Stephen Bygrave's poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in magazines including The Frogmore Papers, Orbis, and Pennine Platform. He is Emeritus Professor of English at Southampton University.
Poems by Stephen Bygrave
| Clog Almanac |
| No access to Love Supreme |
Clog Almanac
Not a shoe nor a Googlewhack
but recurrence enough for a lifetime.
Clog: worked wood: flat
like a school ruler, logging
lunar month and solar year
then saints' days up to when
the Gregorian overcame the moon,
this runestock, runstaf,
primstaff's a dark stick tallied
with feast days and harvest times
in a one-off hieroglyphic
of nicks and notches and brollies
to signify breaks
in the hard mundane
of the metonic cycle:
the nineteen years
the stars, knowing their places,
take to get back to them –
a circuit barely traceable
on its dark arm now
this priemstab, rimstock
's chamfered with use and not,
not like stopping a diary
but being always among its days,
for three circuits say.
Not a shoe nor a Googlewhack
but recurrence enough for a lifetime.
No access to Love Supreme
Just saying, it is what it is:
things carry on, not as they always did,
and when it came to the diagnosis
we were already halfway there
on a warm weekday, the roads quiet considering.
Near the old toll house by Christine's place
a sign read 'no access to Love Supreme' –
a jazz fest, coming after Glasto but way east.
We were on our way to see
how things turned out.
Call that weather? It's only
the weather changing, and you can't change the weather.
A Summer mizzle began the festival.
They'll swish the drops away. Things won't be the same.
There's no going back. You can't rewind.
There's no going back. You can't rewind.
They'll swish the drops away. Things won't be the same.
A Summer mizzle began the festival –
the weather's changing, and you can't change the weather.
Call that weather? It's only
how things turned out.
We were on our way to see
a jazz fest coming after Glasto but way east –
a sign read 'no access to Love Supreme'
near the old toll house by Christine's place
on a warm weekday, the roads quiet considering
we were already halfway there
and when it came to the diagnosis
things carry on, not as they always did,
just saying: it is what it is.