Tag: POEMS

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.

I Am Not Lost #poem

I’m just back in from my morning run.
Before I left, she asked me how far I was planning to go,
and I replied, “Only about 3 miles – maybe thirty minutes or so”.
I showed her my intended route on the map,
so that in an emergency she could find me in a hurry.

As soon as I was outside, my mind was transported.
There were poppies and other wildflowers in the hay fields,
faces turned to greet the morning sun.
I ran through swathes of wheat and barley waving in the breeze,
reed beds down by the fen, and woods with birds singing merrily in the trees.

But I had been far too optimistic, and so made several false turns,
finding my way blocked, not wanting to squeeze
my way through tick-infested ferns.
At one point I had to whisper my way past a group of young cattle
that barred my path, even nibbling at my shorts.
Fortunately, that encounter did not end up as a battle.

Some people might laugh at my incompetence,
but I have to disagree because
I was not lost.
And though I will reluctantly admit that I did not know exactly where I was,
I don’t think it really mattered
that I wasn’t quite where I’d expected myself to be.

Anyway, I’m back now,
and as soon as I came through the door I said “sorry”
because I didn’t want the atmosphere to sour.
You see, I had run five-point-four miles, and been out for almost an hour.
And though she didn’t say anything, if past form is anything to go by,
I expect that she had started to worry.

My run gave me a chance to think, and realise that
even though things didn’t go entirely to plan,
I am not lost.
In fact, I happily accept that I do not know exactly where I am,
because it really doesn’t matter
that I am not where I expect myself to be.

(c) Tim O’Hare, July 2023

About this poem: We moved base for the second week of our summer holiday, and after a few less than successful days in Horning in the Norfolk Broads we moved to the village of Redgrave in Suffolk. I instantly relaxed, and was happy, with walks and runs from the doorstep. For my first morning run there I decided to do a loop of Redgrave and Lopham Fen, memorized a route, or at least thought I had memorized a route, and set out. It was a very enjoyable run but, predictably, not knowing the terrain, I dropped off my planned route and had to use my instinct to find my way back to our accommodation, running further, and taking a fair bit longer, than I had planned. I was not exactly lost, but I did not know exactly where I was and as I was running the words ‘I am not lost but I do not now exactly where I am‘ began to play repeatedly in my mind and the seeds of the poem were sown. I think it’s fair to say that the poem isn’t really about being physically lost while out on a run at all…

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.