen,

Golden possibilities fading like a dream.


Not this time.


Time to be me,

To be free,

To be all that I want to be,

To throw the fears from which I flee,

Into the sea,

Write the poetry of victory.


So I stand here,

Facing the fear,

Staring down the here,

And now,

Take a bow.

Get set go.



Posted in philosophy, Poetry, writing with tags , , , , on July 24, 2012 by Graeme Cooper

Watching the end of time,

From above,

Mountains crumble.

I turn away,

And smile,

At the little drawing,

On the fridge.

True immortality,

Focuses attention on,

The minute daily things,

That make eternity,

A playground.

Che Daydream

Posted in Poetry, writing with tags , , , , on July 21, 2012 by Graeme Cooper

Cultivate  considered revolution,

Compassionate and calm.

Kill when it is necessary,

But show respect for the dead.

Don’t hate the enemy,

Love the cause like a daughter.

Not hateful, angry destruction this,

But loving surgery for a sick society.

Give thanks for the noble,

And the good.

Turn it into a future,

With fewer stragglers.


Posted in Poetry, therapy, writing with tags , , , , on July 12, 2012 by Graeme Cooper

It seems so long since,

The magic mirror morphed me into,

Grandfather and schoolboy.

Ploughing the ground with horses,

And clutching a satchel for school,

Each of us glad,

We were not the other.



Though they sent me solice,

They suggested sadness also,

And I mourned the loss of both,

Fearing disappointment’s sting.



Though I now greet both,

With a smile,

I no longer need,

To be either.

I am the wise person now,

Yes I know that was the point.



I no longer define myself,

Through use of dark metaphor,

But play with my own monsters,

In the bright daylight still.

Josephine Corcoran

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