Once on a plane…

Dublin to Manchester
Once on a plane
I found a pair of sunglasses
a polarising pair
with circular lenses
of Matrix cool
left by the last occupant
missed between flights by the
cabin clean up crew
I have those glasses still
more than twenty years later
I’m a keeper.

Teneriffe to Gatwick
Once on a plane
I had the last moments
with my first great love
then she asked me to
hang back at the checkout
because her husband
was meeting her
and thought she was
holidaying alone.

Stanstead to Dublin
Once on a plane
I contemplated
flying to meet a woman
I had known only for
one chaste night
of intimations
who then sent me a ticket
for a weekend in County Leitrim

Manchester to Heraklion
Once on a plane
fleeing the pandemic
one step ahead of lockdown
I looked down on the Alps
a wilderness of mountains
as far as the eye could see
from thirty-five thousand feet
and saw not a trace of
human life, no villages
no roads, no smoke
as if already
we never existed

A Flight to Anywhere
More than once on a plane
I wonder about the lives
of Air Hostesses
or Hosts
or Stewards
as they are now called
whether they joined to
see the world
and whether they did
whether it’s true about
the crew parties
the god-like officers
marriage material
or just better advantaged
the ordinariness of
Ryanair crew
the haughty select of Air Aegean
each one as from the pages
of a 50’s fashion magazine
do the ordinary despise the haughty
meeting en passant
in some airport corridor
or do they share a common bond
of brother and sisterhood
is it just another flight
from one take off
to another landing
once on a plane…

© Andrew Wilson, 2024

Posted for Open Link Night at dVerse the Poets Pub

Learning the Ropes of Love

How can I say I thank you
for the mixed bag of emotions
which I will call Love
for want of a better word –
which I learned at your knee
whilst having no inkling
of even being schooled…

Love is nurturing
– on a physical level
of feeding at least
and on the mental level
of stimulation
with books and ideas
and even a trip
around the world

Love is safety and
love is the absence of danger
which is not necessarily
the same thing

Love is consistency
which can go a long way
towards making up
for other deficiencies

Love is giving a sense of
who you are and
what your place is
in the wider world
– it is not sufficient
to teach you to talk to
anyone from a tramp to the Queen
if you don’t know what you want to say.


Imposter syndrome is
as transferrable as
a gene for diabetes
and like that disease
it will be a long time
before you even figure out
you have it – and what “It” is
there is no gene sequencer
for emotional baggage…

We learn to love like
layers of an onion
and so much depends
on the fertility of the soil
which is that original family
and however crooked
the plant grows –
be glad if you at least
had a family.

Love starts with a teat
your mother’s if you are lucky
or perhaps a bottle
freely given on demand

Love expands too
if you are lucky enough
to have siblings –
you add another layer
to your personal culture
when you go to school
when you expand your horizons
to town, country and
however much of the world
you are lucky enough to encounter

If you are not lucky
and your bulb grows amongst stones,
is not fed good food and
stimulation for the mind –
if you encounter trauma
by loss, violence or abuse
your multilayered onion
will reflect its origins…

Eventually you may break away
from the family home,
home town
and learn of other loves
but your affinity has
already set by
earlier lessons learned
This one is never secure
That one is self-centred
This one is restless
and That one puts up with
rather than taking care of themselves

Love is as varied as
the human beings who practise it
and the combinations in couples
as varied as the genes
they may mesh together
in the lottery of life

But lucky or unlucky
everybody needs to know
what they learned of love
and work out what works
for them and those they love…

© Andrew Wilson, 2024

Posted for Open Link Night at dVerse the Poets Pub

Grant Me a Boat

For goodness sake
grant me the bucket-list wish
of a boat
any boat will do
a picayune pram
to potter on a large pond
better still a proper rowboat
on a large lake
to drift down the wind lanes
a dry fly bobbing alluringly
on the ripple, gently retrieving
with the dream of a trout rising

A daysailer – better still
ducking the boom
on a dinghy is dodgy
at my age so day trips
on a Summer suitable sea
would fit the bill delightfully
sailing out and back
with the sea breeze
sometimes sleeping
in the cabin after stargazing
at anchor in some sheltering bay

And in the Winter
I would cherish
my little vessel
drawn up on the shore
cleaning and caulking
and laying on varnish
let me leave alliteration behind
and voyage forth
on real wavy waters –
so for goodness sake
one day
grant me a boat

© Andrew Wilson, 2024

Written for dVerse Poets Pub which is tonight has Merril Smith ably at the helm as she invites us to Sail into a poem for Poetics

Parting Prevarication

Half my sister’s ashes
sit on my bookshelf
the thought flashes regularly
that I must fulfil her wishes
and bury her with our parents
let her out of the camel-shaped teapot
my favourite of her collection
and which bore her back from Ireland
disguising the grey substance
which is, unbelievably, half of her remains.

I think it is the distance to Dorset
which has held me back
from letting the once genial
out of the teapot.
The teapot will remain
ornamentally
on my bookshelf
to use my sister’s sometime sepulchre
to make tea might be
a step too far for a brother
though it would have made his sister
laugh like a drain…

© Andrew Wilson, 2024

Posted on dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night hosted by Grace.

Frequently the woods…

Frequently the wood sare pink
wrote Emily Dickinson, fairly described
as transcendental romantic, I think
was she referencing blossom-time
when gaudy pinks and whites
to win the bees attention fight
that time when we remember
trees are but giant flowering plants
dependent on the tiny pollinator
to close life’s circle with their aerial dance
flowers followed in short order by the clichéd
thousand shades of green
my own favourite time to see
the thin veil delicately drawn
across the Winter-wakened trees
and as the leaves thicken
and take on Summer shades
each tree can be read from a distance
picked out from its companions in the glade

But wait – in Winter too
a palette of subtle colours
also distinguish each species
one from another
colours hard to pin down
from mauves and greys
to blues and nearly brown
and never black except
in solitary silhouette
and frequently the woods are pink

Written for dVerse Poets Pub where  the host is Björn Rudberg (brudberg) in LiveOpenLinkNightUncategorized

A Cherita

A leaf

Engine of photosynthesis
that powers a tree

Turning red in Autumn
filled with anti-freeze
the tree sucks back before the leaf falls

Plucked before this happens
the tree would die
in Winter frost

That is the science
of Fall colour

But not the beauty…

© Andrew Wilson, 2023

Over at dVerse Poets Pub,  Laura Bloomsbury in Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft challenges us to Cherish the Cherita…

Give a Damn…

Give a thought to the dispossessed
better still give money

Give a charity a regular donation
then they can plan how to dispense salvation

A nation of the dispossessed
is claimed by others – it’s a given

I don’t give a damn about the animals
says one of the entitled supplanters

Call a man an animal or cockroach and
you can now give a call to the exterminator

Give heed to a cornered rat says Putin
it may just jump for your jugular in desperation

When dispossessing a nation – give a thought
to world opinion – goodwill is not inexhaustible…

© Andrew Wilson, 2023

In response to “It’s a Given”posted by merrildsmith in PoeticsUncategorized  over at dVerse Poets Pub for Giving Tuesday

The Language of Knickers…

Having only been writing poetry regularly since May of this year, I was troubled by the usual doubts, was my free verse really just prose, or prose poetry – and it took a while to find and see poetry as a voice, and a language. So then I wondered if you could talk about literally, anything, in this voice and language. So this poem explores a frivolous subject with the voice of poesy…
I read it out on OLN Live and promised to post it for OLN over at dVerse Poets Pub hosted by Grace in OpenLinkNight

Is it beneath a poet to talk about knickers
the garments beneath – until they are not.

In the Nineteenth Century
obsessed with classification
they codified the Language of Fans
(the ones you fluttered and flirted with)
so that you might send the right signals
to your desired paramour
and not the wrong ones
to the rest of the world
the Language of Fans
the Language of Flowers
the Language of Colour
do knickers also speak
in a language of their own?

Undergarments, bloomers
pants, panties, scanties
skivvies, thongs, briefs or knickers.
I only know the words in
the English language
who knows what other words
are said or never said
in other languages
seen or never seen

Women may spend so long
choosing their outer clothes
do they give such thought
to what lies beneath
on the off-chance
that today might be the day…
and what woman’s mother
did not warn her
always to wear clean knickers
in case of being involved
in an accident
as if doctors and nurses
of the Emergency Room
have not got
more professional concerns
than the emergence of dirty knickers!

Are black knickers sexy
because of the maximal contrast
on a white woman
and do white-on-black
have the same connotation
do white knickers evoke
purity and innocence
for in some cultures
white is for death and the afterlife
but a shared view is that
white represents the divine and holy
in life and in death
can knickers ever represent the divine
or is it that which they enclose
that lovers dream of divinely

If black is sexy
ramp it up with laciness
for nothing says sexy
more than half revealing
that which is not supposed
to be seen – which can be said
for knickers themselves

Before the mini-skirt
made the possibility of
glimpsing knickers
unguarded (or intentionally)
Underwear was often
flesh-coloured or
pale peach -think
silky French knickers
loose and airy
and never seen
beneath the flappers
below-the-knee
fringed concoctions
the mini-skirt called for
briefer underwear and
ironically when so much
was being revealed
it was felt that pale peach
would not do
in case a flash was mistaken for flesh
and so bright colours
patterned prints
and even slogans
proliferated
– with slogans surely
the message outweighs
the medium

If knickers black on white
or white on black say
I am here – look at me
then what of red
small and satiny
ruched or ramped up
further with lacy transparency,
– what do red knickers
spell out – if there is indeed
a secret language of knickers
the colour of blood,
red is associated with
danger, sacrifice and bravery
so it is it a brave choice
to wear knickers of a colour
that also signals
heat, passion, sexuality
anger, love and joy?

A friend once told me
how a colleague
had eventually confessed
that intending to visit
her at her remote
cottage in the country
he was arrested by the vision
glimpsed through the
un-curtained window
of her lying across her lover’s lap
Victorian bloomers around her knees
receiving a fond chastisement
the colleague crept away
eventually
for is not the unwrapping
of the beautifully packaged
the erotic deliverance
of what is promised
in the language of knickers
some knickers anyway
something seemingly forgotten
by most makers of porn
with the slow reveal simply
being lost between cuts
a mistake the Burlesque stripper
would never make

And after white, black and red
what do other colours say
about the wearer
if they say anything at all
– purple, cerulean blue
emerald green
these are colours
at least in my experience
seldom seen
and what of the form
what does that say
if message it is even
intended to convey
and not a very private preference
quite without intent of sin
of what to wear
closest to the skin

In middle age
lascivious gives way to
comfort and by old age
it is big knickers all day long
unlike the thong
which covers the naughty bits
but bares the bum
and instead of flattening
the curves as other garments do
– leaves the tight skirt with no VPL
outward shape fit equally
close to underlying form

The freedom of French knickers
the high cut, the arbitrary
line of boy-shorts
what an education most boys
could confess too
who grew up with the
catalogue pages
lingerie it seemed
to the uninitiated
in every imaginable
form and colour from
black to white and red to blue
today’s young explorers
with unfettered access to the internet
might be forgiven for thinking
that more women than not
spend their lives going commando
and why is it called lingerie
who lingers over lingerie?

Make no mistake
knickers are the stuff of dreams
or more prosaically – fantasies
and even without a Victorian
guide to the messages
without teaching
perhaps even
instinctively
we mostly seem
to know the meaning of
the language of knickers…

© Andrew Wilson, 2023

Caught Off Guard

What are the outward signs
of a heart caught off guard
is it tear-ing up –
if not actually sobbing
– then eyes welling
voice constrained so hard
that it’s held to
a pained silence
whilst I try to
get hold of myself
hold back the tears
open the throat
carry on speaking

You expect to tear up
when delivering a eulogy
and I have written for
my father and mother
and latterly my sister
the last and most difficult
to deliver – the words
freshly written the day before
though sixty-two years
in the gestation
I wrote on a ferry
in the Irish Sea crossing to Dublin
and there were no tears
as I laid the words to rest
any more than when
I heap tragedy on my characters
in my “serious” novel
Thomas Hardy I will never
ever again speak ill of
your torturing Jude the Obscure…
– Ah! But read back the lines
to an audience and the emotions
etched into each page
pull a garotte from my heart
and tighten it around my throat
each word another knot in it…

There are happier moments
that catch my heart off guard
the golding of greens
as the light turns to sunset
the brightness of sunlit land
against the black of a storm-filled sky
the unguarded smile
of a mother for her baby
and the enfolded exclusivity of
teenagers who are unaware of
enacting an instinct that
really urges them to make babies. I look at my partner
lost to the present
more often than not
and a thousand memories
of happier times
holographically stored
explode in my brain
flood my heart
sometimes pulling out
that heartstring
and sometimes painting on
a philosophical, ruminant smile…

© Andrew Wilson, 2023