Colin Breck Boardman
Biography of Colin Breck Boardman
I started writing sonnets in 2009 having been inspired by the poems of Shakespeare, Sir Thomas Wyatt and Spencer. My excursions into blank verse and alternative structures are inspired by the work of Milton, Auden, Hughes, Hardy and Frost. My aim is merely to capture the essence of an idea or emotion and to weave it with other analogous subjects within an enduring metaphorical framework. I often combine subjects with Falconry.
Colin Breck Boardman Poems
The Painter Searching With His Eyes
The painter searching with his eyes, Finds fickle beauty to espy; The poet weaving metaphors, Turns upon an obscure clause;
I'M Sorry If I Did Bore You So
I'm sorry if I did bore you so Or bore you even now, Perhaps you didn't really know Me as you may have thought though,
What Evidence There Lived A Muse Of Fire...
What evidence there lived a muse of fire? None, save these lines of burning tears Which once they to the open air transpire Will leave no sign that she on Earth was here.
O, How I Smile!
O, how I smile! I smile at the morning sun, I smile when the day is done; I smile at a cup of tea,
I Shall No Longer Whine Up To The Moon
I shall no longer whine up to the Moon, No longer pine in hope as sweethearts do, No longer play the lover's lonely tune Or serenade her horning head anew.
I Am No One
'I am no one', He said, 'I am as the midnight sun, I am nobody,
I'M Glad That I Still Have A Heart
I'm glad that I still have a heart And feel the way I do, I'm glad that all these feelings art Experienced as true,
What Care I For Beauty's Shallow Face
What care I for Beauty's shallow face When all about is colour'd grey and dun? Why should I from these darken'd shadows race To bathe upon brief moments in the sun?
Some Things Are Oft Forgotten In Ones Li...
Most thngs are oft forgotten in one's life, No longer meant to be though hard to take, Some things becoming rotten cause one strife, And thus in our learned wisdom we forsake.
Some People Are Contented With Their Fai...
Some people are contented with their faith And see the world through a different lens And in their miracles and their magic bathe, As Father Christmas the young children ken.
Underneath The Willow Tree
Underneath a willow tree, Beside this opening lock, Weeping away the Autumn sunshine, As the narrowboats rise and fall,
The Night Stalker
The night stalker, Whose open silver'd face And bright eye Under the aegis
Slipping Through My Fingers
Slipping through my fingers, And accelerating away Towards destruction, With a ringing heartbeat,
Standing High On Beachy Head
Standing high on Beachy head Between the sea and sky, Stood I like the walking dead Not really understanding why.
To Our Noble Dead
To our noble dead,
In their multitudes,
Who from Fate's falling dice
Lived a mere interlude,
Within this span of toil;
Some never seeing
The light of day,
Ever at rest,
A plethora of potential,