poem – Page 2 – Tim O'Hare

Poetry #poem

I do not know if my poems are any good,
but it seems they help my essence to be understood,
whether by others or simply by myself,
this last, of course, itself essential for my health.

I do not know if my poems are enjoyable to read,
but it seems that crafting them fulfils some vital need,
and that allowing thoughts and feelings to gush forth
provides a compass I can use to find my north.

It seems as if through searching for each rhyme
I’ve stumbled on a way to slow down time,
and that now, through sculpting syllable-istic rhythm,
I see the world in multitudinous ways –
split infinite like sunlight passing through a prism.

And so, once more, I drop into the mine,
to chip away and work the line,
to trace the seam right to its core,
and scrape out all the mineral ore.
I hammer hard to split a rock,
in hope it is a nugget-bearing block,
in hope it might just be the one to hold
a precious, piece of sparkling gold.

I do not know if my poems hit the mark,
but certainly they’ve lit a spark.
So now the flames inside me roar,
and I can ask for nothing more.

Here goes…
First, time slows,
an idea flows,
like water spurting from a hose.
The seedling grows.
The petals unfurl upon the rose.

I take my chance…
Falling deep into the trance,
where visions glance,
words prance,
and rhythms dance.
And then I emerge, life enhanced.

In those moments, my whole world collapses onto a single spot.
So much energy compressed into a tiny dot-
freezing cold yet furnace hot.
I do not know if my poems are any good.
I do not know if my poems are enjoyable to read.
I do not know if my poems hit the mark.
It matters not.

(c) Tim O’Hare, July 2023

POETRY: I had some nice feedback on the first few poems that I wrote, but as this all came from people that knew me well it was impossible not to feel that it must be biased, even if only subconsciously. I began to think about whether my poems really were any good. This is the kind of thinking that usually drains my motivation and stops me in my tracks. But I have changed a bit in recent months, and pondering this a little more, I was able to acknowledge that whether or not anyone else liked my poems, I enjoyed the process of creating them, and was learning about myself as I did so.

The Killing Field #poem

This is the killing field –
but the danger does not come to you or me
from the piercing horn of a bull’s rush,
the digoxin punch of a fox’s glove,
or a saliva-damp kiss from a cow’s lip.

This is the killing field –
but the danger does not come to you or me
from the aconitine grip of the wolf’s bane,
the spicular burn from a nettle’s leaf,
or a sudden unexpected stroke of a pony’s tail.

This is the killing field –
and just for once, the danger does not even come
from those who strip the land to build and burn,
who work the soil to plant and grow,
who take whatever they wish to take,
who go wherever they wish to go.

This is the killing field –
but the danger does not come to you or me.
It comes to the little creatures
that scuttle and slither over ground,
or paddle at the water’s edge,
or take flight into the humid air,
or hide away within the sedge.
For they refused to yield
to kiss the ground before the wise birds’ shrieks,
and so were baited by the raptors’ curse.

This is the killing field –
but the danger does not come to you or me.
It comes to the mouse, the rabbit and the vole,
not fast enough to find a hole,
the beetle, grub and dragonfly,
left with no escape to try,
the snake, the newt, the toad, the frog,
too slow to get beneath a log,
the pigeon, finch and moorhen chick,
this time, alas, insufficiently quick.

This is the killing field –
and for all the little creatures that you love,
death comes unheralded from far above.

First comes
Buteo buteo (Buzzard):
Mightiest of all,
soaring high in thermal plumes,
before swooping down
to grasp in taloned feet
the unfortunate prey it must consume.

Then comes
Circus aeruginosus (Marsh Harrier):
Not far behind in stature and power,
ranging low with undulating flight,
before entering the reed bed
to pluck out
the tiny creatures hiding there in fright.

But not all threats require wings of such size, for now come
Falco tinnunculus (Kestrel):
Fast wings, steady hover,
sharp eyes,
before falling like a stone
to pounce
with great surprise
and
Falco subbuteo (Hobby):
Wings swept, swift flier,
thrilling chase,
before making the snatch,
to prove
that it has won the race.

An optimist might think
that the setting of the sun
and the falling of the dark
could bring respite.
But this is the killing field –
and the danger comes both day and night.

For now, in fading light, comes
Tyto alba (Barn Owl):
Heavy flaps, ghostly glide,
a pause upon a post,
before the sudden drop
to make the surprise visit
to its host.

Then, as darkness gathers like a cloak, comes
Athene noctua (Little Owl):
Sitting, watching from a lofty perch,
shattering the silence with its screech,
before flying down,
to snaffle up
whatever it can reach.

And finally, with all light gone, comes
Strix aluco (Tawny Owl):
Master of the dark,
Night vision goggled, waiting patiently with hunting ears,
Before pouncing,
silently,
on each and every morsel of a meal it hears.

This is the killing field –
but the danger does not come to you or me.
The danger comes from far above
from birds named with gladiatorial sounding words:
Buteo buteo and Circus aeruginosus –
majestic Buzzard and Marsh Harrier.
Falcos tinnunculus and Subbuteo –
agile Kestrel and Hobby.
Tyto alba, Athene noctua and Strix aluco:
Barn, Little, Tawny – three wise owls.

This is the killing field –
and the danger comes with such beauty and grace,
that seeing Death
has never before
put such a smile upon my face.

(c) Tim O’Hare, July 2023

THE KILLING FIELD: While staying in Suffolk during the second week of our summer holiday we walked around Redgrave and Lopham Fen one afternoon. Having seen various birds, but not being entirely sure that I had been able to identify them all correctly, I made sure that we went back for a second look, and I was really thrilled to confirm my first ever sightings of a Marsh Harrier and a Hobby along with the oft-seen Buzzard and Kestrel. These are all beautiful birds, and it was fascinating to watch their different flight patterns and to look up information about their diets and hunting styles. But it struck me quite forcibly that with that beauty and guile came death, and the idea that the area around the fen was a ‘Killing Field’ took root in my head. During our stay we also heard or were told of the whereabouts of several different species of owls – the evening and night hunters – and so I threw those into the deadly mix too.

The Lies of the Land #poem

There’s a hill marked on the map,
and so we will have to climb up.
We need to follow the river along the valley,
so then we’ll be quite far down.
Let me see, there should be a church tower…
yes, on the horizon, over there…
which means that our path will go right then left twice,
and then another turn right.
Next to the fen marsh it will probably be a bit wet,
but the stretch along the beach should be sandy and dry.
That’s the car park, just in front,
so where’s the windpump?
Behind us, out of sight.

It is helpful to be able to orientate yourself in time and space,
and a comfort to know that everything stands in order,
in its rightful place.
Believe me, there is a problem
if you don’t know which way you should face.
I think I’m pretty good at this, so let me help you understand:
Left, right, up, down, in front, behind, parched or drowned,
the truth is that you must get to know
the lie of the land.

No, sorry, wait… It’s not quite that simple…
That hill I mentioned is only five metres above sea level.
It’s so low down that it can hardly be called a hill,
in fact it’s little more than a pimple.
The water in the river flows further down towards the shore,
which means that the valley is actually up above the sea.
When we reach the church tower, it won’t be over there,
it will be our here, obviously.
And when we follow the path back, we will take a left,
a right and after that we’ll go right then left again.
But it shouldn’t be too confusing,
because we’ll be on familiar ground by then.

This isn’t what I was expecting
from the map on the visitor centre wall.
I guess there’s been so little rain recently
that the marsh is bone dry,
and there’s hardly any water in the drainage channels at all.
The tide must be on its way out,
because there are shells and seaweed all along the shore,
and so the sand is salty wet.
Anyway, it’s been nice since we got away from the car park;
I was pleased to leave that behind –
all those cars and people made me fret.
So, where is the windpump?
Have patience, don’t get stressed.
Wait for it. Ready?
There, right in front.
Are you are impressed?

It would be helpful if I could orientate myself in time and space,
and comforting if everything would actually get in order,
into its rightful place.
I definitely have problem
when I don’t know which way I should face.
I thought I was pretty good at this,
but now things are getting out of hand.
Left, right, up, down, in front, behind, parched or drowned,
I’ve really been made a fool of here
by the lies of the land.

(c) Tim O’Hare, July 2023

About this poem: While staying in the Norfolk Broads during our summer holiday we drove out to the coast for a walk at Horsey Gap, parking the car near Horsey Windpump (a National Trust site). On the way there I had been amused to notice that features that were named on the map as hills were, in fact, only a few meters above sea level and the idea that such naming was a ‘lie of the land’ was born. The poem picks up on various elements of the walk which took in fen-land marsh, a beach (with seals swimming in the surf) and, of course, the windpump.

King Heron #poem

I spied you threading your way up the narrow ghyll,
just down there where the waters tumble over rocks
on their long route down to the sea.

I watched you picking your way along the stoney path,
stopping to rest awhile under the shade of that old,
wizened tree.

I sensed that with each step of climb, up, up, onto the high moor,
your mind opened like the land,
and all of your thoughts broke free.

I was amused to observe you pause now and then,
looking about to take in the sights,
knowing that you had not yet seen me.

You think this land belongs to you,
your thoughts confirmed by the remnant workings
and heaps of spoil
the miners left behind.

You see evidence all around,
backed up by the words on the pages of your guide,
that this remote corner of the world
is here for humankind.

You sense that there are creatures here
and rue the fact that they hide from view,
wishing they’d show themselves,
so that you can tick them off the list you carry in your mind.

You imagine how it must have been to dig into this land,
with the dust, the noise, and the aching limbs,
to bring out the ore enriched
with the heaviest metal one can find.

And then, at last,
you catch sight of me
as I stand waiting patiently beside the stream.
I thought you’d never notice, so deeply did you dream.
You stop, and,
stretching out one arm,
guide your companion’s sight.
You speak in hushed voices, moving slowly so as not to create fright.

I shift my weight a little,
and turn my head to best present myself to you.
For there have been many others
who have stopped to see this profile view.
And trust me,
I know what to do.

Stick-like legs beneath my plump grey body,
surprisingly large when seen close by.
Arching neck, dagger bill,
the crown of feathers that adorns my head.
All of this can make you sigh.
And, of course,
I know only too well,
that what you really want is to see me fly.

So, I rouse myself fully, unfurl my mighty wings
and with three swift beats I am up and away,
hammering the air as I move along the stream, until,
tantalisingly out of sight,
I find another spot to stay.

Twice more I lead you on our little dance.
I fly upstream
and you advance.

You are thinking that there must be only meagre pickings
in such a small and insignificant stream as this,
and that to sustain so large a body
I must have to spend an age to find a useful meal from tiny fish,
and that to live here as I do, must be so hard and pose a lot of risk.
But there are things that you don’t realise, and sights that you have missed.

This is the miners’ land no more.

And you are only passing through.

And things are not exactly as they seem.

For the land you see around you,
all the hills, the rocks, the fields, the walls,
and each and every one of the countless little streams,
has a mighty ruler who has chosen to be at its helm.

And you, my passing admirer?

You are welcome in my realm.

(c) Tim O’Hare, July 2023

About this poem: This poem was inspired by the sights experienced and thoughts that dropped into my head during a wonderful walk while on our summer holiday in Ilkley, Yorkshire. The route took us along the valley of the River Wharfe and then north for lunch at The Old School Tearoom [highly recommended] in the tiny village of Hebden. From there, we slowly made our way up Hebden Ghyll, a narrow valley that was once the location for extensive lead-mining activities. As the terrain opened up to the expansive higher moorland, I saw a heron standing at the side of the small stream than ran down the ghyll. We stood and watched it for a few moments, and I commented that with the stream being so narrow it must offer slim pickings, and that it must be hard for such a large bird to sustain itself there. And then, of course, the heron did what herons always do…

Problem Shared #poem

A problem shared is a problem halved,
or so the saying goes.
But whether that is really true
is debatable I suppose.

My problem had been hidden deep inside
until you called it by its name.
And that was like the whistle,
blown to start the game.

The problem that was diagnosed
affected how I lived.
It stopped me getting on with things;
it made my brain a sieve.

This problem that you helped me with
is tricky to unpack,
It means my brain keeps worrying.
I never can relax.

The problem I am grappling with
is not a sickness I contracted.
Rather, it’s part of me,
so always I’m distracted.

The problem you explored with me
in many ways defies convention.
It’s not that I don’t want to,
I just can’t control my attention.

The problem that I shared with you
for years has had me troubled.
And to be honest, since you got involved
its size has more than doubled.

It isn’t that you didn’t help
because certainly you did.
It’s just that now I’m in the game
you’ve helped me lift the lid.

The problem that was inside me
has now come bursting out.
And now I want to dance and sing
and jump and scream and even shout!

My problem shared, it hasn’t halved,
or reduced in size at all.
But now we’ve torn down all the bricks
it’s no longer a wall.

So, although my problem may have multiplied
by three or four or five.
Truly, I give thanks
because you’ve helped me come alive.

(c) Tim O’Hare, July 2023

About this poem: I was given a diagnosis of ADHD at the age of 56 in summer 2022 through a private provider called ‘Problem Shared’, and for about 9 months in late 2022 and the first half of 2023 I had roughly monthly online sessions with a prescribing nurse. These conversations were always very enjoyable (for both of us I think) and helped me to unpack some of the challenges I was experiencing and to express my thoughts and ideas on tackling those challenges, and on ADHD more generally. This poem was not intended to relate only to my interactions with the ‘Problem Shared’ organization, but I used the name as a starting point. It captures the idea that whilst my diagnosis, and subsequent treatment, has certainly generally the flow of my life a lot better, it has also opened up all kinds of additional issues and challenges.

Build A Second Brain #poem

Build a Second Brain they said,
it will help you stay on top of your life.
It will help you manage your personal knowledge,
and keep you from informational overload strife.

Build a Second Brain they said,
it will definitely be something you’ll want to pass on.
It even comes with a fancy name.
It will be what they call a Zettelkasten.

Build a Second Brain they said,
it will be much more useful than note-taking.
It will help you organise all kinds of content,
while developing your skills in note-making.

Build a Second Brain they said,
it will help you make connections.
It will join up all of your different ideas,
rather than keeping them separate in sections.

Build a Second Brain they said,
it’ll stop your mind being like a sieve.
It’ll help you solve problems and find new solutions,
by helping you be more creative.

Build a Second Brain they said,
it will allow you to keep track of all your tasks.
It will help when you’re not quite sure what to do,
and not say ‘yes’ when ‘no’ is the best response if anyone asks.

Build a Second Brain they said,
it will lead to all kinds of digital high-jinks.
It will make you think about graphs and blocks,
and connect up your notes with links.

Build a Second Brain they said,
it does not matter which software you use.
It won’t eat up hours and hours of your time,
as you try out each one and can’t choose.

Build a Second Brain they said,
it really will be loads of fun.
It will give you so much more mental bandwidth,
than you have with just brain number one.

Build a Second Brain they said,
but I am really not sure.
I’ve enough problems working the brain that I’ve got,
that I doubt I could cope with one more!

(c) Tim O’Hare, July 2023

About the poem: I had been reading a lot about an area that is known as ‘Personal Knowledge Management’ (PKM) which is based on an older system of keeping discrete notes on index cards in slip boxes (in German this is called a ‘Zettelkasten’). One recent book on the topic (Building A Second Brain by Tiago Forte) has popularized the idea of a PKM-system as being like a ‘Second Brain’ and all kinds of claims are made by many authors about the usefulness of building a Second Brain for information storage and retrieval, creativity, task management etc. Me being me, I threw myself into building my own digital second brain and then (also me being me) I became a bit obsessed with making it perfect, consistent, all-encompassing etc. It rather took over my life for a bit.

Home #poem

I don’t know if it is the air:
clean and fresh like an ice-cold beer,
bubbles rising,
condensation on the glass,
enough to quench the fiercest thirst.
Because sometimes…
it’s more like warm flat ale,
the dregs of a barrel,
forced down,
because it cannot possibly go to waste.

Maybe it’s the trees:
aged beings,
firm trunks,
twisting branches,
rustling leaves –
all kinds of greens –
magic matter drawn from thin air.
Although sometimes I am not so keen…
when a dipping twig catches me in the eye,
or a gnarly root sends me sprawling to the ground.

Perhaps it is the quiet:
only the soft, gentle, companion sounds
to the peacefulness of nature’s play –
the babbling of a stream,
the stir of swaying grass,
the lowing of distant beasts.
Although sometimes…
the incessant cawing racket of jackdaws
batters my ears and interrupts my calm
far more acutely than the hum of traffic
or the playground shrieks of children.

It can also be the smells:
sweet fragrances of flowers,
fresh cut hay,
that first exhalation of dry soil
after a much-needed drink of rain.
Although sometimes…
there are certain emanations,
animal and vegetable,
that have me rushing to hold my nose.

I wonder whether it is the sky:
deep blue,
adorned with a constantly changing dance of clouds,
then fading to burning orange
before the deepest black, be-jewelled with silver stars.
But sometimes…
such vastness can be far too much,
for this brain to consume in one sitting.

It’s definitely the route:
words in the book,
lines upon the map,
places to stop for a view,
a little piece of history,
a drink
and a big piece of cake.
Although sometimes…
the wrong words have been used,
those lines have simply not been drawn in the right places,
and the much-anticipated tea shop is closed,
just because it is Wednesday.

It’s tempting to think it is the solitude:
just me and the hills and the trees and the birds
and…
and…
and…
Although, if I am really honest, I will admit that sometimes…
that can also be a state of loneliness.

In any case, it’s certainly also the companionship:
sauntering along,
side-by-side,
ahead,
behind,
talking about the world around us,
solving problems,
making plans.
Although sometimes…
you just will not walk at the right speed,
and yes, I do know that I drive you crazy
every time I stop to listen out for birds
or to take one more arty snap
with the app or the camera on my phone.

I think it could simply be the scale of it:
always as far as the eye can see
(and then beyond into the land of imagination),
stretching back through an infinitude of whens
and forward into yet more thens.
Although sometimes,
as truly awe-inspiring as that can be to consider,
I’m reminded that really there is only here and now.

So, it seems to be the all of it:
air,
trees,
quiet,
smells,
sky,
route,
solitude,
companionship,
scale.,
and more –
a little piece of all of the everything that has ever been,
regardless of whether I,
and all the others just like me,
am here to do my worst,
whilst all the time I try to do my best.
Because…
we can build things,
we can shape things,
we can sell things,
and we can waste things,
but when I take a walk outside,
away from all the stuff,
and when I allow myself to forget what I think I am,
just for a moment,
well then I am home.

(c) Tim O’Hare, June 2023

HOME: Our summer holidays tend to be based around walking in nature and I always find that this activity helps my brain to slow down and provides a great source of nourishment for my thinking. During the process of writing ‘Home’ I reflected on what it is that makes walking in nature such an important and grounding activity for me, and as I ran through various possibilities and found counterarguments for each one I came to realise that there is no single magic ingredient – it was simply that walking in nature was where I felt most at home.

Metamorphosis #poem

Is it time to slough it off,
that rough, tough, protective skin,
that hide for unseen treasures deep within.

He had not felt it grow, but grow it had for many years,
thickening the defensive wall,
blurring eyes and muffling ears.

So early it had started, so slowly it had grown,
he’d noticed not the tightening as it closed around his bones,
holding him together safe and sound or so it seemed,
whilst locking him away to form a shield for self-esteem.

But he had heard the screams
and he had seen the flashes of the inner rage
and he had felt the punches as they slammed against the cage,
only recognising who they came from when witnessed in his broken dreams.

Years passed and then
worn thin by constant wear the first crack had appeared,
at last revealing what it was
and how the dangers it held fast against were nothing to be feared.

So, slough it off, that rough, tough defensive skin,
and let new life begin.
Slough it off, that mask of false protection
and let us see at last what treasures lie within.

(c) Tim O’Hare, June 2023

About this poem: After a coaching session at work talking through some of the challenges I face as a result of my ADHD-traits and the difficulty I find in allowing myself to be the way that I want to be rather than the way that I think I ought to be I was struck by the thought that I needed to let go of the protective behaviours and attitudes I had unknowingly constructed for myself over the years and, in the process, allow my authentic self to emerge. The image that came to mind was of a reptile shedding its skin and for some reason the phrase ‘slough it off’ popped into my head in association with this image. I quickly became rather fond of the word ‘slough’ and then, for the first time ever in my life really and without any warning or deliberate effort, I started to write a poem. ‘Metamorphosis’ is the first evidence that having sloughed off my metaphorical protective skin there was something different and unexpected lurking within!

Note: I have previously posted all of my poetry in a separate website: http://andapoet.blog but I have decided that I will gradually migrate all of that content to this site.