cahen thrips

cahen thrips Poems

What does she see in him?
He reminds her of old books; that's what attracted her,
not his looks but
fragrance of his parchment skin,

Every autumn you took a photograph
of the last leaf remaining
on the Japanese cherry outside our window.

you are chalk & I am cheese;
somehow you became my smorgasbord
while I write poetry on your blackboard

today I framed two of your pictures
startled owl and lugubrious hare
displayed them on shelves in the living room
where previously walls were bare

My dog can smell cancers, detect
drugs in lead-lined trunks,
is pretty good at finding truffles;
he'll track a murderer over wet moorland,

You held on when summer gales
peaked; firm berries clustering
in falls; through leaves I watched you
bend and spring to every bluster,

I talked to a man who stood on a ridge
looking across a valley towards
the rise of Goatfell.

i should like you to read aloud my poetry
though poems can't vouch for my love
because they are mere words

We cancelled the window cleaner,
allowed paint to peel from our doors;
flower beds untidy and overgrown -
weed and thistle thrust through gravel,

Being preoccupied with Master Death
I think about the rough trade he plies -
two years ago a dear friend crossed the bar;
one year later another widow cries.

what sort of person
presses flowers ‘tween pages
of Jack K's haikus?

to have for supper a tin
of pea soup stirred through
with a pack of mixed grains

at dawn a louring sky raised a bruising fist -
I was afraid because the day offered me nothing -
everything felt wrong -

The weather forecast promised sun
but it rained on Birdsong instead;
so I stayed here and felt guilty.

It's not the loss of love
for I have all the love I need;
when you were here you gave me enough
to feed me through your absence;

when we were smokers
before going out
we'd pat our pockets
to feel that comfort

My work is a precursor to Sally Sluiskil's -
you haven't heard of her yet but she's famous
as poet artist modern day avant garde shifter
moving art into unexpected shapes of being.

With a folding chair and an egg sandwich
I like to sit beside recumbent you and talk
about life; sometimes I read you a poem
though not aloud because I'm too often shy.

Such sublimity
in Lotte Lenya's lyrics:
"Now! " "That'll learn ya."

And then came the news -
it should have been a slap in the face
but in fact we knew
to expect it from the start:

cahen thrips Biography

Grey hair; grey beard; ageing not too well; eyes dimming; knees creaking; recently bereaved after almost half-a-century together; finding solace in poetry, my own poor efforts and the good stuff written by others. never published except a few posted on-line on the wrong website for me.)

The Best Poem Of cahen thrips

For The Love Of An Old Book

What does she see in him?
He reminds her of old books; that's what attracted her,
not his looks but
fragrance of his parchment skin,
his foxed and deckled edges,
the way he creases when he grins.

She doesn't worry that his dust jacket
is torn, or simply worn;
well-phrased and not too crazed about grammar,
means what he says and says what he means
so when she reads his subtle deciphered verse
she must put him down for a while
to think about his choice of words.

That when she picks him up again
he falls open at precisely the perfect place
without a frown or recrimination
about his corners being turned down.

In practice, she remembers his every word
because of the way he says them
rather than for what she's heard.

Perhaps most of all, though, she loves him
because when she makes her excuses
and suggests an early night to go to bed -
to read, she muses -
he knows… he respects instead
the essence of a good old book
and what the reader expects.

Funny to think she met him
second-hand, donated by another woman
who didn't want him any longer.

October 2017

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