Christopher Laverty

Christopher Laverty Poems

Away with Loneness - he whose winter bites,
who haunts the wasted wilderness and shores,
born in thunder on the misty moors;
who, bred by wolves, with howling fills the nights.
...

The sky is charged; a veil of frozen dew
enshrouds the earth; the distant hilltops wear
the evening's pall of sullen, sable hue.
Still is the wind. With cries that fill the air,
...

Earth, water, air and fire - creation's daughters -
that ceaseless merge and melt into each other -
as all is one - and he who creatures slaughters
is well to think he kills a distant brother,
...

Disturb her not - she is not far;
she hears our voices - have no doubt.
Death does not her beauty mar -
not blow her candle wholly out.
...

Old tales of knights and honour I have turned:
sat at baronial tables, seen a hall -
through plots I've overheard - now rise, now fall -
spied cloistered sighs, felt pangs of lovers spurned;
...

Spirited upon your wings,
reveries bring boundless things;
with a pinch the sprightly fairy
blithely lures me while unwary,
...

The bee-loved foxgloves could not charm the mead -
geraniums their full-lipped petals fend
against first frosts - bright roses not ascend
the cottage arbours - if they did not feed.
...

Christopher Laverty Biography

Christopher Laverty is originally from Cornwall and has lived in London and Manchester; he now lives in Bristol. He has worked as a teacher and his hobbies include reading, music, films, walking and travelling. He has been published in Reach Poetry Magazine, Runcible Spoon, Scrittura Magazine, The Big Windows Review and The Society of Classical Poets. He has had one volume of poetry published - 'The Ballad of Lorianna, Ever Brush Away The Sleep, To Winter and Other Poems', and has also published a volume of narrative poems - 'Three Tales'. https: //christopherlavertypoems.poetry.blog/)

The Best Poem Of Christopher Laverty

To Solitude

Away with Loneness - he whose winter bites,
who haunts the wasted wilderness and shores,
born in thunder on the misty moors;
who, bred by wolves, with howling fills the nights.
But bring his smooth-browed sister Solitude,
decked with autumnal charms and plenitude,
with contemplation's brimming horn of flowers,
and baskets graced with fruit to fill the hours.
Often you'll keep the company of dawn
whose veils of innocence the woods adorn,
and sometimes there, with still and listening ear,
we might the secret songs of nature hear,
or by a fountain sit, whose trickling sound
is where forgetful music may be found.
With closed eyes we'll feel it chase away
the phantoms of the mind that haunt the day.
And while the birds' soft choir the morning greets,
we'll walk along the cool and silent streets
that slumber in the mist with shutters down,
until the traffic will the quietness drown.
Or else we'll walk the idle hours at night
beneath the naked sky - the only light
the lamps that blink beneath the smog and clouds;
and night is human - thoughts arise in crowds
in minds astir like beehives, while hearts swell
like glow-worms' tails. There eager creatures dwell
by graveyard, cricket green, and timbered inn,
whose chants arise to sooth the daily din.
We'll watch the botanical garden's calm cascades
dance by the moonlit paths and palisades;
hear murmurings of exotic plants and trees
stirred in the tingling darkness by the breeze;
smell scents of herbs - of rosemary, sage and thyme,
that make the air tell of a distant clime.
But now I hear the mournful sounding train
rousing night, and sigh of passing plane,
as Solitude - to wintry chill you grow.
I feel its sharp breath through my window blow,
and round my door; the hand of Loneness cold -
an anguish of the body - takes iron hold.
And so the spring of company I yearn,
but will to sister Solitude return.

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