Conviction

[Leslie]

Oh Dear, nostalgia, elegiac! Guilty m'lud.
Sorry, here's another one out of the archives. After the recent couple I just want to post this one; I'll stop it now, promise.

I AM CONVINCED

I am convinced
for six and forty reasons,
each burned on my country heart
by suns of all the summers since my birth,

that golden boys
of this provisioned age
are plastic wrapped and flavour sealed
against the natural tastes of worth.

I am convinced
by infant elevated hills
Himalayed around the fringes
of a small boy's world.
God’s hands cupped about Creation,
Adam waking to the naming.

By the black and white testimony
in the magpie-stolen
secrets of a young boy’s yearning,
flown from the valley
to the high woods
and the dark nest’s hiding.

By the lifted face of a lad
lapwinging from home,
larksinging the hillcrests,
laughing spindrift thrown
to the sea-toned wind,
descants the broken voice forgets.

I am convinced
by fortresses of trees,
defended to repeated deaths
by holidaying knights
saving the world from infidels,
‘til supper calls them home to rest.

By Somerset Sierras,
Rustic Rockies and
the cap-gunned cowboys, keen
in skills divined in darkness
from the bright stars
of the Saturday screen.

Convinced indelibly
by years of blackberries,
fruit, thorn and summer ripening
while the stained hand
reached higher
with every new sun’s rising.

I am convinced
by catechisms sung
in choirs of brambled sanctuaries,
gospels in gorse,
apocalyptic unfolding
of a fern, benedictions of bees.

I was the faithful
of the muezzin curlew.
summoned by his allulations
from my valley,
sandaled pilgrim
to the moors of celebration.

I was liege-lord
of a thousand trees,
Prince of the Pathways Unrevealed,
priest of high mysteries,
conquistador of
an empire of unnumbered fields.
- // -
Ulysses comes,
unrecognised, unkissed,
blind dogs of love are long gone down,
old warriors tend their lawns
and no prince strings
the bow of dreams to claim the crown.

I am a memory
minstrelled in empty halls,
whistled in cobwebbed woods, pealed
in the bluebelled
towers of yesterday
stirring the rags of banners and dusty shields.

I come to haunt
the boy green courts,
the columned palaces and ways
that ivied time
has choked with growing
in the going of my days.

[barrie]

If you've more like this in your archive, post 'em. Captivating from start to finish, with more than one line making the old neck hairs stand on end.

Verse two was a good contrast with what was to follow.

'in magpie-stolen
secrets of a young boy's yearning' - perfect image and alliteration.

The next verse continues the avian image and ends in my favourite line -

'descants the broken voice forgets.' - I think we can all remember the time our voice broke, but not what it sounded like before the event.

'while the stained hand
reached higher
with every new sun's rising.' - A belter!

The classical image of Ullysses' bow works well. The suitors gone, no-one to fight, no need for the trick shot. (Although Ullyses was quite old when he did this.)

A well written and well enjoyed poem.

Thanks

[twoleftfeet]

Hi Leslie,

Please stop at once as you are giving me an inferiority complex.

Beautiful.

When did you write it?
I ask because 'golden boy' can be used in a derogatory sense -
which is how I took it initially - but this may be localised or a
recent development.

I agree with Barrie about the Ulysses stanza - it's perfect - although,
not knowing where the stress goes, I would have gone for
Odysseus!

Thanks also
Geoff

[Ray Trivedi]

Oh Dear, nostalgia, elegiac! Guilty m'lud.
Sorry, here's another one out of the archives. After the recent couple I just want to post this one; I'll stop it now, promise.

I AM CONVINCED

I am convinced
for six and forty reasons,
each burned on my country heart
by suns of all the summers since my birth,


This is superb, it makes me think 'cheated of feature by desembling nature, etc' in Richard III. I really don't know why.


that golden boys
of this provisioned age
are plastic wrapped and flavour sealed
against the natural tastes of worth.


Not quite sure of the import in these lines. What do you mean by provisioned age, etc?


I am convinced
by infant elevated hills
Himalayed around the fringes
of a small boy's world.
God’s hands cupped about Creation,
Adam waking to the naming.


Himalayaed?
"God's hands cupped about Creation" is difficult to conjure up, it is a bit like asking the reader to picture a chiliagon.


By the black and white testimony
in the magpie-stolen secrets
of a young boy’s yearning,
flown from the valley
to the high woods
and the dark nest’s hiding.


The line break with "of a young boy's yearning" seems to read better.


By the lifted face of a lad
lapwinging from home,
larksinging the hillcrests,
laughing spindrift thrown
to the sea-toned wind,
descants the broken voice forgets.


"descant" is predictably poetic sense of a 'song', it's not a cliche but it's what might be expected of poet to use when trying to be poetic. The use of 'song' might broaden the readership. Having said that, it sort of works here, gives a "ye olde" feel.


I am convinced
by fortresses of trees,
defended to repeated deaths
by holidaying knights
saving the world from infidels,
‘til supper calls them home to rest.

By Somerset Sierras,
Rustic Rockies and
the cap-gunned cowboys, keen
in skills divined in darkness
from the bright stars
of the Saturday screen.

Convinced indelibly
by years of blackberries,
fruit, thorn and summer ripening
while the stained hand
reached higher
with every new sun’s rising.

I am convinced
by catechisms sung
in choirs of brambled sanctuaries,
gospels in gorse,
apocalyptic unfolding
of a fern, benedictions of bees.


"benedictions of bees" is great alliteration.


I was the faithful
of the muezzin curlew.
summoned by his allulations
from my valley,
sandaled pilgrim
to the moors of celebration.


Erudite puns in "allulations" and "moors".


I was liege-lord
of a thousand trees,
Prince of the Pathways Unrevealed,
priest of high mysteries,
conquistador of
an empire of unnumbered fields.
- // -
Ulysses comes,
unrecognised, unkissed,
blind dogs of love are long gone down,
old warriors tend their lawns
and no prince strings
the bow of dreams to claim the crown.

I am a memory
minstrelled in empty halls,
whistled in cobwebbed woods, pealed
in the bluebelled
towers of yesterday
stirring the rags of banners and dusty shields.

I come to haunt
the boy green courts,
the columned palaces and ways
that ivied time
has choked with growing
in the going of my days.

[Bombadil]

Good sweet Christ. Leslie, post more of these. I thought I'd met your best but I was wrong.

The only niggle I have is that the continuity in the tone seems to break down a bit in the last four stanzas. Nothing else to critique.

Cheers,

Keith

[Leslie]

Thanks as usual, grateful for comments. As to when this was written – longer ago than I like to realise. The six and forty reasons burned upon my country heart were the six and forty years of my life at the time. Need to add quite a few more now.
The ‘golden boys’ was meant more to suggest those favoured by living in their golden years of childhood and youth.
‘Provisioned age’, looking at it in the light of comments I realise ‘age’ might be taken as applying to ‘the golden boys’; I meant it to be ‘the era’, an age when everything is available, an age of artificiality, plastic. There was an advertising campaign for food, describing it as ‘plastic wrapped and flavour sealed’. Youngsters seemed to me rather similar, living in a plastic existence, sealed away from nature; all very different from my childhood in the 1930’s.
Ray, the hills were Himalayed around my world because they might have been mountains to a small boy. I hope that’s not as difficult as conjuring up a – what?? Chiliagon?? Now that I do find difficult. Tell me do.
Descant, it has to be descant. That’s the soaring harmony that flies way above the conventional theme sung by the mature choristers. It’s the high flying melody given to the young boys, impossible to those whose voices have broken. And broken extends to thoughts like broken dreams and broken spirit.
The ‘moors’! Ah, you credit me with more (sorry) wit than I had – hadn’t seen the pun there at all.
Keith, did you mean the last four stanzas or the last three? The break is meant to come there, changing from recollections of the past to reality of the returning adult, regretting that youngsters do not seem to enjoy the same kind of childhood. One of those elegiac outpourings that would be difficult to repeat. Leslie

[Bombadil]

Nah, twas the fourth, the one with liege lords. I got the time break, but the tone seemed to shift before that. Maybe it's just me.

Still, no mistake, this is an excellent piece.

-Keith

[Dont]

I am a memory
minstrelled in empty halls,
whistled in cobwebbed woods, pealed
in the bluebelled
towers of yesterday
stirring the rags of banners and dusty shields.

I love this.