Biography of Jim McDonald
Primary School teacher, lives in South London, England. Born in the North.
Influences: Han-Shan, Kerouac, Gary Snyder, Jean Giono.
Hobbies: walking, real ale, birdsong
Jim McDonald's Works:
various haiku in society journals
Jim McDonald Poems
London I walk every day under your heavy skies the grey lid that covers your people. I walk your filthy streets and step past
I met my grandfather again last night – strange, as he died in 1998. World Cup Year. I spent some time filling him in on what had gone on since.
for Jack Kerouac (1922-69) Jack the America of your dreams is gone Gone the brownstone tenements of the night
On a crisp Kent Autumn morning My father throwing sticks, tennis balls, even his car keys into a brown horsechestnut tree. Down came showers of leaves and conkers.
Spent an hour in the morning moving a wood-pile from near the house where they need to lay pipes to a copse I cleared two years ago of a mountain of twenty year hawthorn and briar.
Normandy The path of your seasons is heavy on my heart Wild winter gales The early breath of spring-time air
November, Early Morning
open sky washed clean by a night of rain sharp breath of autumn covering everything London almost pleasant in the 6 a.m. dawn light
On a warm May morning I am invigilating a pointless Government exam when a child asks eagerly, “How much time left...? ” A question better than any on his exam paper.
Gardening yesterday I lifted a large log and uncovered a teeming party of life. Woodlice scuttled away An earwig made its hurried passage to safety.
At first the patter of a couple of raindrops Increasing in frequency Tacklings and cracklings onto the glass roof above
Other Ways I Can Love You
I meant to say how fantastic you looked when you came downstairs this evening. I meant to say how much I love your knowledge of lower league football. I meant to say how much I love our evenings of quiet computers & documentaries. I meant to say how much I cherish the five minutes before the alarm clock rings at 6a.m.
Tuesday Morning Haiku
Tuesday after Bank Holiday Commuters stepping around the stain from a dropped ice
On a crisp Kent Autumn morning
My father throwing sticks, tennis balls, even his car keys
into a brown horsechestnut tree.
Down came showers of leaves and conkers.
Bending over me, he cracked the green shells
to reveal beautiful polished worlds:
small brown heavens of child treasure.
His huge hands rolling the conkers over, cleaning them,
and handing them to me.