Kathy Greethurst
Kathy Greethurst Poems
I dawdled on the path beside a farmer's fallow field, and
sat down in the shade of a giant chestnut tree,
to watch a red kite in full flight soaring overhead, and cry.
Weatherqueen's Angel sat beside me on the scorched earth,
...
And there you sat in the sitting room,
like green bottles - with your Bibles open -
praying and waiting.
...
I go to the weir when the sluices are open
to listen to the white water roar.
In its dark,
...
After Claude Francis Barry
The glitter ball spins
silver stars around the dream theatre.
...
I walked within the walls of the clink-clink can
and sat down on an upturned crate.
I looked out of the paneless window at the turquoise sky
nailed up over Himalayan peaks.
...
After Fyrdor Shurpin
That's him, there,
in the painting on the wall.
...
After Anna-May Laugher
A streak of silver peeps out
from the bowl of the moon,
...
Great British Holiday
We step out of our bronze caravan - only one dog allowed -
onto a concrete weed garden - as lightning
...
He's a darling of darksome darkness,
kingdom of blacknight's baron, bristly brawn mole
basking in the dawn-dew on the rampart around his home.
...
She brings tea into the morning room,
her fingers folded
over the handles of the tray.
...
The sun scorches pink arms.
Blackened faces
wave handkerchiefs
and stomp in clogs.
...
For St Teresa of Calcutta
In my mind, darkness overpowers light,
Bringing unwanted noise and disturbance,
...
I defrosted the fridge this morning and it reminded me of you, an ice queen frozen in the snow. I am keeping your secret to myself. After rifling through carrier bags of mouldy food and tipping cans of Coke down the sink, I found an ancient colleague buried in the cold. This is the truth. But I'm not angry because no one knows he's there and his teeth have already fallen out.
...
Kathy Greethurst Biography
I live in South Oxfordshire with my youngest son. I wrote my first poem when I was 14 years old and then did not write again until I was 46. My poems are mainly autobiographical (with apologies to those who appear in them) , observations on the quirkiness and craziness of life, or ekphrastic (in response to visual art) . I hope that you enjoy reading them.)
The Best Poem Of Kathy Greethurst
Albion Tribute To Allen Ginsberg's Sunflower Sutra
I dawdled on the path beside a farmer's fallow field, and
sat down in the shade of a giant chestnut tree,
to watch a red kite in full flight soaring overhead, and cry.
Weatherqueen's Angel sat beside me on the scorched earth,
My best friend and I. We thought the same thoughts
of the divine, present with us, wide-eyed and potent.
A huge, steaming dung pile in the middle of the field,
sun blazing, no ghosts, no horses here, no other walkers on the path,
just ourselves, bleary-eyed and wistful like ancient travellers.
Look at the sunflower, I said. There was the shadow of a crown in silhouette against the dazzling sun. Enchanted, I rushed up. It was my first sunflower - memories of Van Gogh, Blake and Ginsberg - visions of my old life and the hell of London, squatters in cardboard boxes, broken bottles, used needles, gangsters brandishing guns and knives, screaming sirens answering emergency calls, prostitutes propositioning drunks, boarding houses stacked with bunks, chips in newspaper, broken bikes, rusty trikes, neon lights, barbed wire fences, youths smoking spliffs, and more rotters and plotters than rats, ever-present - and the golden sunflower poised in the sunlight and oblivious to the smog of Didcot's cooling towers. No longer the Cathedral of the Vale - now unholy belching and grim, polluting the pure blue sky. On the tall chimney, the Greenpeace gang has left their graffiti for all to see, ‘Blair's Legacy.'
Oh! perfect sunflower. Oh! Perfect inflorescent and present sunflower - following the direction of the sun, you grow stiff and erect - and ready to ejaculate your seeds to the four winds and create a new generation - seeds as hamster pellets with the power to procreate for a thousand years.
Oh! perfect sunflower! When did you decide you were a power station? You were never a power station. You forgot who you are. You are a beautiful sunflower - spied on by our eyes under the shade of a giant chestnut tree, part of a bright blot-on-the-landscape, parched, scorched sunshine fallow field vision.
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