poem – Tim O'Hare

Reckoning | Beckoning #poem

Note: This poem has a three column structure so if you are reading it on a small screen device you should switch from ‘mobile’ to ‘tablet’ view to see it properly…

Reckoning?

It is time to rid myself
of
reckoning

The harsh
interrogation of
“How did it go?”

Checking off the actions
against
all those on my list

Only really noticing
the many
I have missed

Assessing my
progress, comparing
with my plan

Keeping track of
distances,
measuring their span

Monitoring my
output so I always
know the score

Emerging with the
figures, highlighting
my flaws

Counting up the wins
and losses,
totaling
to find their sum

I feel kind of
useless when the
reckoning is done

or

and

or

or

or

or

or

or

or

or

so

Beckoning?

Instead, I will try to see
what’s
beckoning

A gentler
introspection
of my flow

Seeking the resonant
vibrations that prove that
I exist

Keeping mind wide open
so that
nothing is dismissed

Reminding myself
that all the time
I’m doing the best I can

Recognising that
what matters is
simply that I ran

Realising the damage
done by
always wanting more

Noticing the many things
born deep
within my core

Dispensing with
judgement,
to prove the worth
of all I’ve done

I embrace my
beckoning question
“What has come?”

(c) Tim O’Hare, February 2024

About this poem: This poem has its origin in a conversation that took place during my last coaching session a couple of weeks ago. I was recounting how terrible I am at following the plans I make and how this generates an intense feeling of frustration and results in me being in a constant spiral of planning, frustration, planning, frustration and a pervading sense of uselessness. I was challenged to come up with an alternative non-judgmental question that I could ask myself and responded almost instantly that I could replace “How did it go?” with “What has come?“. We played with this idea for a while – focusing on how my “What has come?” question would naturally lead me to draw out achievements, output and activities that had emerged from within me without triggering my natural tendency to measure progress, evaluate success and generally judge myself against the completely unnecessary and arbitrary ‘success criteria’ that I carry in my head. My coach loved my question and referred to it as my ‘beckoning question’…

The poem is written as two verses, one relating to the ‘reckoning question’ (on the left) and the other relating to the ‘beckoning question’ (on the right), but it is also possible to read the poem taking one line from each verse in turn and adding the additional bridging word (‘and‘, ‘or‘, ‘so‘) shown in italics between the two verses. I suspect that this layout won’t work very well if the poem is viewed on a small screen (mobile) device but hopefully it works well enough!

(Another) Four Quartets #poem

Quartet No.1 in C Major
I. Exceptional (maestoso ridicolo)
II. Growing (allegro vivamente)
III. Discovering (allegro con abbandono)
IV. Fearful (moderato sostenuto)

Quartet No. 2 in E Major
I. Interested (scherzo giocoso)
II. Hopeful (andante sognando)
III. Exploring (allegro impetuoso)
IV. Indecisive (adagietto dissonante)

Quartet No. 3 in A flat minor
I. Struggling (largamente melancolico)
II. Puzzled (andante misterioso)
III. Frustrated (allegro incalzando)
IV. Trying (allegro spiritoso)

Quartet No. 4 in D sharp minor
I. Disappointed (andante con dolore)
II. Angry (allegro furioso)
III. Overwhelmed (andate lacrimoso)
IV. Capitulated (largo perdendosi)

(c) Tim O’Hare, January 2024

About this poem: Over the last couple of days I have felt a growing sense of inner doom and then today I woke to find myself the recipient of another visit from The Hollow Man. The result was that despite having a mountain of work things to do I found myself stealing time to construct this poem. It started out as a list of words chosen to express something of the way I was seeing different stages of my life and then as these settled naturally into four groups of four I could not resist the reference to T.S. Eliot and the idea of representing the list as a set of musical works complete with accompanying musical terms for tempo and associated emotion. Perhaps it is all a little dark and almost certainly it is a lot contrived but writing this poem seems to have done its job and I can now start to move on again.

[The photo shows my ‘cello which suffered a broken tail gut leading to its bridge and sound post (internal) collapsing, shortly before the poem was written. It felt like an appropriate accompaniment to the poem…]

Foundations #poem

Do not start at the top
With no foundations
For another shattered dream
Built in a rush
One of many
Born from a momentary spark
To lie in tatters
As it tumbled down
During a hurried build
When mistakes were made
And no-one saw

The monument to creativity.

All can see
The fruits of careful labour
With no mistakes made
BLOCK after BLOCK after BLOCK
Then BLOCK after BLOCK after BLOCK.
BLOCK after BLOCK after BLOCK
Then BLOCK after BLOCK after BLOCK.
BLOCK after BLOCK after BLOCK
In even layers
With staggered joints
Placed with special attention
Positioned just so
The slab sitting level
The piles well bedded
With strong foundations
Start at the bottom and work upwards

(c) Tim O’Hare, December 2023

About this poem: This is another poem that took shape in my head while I was out for a run. It is inspired, at least in part, by the film ‘Locke’ that I watched a few years ago and has stayed with me ever since. The film follows a single character Locke (played by the actor Tom Hardy) as he drives home from work – a building site – the night before a huge delivery of concrete that will form the foundations of the building. Months of planning and preparation have gone into getting the build to this stage and it is Locke’s job to oversee the complex process of the concrete pour. The story takes place almost entirely within Locke’s car and consists of a series of telephone conversations during which events unfold that leave all of his best laid plans in tatters. For while he was focusing all of his attention on getting the foundations of the building right, he neglected to consider those that underpinned his life. It’s a great film and one I often recommend whenever a conversation turns towards the subject of foundations.

What If? So what? #poem

Sometimes I find that I cannot move forwards
to follow the path that I want to take.
The gears whirr noisily inside my head,
and The Controller shouts
“STOP. What If?”,
“STOP, What If?”,
again and again,
at the top of his voice.

Racked by doubt and paralysed by fear, I
find that I have lost my will
to continue, and so I grind to a halt – frustrated, cross,
until stillness descends, and I remember that
however wide or deep the chasm, I can build a bridge
that even only spanning imagination, offers a moment when
a step can be taken. Then, slowly, I
can make progress once more, to come
closer to where I want to go. And I and am able to
scream at the top of my voice: “So What? To hell with it.”

WHAT IF? SO WHAT?: This poem came quickly. I was writing in my morning journal about how I had not found any time for poetry writing for several months, and starting to wonder whether perhaps this might be an indication that my well of inspiration had run dry. At the same time, I was thinking about the value of just putting my poems ‘out there’ without any expectation that they might ‘land’. Suddenly, I found that I was writing again, and this poem emerged. I wasn’t sure what to give it as a title but settled on What If? So What? based on a phrase that I vaguely remember hearing the singer Tom Jones use in an interview years ago – something along the lines that “we must always try to turn ‘what ifs?’ into ‘so whats?’”. Don’t miss the hidden message in the second verse…!

Blue #poem

What is blue
and is whatever it is the same for me as it is for you?
A scientist might state that blue describes:

‘colours perceived by humans observing light with a dominant wavelength between approximately four-hundred-and-fifty and four-hundred-and-ninety-five nanometres‘,

which may well tell us how blue can arise –
in the human mind,
when a certain type of electromagnetic radiation enters the eyes.
But this does not, I think, tell us what blue really is.
For how can we be sure
that the imagined colour that my mind selects,
in its constant rush to paint upon its ever-changing canvas,
comes from the same small pan
into which you dipped your brush?

You can say that blue is the colour of the sky
(by day at least),
or of the vast expanse of open sea
(mostly),
or the shirt worn by the best team
(certainly not).
But what if you see all of those as I see green?
(Well then we would agree – those shirts belong to by far the greatest team the world has ever seen).

So what is blue
to me, or to you?

To complicate matters further…
‘blue’ could refer not to colour but, rather,
to the tone of my thoughts.
But if I tell you that just now the thoughts inside my head are blue,
how do you know
whether I am simply feeling a little down on my luck,
or whether my mind, unleashed,
is filled with images of a naked couple…?
Again, we come unstuck.

We must agree then, I think, to put aside all ambiguities,
and to take the definition, with all of its nanometres, at face value.
Then we can label the sky as blue and the sea as blue,
we can assume my mood is melancholy
even if it is really full of sauce,
and we can move on
(although, we will never agree about those shirts of course).

(c) Tim O’Hare, September 2023

BLUE: I’m not entirely sure where the idea for this poem came from but I guess I just liked playing with the words and the rhymes and bringing together some threads from different aspects of my life – science, perception, atmosphere, ocean, sports.

A revised version of this poem was published in Issue 16 (March 2024, ‘Colour’) of Consilience – an online Science Communication/Poetry journal. I’ve repeated it below for completeness…

What is blue
and is whatever it is the same for me as it is for you?

A scientist might state that blue describes:
‘colours perceived by a human when observing light having a primary wavelength in the range four-hundred-and-fifty to four-hundred-and-ninety-five nanometres’,
which may well tell us how blue can arise –
in the human mind,
when a certain type of electromagnetic radiation enters the eyes –
but does not, I think, tell us what blue really is.
For how can we be sure
that the imagined colour that my mind selects in its constant rush
to paint upon its ever-changing canvas
comes from the same small pan into which you dipped your own brush?

You can say that blue is the colour of the sky (by day at least)
or of the vast expanse of open sea (mostly)
or the shirt worn by the best team (certainly not).
But what if you see all of those as I see green?
(And then we agree those shirts belong to by far the greatest team the world has ever seen).

So what is blue
to me or to you?

To complicate matters further…
Blue could refer not to the colour of a sight but, rather,
to the tone of my thoughts.
But if I tell you that, just now, the thoughts inside my head are blue,
how do you know whether I am simply feeling a little down on my luck
or whether my mind, unleashed, is filled with a tumble of racy thoughts?
Again, we come unstuck.

We must agree then, I think, to put aside the ambiguities
and to take the scientist’s definition, with all of its nanometres, at face value.
Then we can label the sky as blue and the sea as blue;
we can assume my mood is melancholy even it is really full of sauce;
and we can move on
(although, we will never agree about those shirts of course).

(c) Tim O’Hare, March 2024

Square Peg #poem

I am the square peg in the round hole:
jammed in,
stuck fast,
placed by youthful naivety,
forced down by the weight of expectation,
held in place by the pressure of life’s demands,
and hammered home
by the repeated blows of round pegs that,
although appearing far too large
to fill such a seemingly trivial space,
are really too small to even touch the sides.

Yet, even in the tightest grip
it is possible to wriggle and writhe –
tiny movements that, though causing damage, breaks, and pain,
gradually,
imperceptibly,
ease the bind.
The needle must break the cloth to form the stitches of repair.

I am still the square peg,
plugging the round hole,
missing parts of my surface,
diminished,
and wearing hidden scars,
but now I have worked my way loose.
And though I cannot know the planes and slopes
of the land that lies outside,
I have seen it in glimpses,
and I am ready to slide out,
with freshly rounded corners,
ready to roll.

SQUARE PEG: This is another poem that came up on me out of nowhere and very fast. In some ways it is a direct continuation from my poem It Is Time, but whereas that poem is about recognizing that a point of arrival has been reached, Square Peg is more about being ready to start out on the next part of the journey.

Things That Help #poem

Things that help include…

A slow start to the day,
with plenty of time for my morning routine…
at least half an hour for reading, lots of different books –
some daily inspiration, a chapter of a long novel,
a short story, some poetry,
and a few pages from a science magazine,
with a cup of black coffee (currently decaf) by my side,
and frequent stops to record an idea
or to note some words of wisdom I have spied.

Then, a dive into my Journal notebook (Moleskine, large, squared),
with my zero-point-nine millimetre Pentel
twist-grip propelling pencil in hand,
scribbling away,
as my thoughts coalesce through the words I write
in a way I simply cannot understand.

At least two or three runs each week…
Preferably, although not as often as I would like, out of the city,
even though I rarely feel that I want to go
and often set out wearing a frown,
ideally working towards some future long-distance event that,
despite crowding in on me horribly as it approaches,
seems to be a necessary challenge,
albeit one reluctantly thrown down.

Having enough money to keep buying books…
titles I come across that interest and intrigue,
for it seems that books are my favourite food
and provide me with much of the sustenance that I need.

Not being hungry…
so, yes, please do bring me that snack
(real food of course, not a book!)

Remembering to drink water…
because going without it is something for which
I really seem to have a knack,
until it is too late, my body dry,
and my brain shrivelled to uselessness by its lack.

Knowing what is coming up…
and having a plan for the hours and days ahead,
even though I know I will not follow my intentions,
will waste much of the day
and become frustrated with myself.
(It’ll be a complete disaster if I set off with no kind of schedule, instead.)

Getting outside into nature, trees, sky, clouds,
and all the rest of it…
especially when there are big views –
it’s so much better for connecting with the world
than a constant processed diet provided by The News.

Talking out my thoughts…
(even if you do not really want to listen,
as long as you nod every so often,
and give a few prompts to keep me going,
it will really help to boost my knowing
and keep my ideas growing.)

Being the master of my own time and space…
so that I can sort and sift my thoughts,
move slowly through the day,
and know where I am and where I am heading.

Working at my own pace…
but also not having to make too many choices.
Although I will always have an opinion –
I admit that’s true –
it is usually far better if you simply tell me what we’re going to do.

Encouragement and praise…
just the right amount and I have to believe that it is sincere.
Just like the ambrosia eaten by Gods it can be sweet and sticky,
so getting this one right is really tricky.

What doesn’t help is…

Losing sight of the things that help,
or forgetting that even though I am certain of their value,
I will often have to force myself to do them,
and that, with insufficient respect for myself,
I will likely lack the courage to make sure that they happen
Enough.

(c) Tim O’Hare, September 2023

THINGS THAT HELP: As I allude to in my note for The Hollow Man (and probably elsewhere) there are certain things I like to do each day or on a regular/routine basis that help me to maintain my level of functioning. I find that I can go for a few days without following my ‘morning routine’ but if I let things slip for any longer or fail to force myself out for a run or a walk in the countryside I start to unravel. Things That Help captures some of these activities and ingredients that keep me in balance and, most importantly, notes the need to keep them in sight and to keep pushing myself to do them. I’ve come to think that everyone should write out their own list of Things That Help and keep it in a prominent place as a reminder

It Is Time #poem

It is time to banish thoughts of giving up,
to be replaced by the comfort of giving in –
acceptance rather than flight,
to fold back the shutters,
emerging from the dark of night –
allowing in some light.

It is time to cease the role of the bully,
forcing the fearful child within
to be the man he thought he should.
Instead, enfolding in a loving hug
to draw out all he could have been.
If only he had understood.

It is time to give the boy a chance,
to give him space to play his part,
to let him fall and graze his elbow – blood and gravel –
even though tears may flow.
He may be strong enough.
How else will we know?

It is time to take those steps
that cross the threshold of the door,
to find that it was open all along –
never locked – and behind it?
The voice of the song oft heard,
though always sounding slightly wrong.

It is time to push on through the fog,
that cloak of damp that so confuses senses,
seeking clearer skies,
different colours, other forms
to try on for size.
Who knows how those choices may surprise?

It is time to give in,
not to temptation, hopelessness or terror,
but to follow the path
to those imagined lands,
shaping their form with my own hands.
Finally, he understands.

(c) Tim O’Hare, August 2023

IT IS TIME: This poem came completely out of the blue, coalescing onto the page in less than an hour. It reflects a big decision made on the previous day – to signal that I must let go of a big role at work, to stop fighting with the thought that to do so was some kind of failure, and to just accept that I no longer have it within me to push and cajole or fight with myself anymore.

An Encounter on Ilkley Moor #poem

It was the morning of the fourth day of July, twenty twenty-three,
and I was running, alone, on Ilkley Moor.
I could not take the path that I had planned,
for it was stolen from me by the grasp of ferns,
and so, instead, I found another way to travel west –
my route, like life, a path of unexpected turns.

As I drew level with a group of trees, planted in my mental map,
I turned to head, almost a scramble, up the rock-strewn slope,
until with the ground flattening all around, I came to a stone wall
and followed a well-worn path that lay in its shadow,
east, towards the radio mast.
From there I knew my way,
down the track they call the Keighley Road,
with a view across the valley over Ilkley town
that, like the passing of a life, would slip away too fast.

As I began my descent, his profile came into view,
to my right, just off the track,
though still some distance well ahead –
a small, dark man, sitting, gazing directly across my path,
chin resting on hands,
elbows propped on knees,
his head straining forwards
as if to peer through time to seek some other space.
He remained there as I closed, his features sharpening in my sight,
and I was struck how, like so much else in life,
his presence was incongruous.
For this did not seem to be his place.

I expected him to move as I approached, if only to shift his pose,
but he sat looking west across the track, across the moor – still.
And as my eyes searched for detail in his form
I saw that he was too small, about two-thirds the size of a man,
and so dark, yet without colour.

My brain was screaming at me: ‘Something is not right here’,
and I felt a heavy weight in the air around me.
I continued on,
towards the point beside the grey stone on which he sat.
My heart was beating fast, preparing to meet another life,
but on my arrival there was no-one there.

(c) Tim O’Hare, August 2023

AN ENCOUNTER ON ILKLEY MOOR: This poem tells the true story of an encounter that I had on a morning run while staying on Ilkley Moor for a week. There was a rock on the verge by the track that I ran along as I made my descent to our holiday let. As I came down the track towards it, I saw the figure of a small, dark man sitting there, just as I describe in the poem, and I instinctively felt that I was not able to recognise all that lay before me. Even now, many months later, I cannot let go of the fact that he was there and that, just for a few moments, either he or I was not in the right place.

Rock Giant #poem

You have used me as you wish to have your fun,
scrabbling roughly on the pockmarked surface of my skin,
climbing high to turn your face towards the sun.
You scrape your boots across me to remove accumulated soil,
and carving your initials in my surface,
give little thought to what you spoil.
You have taken from me what you need
using iron picks to gouge out fragments,
thinking that you caused no pain because you saw no sign I bleed.
You turn your eyes towards me and see only solid rock,
looking down upon my dumbness,
laughing as you mock.

By day, as you approach from the grassy slope below,
you start to notice many shapes of things you know.
You see an outline that reminds you of a faithful hound,
you watch it shift as you move forwards,
then it’s gone without a sound.
You turn to view a castle, but no soldiers move for they have fled.
You move your head to shape a profile –
only then you see the witch’s head.
You trace out furrowed brow, hooked nose and jutting chin;
you feel grey eyes look through you,
and you shiver as an evil spell takes hold within.

At night, in your imagination, led by an unheard call,
you see me rise up from my station as I yawn and stretch so tall.
You hear the distant thunder of my steps
as I march the slowest beat.
You sense vibrations deep below,
the trembling ground beneath my feet.
You are frightened of my power, as I tear the earth apart.
You are petrified, turned solid, as the terror grips your heart.
You are fearful that I come at last to take what I am due.
You sense that it is time.
And you are terrified that I am hunting, hunting now for you.

But none of this is true,
for all that you see, and everything that you imagine,
has been shaped by the stories you were told,
and what they let you do.
Those imagined forms, the wild thoughts,
and all the feelings they produce may seem fantastic
when compared with what is in your normal view.
So, what is the truth?
If only you knew…

I was formed from countless tiny pieces that began as dust,
mixed together in her bowl,
baked by her heat to form a crust.
I was once pressed tight together as I found my solid form,
extruded by her shuddering contractions,
melded in her womb so warm.
I have rested for so long as if I have no task,
snuggled by her mossy blanket,
wrapped protectively within her grasp.
I have waited patiently for several million years,
cooled by her gentle whispers,
washed clean by her falling tears.

For your time is not all time.
Your whole existence is the smallest fraction of my life.
This place was mine so long before you came,
and will remain my home for even longer once you die.

And your space is not all space.
Your whole world is like a single speck of the quartz that shines
within the substance of my form,
just one of countless millions of specks, all of which are mine.

And your thoughts are not all thoughts.
Your thoughts are small and they are fleeting, and so they rarely bend.
You are constrained by what they choose to tell you.
There is so much you cannot comprehend.

And your life is not all life.
Your life is short, and it is fast, and so it limits what you try to claim.
You cannot grasp the unfamiliar.
You are bound by the rules that shape your game.

Believe me, I do not lie.
I do not speak to garner fame.
For beyond all that you can see, and everything that you imagine,
are stories to be told and things to see that far expand your frame.
You may think you are the only one who holds within a spark,
but that is falsehood as we share that conscious flame.
I too am alive,
and Rock Giant is my name.

(c) Tim O’Hare, August 2023

ROCK GIANT: The last few walks that we have done have been on the familiar territory of Dartmoor, taking in one or more of the rocky tors that sit atop many of the hill summits. These enormous piles of granite slabs are the remnants of old volcanoes, material pushed upwards from the upper mantle almost 300 million years ago. I find it impossible to visit a tor without seeing the profiles of faces in the shapes made by the great piles of rocks, or imagining that the rocks are the tip of a toe, an elbow or some other part of a huge stone giant asleep beneath the ground. And then, in a natural progression of my thoughts, those rock giants begin to stir. I am not at all sure why, in the poem, I imagined the rock giant as a threat. My instinct is that they are, in fact, very gentle and friendly creatures. But, of course, I will never really know, because they still have much sleeping to do before they awaken.