During my adolescence, I had varying success buying Christmas presents for my family.
I went through the phase of personalising anything: faces on pillows and mugs and initials on wallets and hip flasks. Depending on the relationship I had with my parents and my two older brothers each year, I would spend and care accordingly.
Some years, I would spend above my means to make a point that I was mature and generous. Other years, presents for my brothers were merely ceremonies for my own self-giving. And what a year 2010 was for me and The Legend of Zelda on Nintendo DS.
In recent times, as we’ve all grown up, it has got increasingly difficult for my family to buy presents for each other. If my dad wants something, he’ll buy it himself. If I buy my mum an item of clothing or jewellery, it’s kept out of politeness but never worn. In 2013, I made the mistake of buying her a cookbook. After it was shelved (in a room that wasn’t the kitchen), it was next touched a decade later and taken to the charity shop when they moved house.
Even as I began to earn more money, I could never bring myself to squander more than thirty quid on my brothers (with no increase for inflation). There are only so many years in a row you can buy your brothers a Moleskine notebook and a few vinyls (the cost of both has long since surpassed thirty euro anyway.)
Something needed to change. It was certainly not going to involve my hands delving further into my pocket. So, last year, I decided to spend nothing and keep the change.
Poetry in lieu of presents, I thought. It is personal, loving, timeless, and gloriously free.
It also served as motivation to scratch my writing itch, something I only seemed able to do in times of romance or despair.
Oh how the words doth pour in the wake of first heartbreaks.
But alas how the quill doth dry in spells of absent sentiment.
Seas, Himself.
The poem I wrote for my dad is about him coming to terms with impending retirement. For someone who lived to work for so long, his transition to pastures new was one that seemed to him more fretful than triumphant.
I sought to analogise that time and those feelings with the view of the sea from Havelet Bay in St. Peter Port, Guernsey, where I grew up. From this vantage point, you can see Herm, a beautiful island a few miles away from Guernsey and less than a square mile in area. Sometimes you see the moon rise from behind the island, wrapping it in a blanket of phosphorescence.
Guernsey, occasionally referred to by its traditional latin name, Sarnia, endures the Channel’s Atlantic elements, and over the last millennium has been subject to the rule of French and British monarchs, the English Civil War, and Nazi occupation, but, despite its tumultuous history, has managed to retain its autonomy.
Seas, Himself
Looks to sea for calm, only sees himself.
Both always there, but never twice the same.
As the waves break white, his mind races wild.
Breaking, racing; rhythm eludes them both.
It is only the crests that he can see
But it is the troughs that he does ponder.
The sun sets on another sapping day,
The rough world relents for the night at least.
Coarse seas persist in perpetuity.
The sky goes dark but the mind’s waves don’t sleep.
Herm Island is adorned in lunar glow.
The waves break now with only aural proof.
It is in the sea’s eternal cadence
That he discerns what he cannot control.
Ceaselessly, the waves attrit Guernsey’s shore
But the constant stress, the island endures.
In the face of the sea that never rests,
Sarnia’s silent defiance inspires.
For when you look out seeking calm at sea,
It tends to reflect at first dauntingly.
Then when the water’s timeless power’s known,
Man can see where he has authority.
Enlightened as the lucent moon ascends
He obtains a sense of sovereignty.
He is an island entire to himself.
No real contentment is one that’s bought.
Happiness is the power to control
What the sea reflects on Saint Peter Port.
Mother and Son.
The only thing harder than saying thank you to your mum is saying sorry. The anxiety and intensity of first becoming an independent adult often clouds young people from seeing the impact that leaving home has on their parents.
As the anxiety and intensity abated, I came to realise I owe almost everything to my mum and, in the rush of it all, I had forgotten to say ‘thank you.’
I’ll say sorry next year.
Mother and Son
From the nest she let her child fly,
His wings were strong, she could be sure.
His body she had created,
His mind and vigour she had versed.
Went drinking from new reservoirs,
He quaffed on novel affection.
Drunk on ardour for his first love,
Rev’lling gaily, he missed not home.
Second placed, from first and only,
She feared his love forever halved.
But when the love-sickness ensued,
His mother solely did he seek.
A migrant bird, in foreign lands:
Nomadic journeys north and south.
Followed signs but not directions,
He came to learn: house was not home.
His wings had been designed to glide,
His mother taught him when and how,
Atop a cliff and looking down,
He asked: if he jumped, would he fly?
With a gust of wind, high he soared
Knowing, trusting, maternal love.
No more they be mother and child,
Though ever still, mother and son.
Town upon Thames.
A few years ago, my eldest brother moved to Richmond on the outskirts of London. When I visited him, I noticed that it was a wonderfully liminal space between the all-consuming intensity of central London and the peaceful leafiness of the home counties.
The boundaries of central London are expanding and have begun absorbing suburbia; however, for now, Richmond has maintained its small town community feel. Intangible though it is, the town’s harmonious liminality is what I tried to capture.
Town upon Thames
Richmond Station, this train terminates here.
Stone’s throw from London, but the air is fresh.
People are happier, they’re less submerged
Than in the deep and breathless city swamp.
Serpentine flow, the languid River Thames
Seems to give this town a sense of repose.
Its sinuous course confound one’s bearings;
It’s hard to believe you are where you are.
Greater London’s riverine paradox:
Passing water runs through an unchanged course.
Things can be constant and always changing,
As the town itself reflects on its streets.
A man sits reading in the station way
His thick wiry beard of charcoal and grey
Conceals a smile at his book’s charming style.
The town’s seen him grow old, novel in hand.
People drinking lager from plastic cups
Play the street’s score of laughter and clamour.
Young and old drink with the same intentions
Revelling in the sun, cooling their engines.
Orchids, lilies, carnations and tulips,
Prepared bouquets or just a single rose.
Husband for wife and daughter for father
The florist provides for gestures of love.
Flowers bought, a man helps an old lady
Who has dropped her paper outside the shop.
“Thank you, young man,” she says, squeezing his arm.
Its civic affection defines the town.
Regular sounds of the church and buses
Smells walking home of coffee and curry
Then reaching destination, Richmond Hill;
Looking out at the view, boundless and still.
Long Flame Kisses.
Lockdown was a strange time. Not only does it feel aeons ago, but it is hard to remember exactly how it felt to stop and be still.
Stuck in London for months during the pandemic, my brother and I developed our fraternal bond. We leaned into the community of like-minded young people in Hackney Wick, desperate not to be caged birds.
The poem for my brother is one about perception. When forced to stop and be still, we really stopped, and were still enough to appreciate each other and the moment we were in.
Long Flame Kisses
Oversized shirt, lighter in its pocket,
Worn by the man who has the goods to hand.
With a tap and a twist, the joint is rolled.
He looks up, smiling, to eager faces.
“The honours are yours,” as he passes on,
With paternal care, the lighter and blunt.
“Too kind, good sir,” his friend gladly accepts.
For a brief second, the group is silent.
The long flame kisses the joint’s twisted tip
As eyes fixate on the man who lights up.
Soon relief is succeeded by excitement,
As the man of honour smugly exhales.
Laughter breaks out, with no stimulation.
Awareness is lost, attention is found.
Bodies seem lighter as thoughts turn deeper.
Chats conclude that they soon cannot recall.
Discussions desist for a little while
Till they are struck by unbridled delight
As someone remembers the nosh next door.
Crisps, dips, choccy, and last night’s pie warmed up.
Filled to the brim does not stop them dancing.
Their bodies sway as the soul music plays.
Free at last, unshackled from self-conscious
As to eighties songs they toplessly groove.
Rhythm is felt not played, channelled not made.
Their mouths may be parched, but their moves are fresh.
No future fears or worries of the past
Exist right now in this moment of bliss.
But soon they are reclining, eyes closing,
Giggling ousted by bouts of sleepiness.
It does not matter what they have attained,
Because they’ve been themselves true and unfeigned.
When it came to presenting the poems to my family, I realised I would need to print and frame them.
A few pieces of parchment, four wooden frames and fifty quid later, it became clear that - however hard you try - no Christmas presents are ever free.
What a waste of time.
