Two Poems on Rivers

Writing poems can be like catching buses; you wait ages for the right one—and then two come along at once.

This week, I’m sharing with you two very different poems, in terms of style, structure, and so forth. That said, both are new, and both happen to take place at the banks of the river. Ironically, both were written indoors during writing workshops on separate days. Perhaps that speaks to how necessary and powerful the natural world is on our psyche, our sense of the world and our sense of self.

It’s also fitting as I’ve been making lots of time to hike along the rivers surrounding my new Sheffield home. Both of these pieces were written shortly before I moved, and yet somehow they’ve become very fitting. Sheffield is the confluence point of five different rivers, all of which I’m enjoying adventuring up and seeing what autumn foraging I can do there before the winter sets in. I could write some grand essay about river symbolism and mythology through time if I really desired… but I don’t. The peace I can find when I’m alone by a river—which I’m sure many of you can find too—speaks for itself.

If there is some broader lesson in my experience writing and sharing these poems, it’s right there. Sometimes our intuitive knowing is all we need to appreciate value and find clarity.

Without further ado, here is the first poem, Kingfisher, Watching:

Peering into the cavern, he observes those wisps
Of aquatic gold, like solar flares
That wash the Earth - its pebble - in their flow.
The essence of life: it's there for the taking.
And so our feathered friend sets sail.

We are there, too - as stagnant spirits
Gawking at these plumes of blue.
We make for a strange cheerleader troop,
Frozen in time by the starting line.

No drama, no palava, nothing the outside
World expects to see. We're still staring,
Still peering into that cavern, but -
The kingfisher's been and gone.

And the second, A Magical Place:

I sat down by the riverbank,
And, while there, this is what I heard:
The water—like a sleeping troll,
It gargled like a strangled bird,
While stampedes of natty tourists
Never ceasing, like a great herd
Of baby dragons, splattering
With childish excitement each word,
Punctuated by camera clicks
Like warlocks casting the absurd,
While, in the distance, ring the horns
Of warring car park dwarves that erred
Too close to the other's rover.
These myriad of sounds are blurred
Into one another—and I,
My eardrums now turned into curd,
Say "Sod this!" and head to the pub.

Thank you for making the time to read these pieces. I’d love to hear what this sparked in you, and any thoughts on rivers that these poems brought up for you:

And as a reminder, my new book, Rewritten Rules, is now available in hardback using the button below:

I look forward to bringing you more soon.

With gratitude,

Tom