Anne Smith

I am Anne Smith, a graduate in English Language and Literature, which I taught throughout my career. I wrote poems in my adolescence but took it up again after my husband died from cancer in 2006. By that time I had retired, though I still keep busy with charities, education and the council. I sing in two choirs and also visit the theatre, my favourite theatre being the Globe on the South Bank.
I attend St Mary’s Catholic Church though I was brought up an Anglican; two of my family, a sister and a niece, are Anglican priests. So I am pretty ecumenical by temperament.

Poems: Lunatic and Loving

‘The lunatic, the lover and the poet
Are of imagination all compact’

– Shakespeare

‘I’m not mad,’ the lunaitc sid.
‘Hearing voices inside my head.
They’re made up of all that I’ve read;
I’ll listen to them till I’m dead.’

The lover to this: Nor am I.
It’s my passion that leads me to sigh,
And emotion so strong that I must cry
All that I feel to the sky.’

‘I stand between,’ says the poet.
I feel what you feel but don’t show it;
And when you hear voices, I know it.
This love tht you have, I’ll bestow it
On all those who read what I write,
Keeping my memory bright.’

– by Anne Smith

Shakespeare and the Globe

You strutted and fretted your hour,
Shakespeare, on a stage like this;
Knowing your actions you wrote for them.
Though they are gone your verse remains.

– by Anne Smith

Shakespeare’s Globe

Bawdy, noisy, smelly, dirty –
Robustly vulgar – that must have been
The early Globe on rip roaring Bankside.
Now the South Bank is a centre…

– by Anne Smith

Sunt Lacrimae Rerum

With our sublunary nature we can only
Make the best of things, put a brave face on them.
The jester’s red and yellow…

– by Anne Smith

The Poet - Shakespeare

The sculptor fights the ugly block
Of hard grey stone before him
Seeking the imprisoned shape.
Sleeves rolled up, sweat-streaked …

– by Anne Smith

Poetic Fantasy

The Comic Muse knocked on my door.
Wearing a tutu over black leggings,
And a mediaeval liripipe.
She also had a black eye …

– by Anne Smith

Death of Tragic Hero

Most men fear death:
Whatever hardships they’ve suffered
They do not want to die.
A minority …

– by Anne Smith

Not Only the Tragic Hero

We must also remember –
Not the villains, Iago, Edmund –
And not the victims either,
Desdemona, Cordelia …

– by Anne Smith

Poems, Poetry and Poets

Discussing the art and mystery
Of making poetry,
Sometimes when it is inconvenient,
And sometimes it doesn’t come at all.

– by Anne Smith

Question

If the poems of my youth were
Adolescent
Are these scribblings of my age then
Senescent …

– by Anne Smith

WYSIWYG

I like poems which are surreal,
Existential, impressionist;
And poems without capital letters
Or the support of punctuation …

– by Anne Smith

Poet

Leads a humdrum life, cooking,
Cleaning, shopping, gardening…
Suddenly a poem has you by the throat
Which you have to deal with, get it off you…

– by Anne Smith

Poetry is electric

Poetry is electric: it tingles in the head
And crackles down the arm.
Words scamper to the page,
Jostle in line for the right place…

– by Anne Smith

Memories

Little, sharp, unbidden,
Snapshots of memory
Come into the mind.
No photographs remain…

– by Anne Smith

Concentration...

As a meat stock cube
Encapsulates in little
The goodness of beef
So a poem may…

– by Anne Smith

Poems

Poems are like, and yet unlike, crosswords.
They are puzzles which involve finding words
And putting them in the right places.
But whereas with crosswords you know…

– by Anne Smith

Language and reason

Language and reason tie us to the earth;
In hackneyed phrases our desires congeal;
Accurate words have only worldly worth –
Meaning betrays the truth of what we feel…

– by Anne Smith

On not writing poems

Beautiful, virginal, sheets
Of plain white paper await
Despoiling by pen or keyboard.
Multiple ravishments…

– by Anne Smith

Patchwork

In my box I keep
Individual lines of verse
Which came to me once
But had to go away…

– by Anne Smith

The Poet loses her inspiration

One night in hot weather
The fan in the bedroom
Blew the sheets from the bed
And the thoughts from her head…

– by Anne Smith

I woke up in the night..

I woke up in the night fizzing with poems
And had to put the light on.
Reaching for my pad and paper
I tried to capture what was in my head…

– by Anne Smith

The poet's dilemma

In my head there lurked
The first two lines of a verse
And skulking close beside it
Two lines to close the verse…

– by Anne Smith

I Look for a poem

I know which poem I want to find.
And as I look I feel a frisson
And hear a tiny chuckle.
From the corner of my eye…

– by Anne Smith

Haiku ambush

haiku pen me in
five seven five my mantra:
is there no escape?

– by Anne Smith

Triolet: On being asked to write a Sonnet

If nothing comes to mind
I want to write,
What verses can I find
If nothing comes to mind?…

– by Anne Smith

Triolet

Love, swift as thought
Invaded my harsh heart and bound it fast.
As I still fought
Love, swift as thought…

– by Anne Smith

Poetic styles

Terza Rima
Villanelle:
Writing these
Would be swell –

– by Anne Smith

Lit Crit

I used to teach once, to the sixth form,
Literary Criticism.

What’s that, miss?…

– by Anne Smith

Advice on Prosody

Poems do not have to rhyme
But if you do, to pass the time,
Pay heed to the rhythm too
To keep the structure straight and true…

– by Anne Smith

Modern Lexicography

While I’ve always maintained a close relationship
With my pen, I never got to first base with
The keyboard. My keyboard has a life of its own.
‘Many garts on your brithday!’ it writes…

– by Anne Smith

Thought Balloon

Balloons float from my mind
In all colours
Drifting to white clouds
Quietly alight…

– by Anne Smith

Other Voices

We know the major characheters
In history and legend.
Imagining how their sidekicks tick
Adds interest to the tales.

– by Anne Smith

Deluge

‘Isn’t the weather appalling?
This could last for the rest of the month.’
“Longer than that’, thought Noah,
As he reached out for his saw…

– by Anne Smith

North Sea Passage: Vikings

Under a grey and cloudy sky we follow the whale roads
Adventure seeking for younger sons we are
Far from rocky homesteads with no room for all…

– by Anne Smith

Octavius Caesar speaks

When we were young we all looked up to
The grown up Antony, Caesar’s right hand man,
Commander of the left wing
At the battle of Pharsalus..

– by Anne Smith

Helen

Old men sat in the sun on the walls of Troy
Oblivious of most of what went on around them,
Till Helen walked by them teasing the senses…

– by Anne Smith

Procession: Athens

With faces like flowers the grave-eyed girls
Stamp the beaten earth with ritual feet,
Skirts closed like pleated petals.
Flutes silver the …

– by Anne Smith

Good King Wenceslas:

The peasant speaks

I thought at first
That the story was all about me.
After all. I was the reason…

– by Anne Smith

Jongleur

A legendary tale

I cannot read or write.
I have no Latin.
I do not buy or sell…

– by Anne Smith

Stately Home Owner speaks:

For a thousand years they lived here
In this house and the earlier ones.
Lined up along the walls, they are still here…

– by Anne Smith

Joseph speaks

After the Epiphany:

So, they came from Jerusalem,
These strange exotic people
Speaking in other tongues…

– by Anne Smith

Dutiful Son

I’ll ring my mother today. Just to keep in touch.
You know- poor old thing, living alone now,
No one to talk to, putting a brave face on it…

– by Anne Smith

End Game

And when she awoke
It was to the sound
Of voices, young but grownup,
Chatting somewhere nearby…

– by Anne Smith

Gang Member

Inside my head I am angry,
Always angry, but not bad.
I’ve no one that cares for me
No one who thinks I’m special…

– by Anne Smith

Earthquake

After Haiti

I am buried under my house.
The ground shook and groaned
before the house fell down.

– by Anne Smith

Peter

Soul mates, best friends,
Often disagreeing,
But bound together all our days,
All the life we shared.

– by Anne Smith

I am alone

I am alone but you are in my heart;
We are apart and though for ever one
I am alone.

– by Anne Smith

Sonnet for Peter

Tonight I’m at your deathbed once again
Watching you lie unnaturally still,
Eyes closed, not moving, suffering no pain…

– by Anne Smith

I woke today weeping

I woke today weeping
For as I was sleeping
Your form in my dreaming…

– by Anne Smith

Crossing the Bar: Bae Ceredigion

In the grey sea a small white fishing smack
Heads for the horizon, crossing the bar…

– by Anne Smith

Mourning

Mourning is raw
Sweeping over arid plains
In a north-east wind…

– by Anne Smith

Unlike Queen Victoria

I see no reason to go into black
To show the world I was a loving wife
Though dedicated to her public duty…

– by Anne Smith

Not changing, enduring

I am so far out at sea
I could use shape-shifter
As seal or dolphin.
But I choose instead…

– by Anne Smith

Jetsam

Above the high tideline
Stranded, I lie
Far away from
The countless murmurings…

– by Anne Smith

I drift alone...

I drift alone upon uncharted seas,
Sails flapping, I am taken all aback
And prey to adverse currents, winds and fog…

– by Anne Smith

I think of you

I think of you as trees begin to change;
When one great leaf, more golden than the rest,
Spirals to earth past traceries of black

– by Anne Smith

No one is truly dead

No one is truly dead
While they live in the memory.
In the mind they throng,
The not dead,

– by Anne Smith

Elegy

Without you

The world is monochrome
Unstable, misshapen…

– by Anne Smith

Dream

On this side of the river
I am comfortable
Knowing where I am
Whom I shall see…

– by Anne Smith

The corners of your mouth…

The corners of your mouth
Turned down in repose
But when you were happy rose
In a delighted curve.

– by Anne Smith

Months and Days and Nights

Year follows year, season follows season,
Day follows night, night follows day:
Changes in seasons keep our senses sharp,
While one will come, the other pass away.

– by Anne Smith

February

February is not a poetic month –
Not even a harmonious word,
Hard to say and harder still to spell.
But worst of all is having to endure it…

– by Anne Smith

March

When I say I love water,
To be on water, in water, by it,
I mean: ocean, sea, river,
Stream, lake, pool, pond…

– by Anne Smith

Spring

grey day
May
skies cry
lower, closer…

– by Anne Smith

Good Friday: Walk of Witness

A child wept at the crucifxion
Today, at the shopping centre,
Though Jesus was only an actor,
And His blood unconvincingly orange…

– by Anne Smith

Heard in the evening

In the summer night
A violin’s plangent song
Fills us with sadness…

– by Anne Smith

Early morning - summer

a cloud of
translucent blossoms,
night moths flew up
from the dry leaves…

– by Anne Smith

Storm in the Dordogne

It was becoming hotter all that day;
The sun burned down, the sky was cloudless, blue,
And on the terrasse where we spent our time…

– by Anne Smith

Art and Nature

After the heatwave
It was not sunny but cloudy,
Dry with a bright breeze…

– by Anne Smith

Summer Weather 2012

clouds threaten
skies drench
earth sodden
rivers flood…

– by Anne Smith

In Praise of Autumn

Heart-stoppingly new,
All pastels, still furled,
Still budded, not yet bedded,
Spring spreads pale skirts…

– by Anne Smith

Autumn Garden

Summer’s merging sweetly
Into autumn;
Harvest’s over: no fruit remains –
apple, pear, fig…

– by Anne Smith

October Rain

Early this morning
I go to my garden
To visit my plants.
As I go down the paths…

– by Anne Smith

November Night

Wrapped up against the cold
I turned the corner. And saw there,
There where never before was
A small Big Wheel and…

– by Anne Smith

Winter

There’s something wrong with November,
It’s heavy and leaden and grey
With no promise of anything good…

– by Anne Smith

To Winter

The gloomy sky as summer slides away
Reflects a mood both grey and overcast…

– by Anne Smith

Frost

Footprints like exotic leaves
On a silver floor;
Fir trees prematurely grey
Where they were green before…

– by Anne Smith

Snow

It’s here again.
Feared and welcomed:
The mysterious magic
Of waking to whiteness…

– by Anne Smith

‘There's no business Like snow business’ or Here it comes again!

Snow decorates the pavements,
Icing-sugars the roads…

– by Anne Smith

Summer rainstorm coming

Under the threatening clouds
At the end of a long grey road
There was a sudden splash of orange
A woman in a summer dress…

– by Anne Smith

Observations

Sometimes I write of worlds that don’t exist;
Sometimes an everyday event
Attracts attention, asks to be set down
And here recorded.

– by Anne Smith

A dialogue

The toecaps of my walking boots
Looked up in shocked amaze:
‘You cannot want us to go out
On icy, snowy days!…

– by Anne Smith

Christmas Song

Christmas is a-cumen in
Lhude sing ‘Oh blow!’
Parties, silly hats. old songs,
If you’re really unlucky, snow…

– by Anne Smith

Christmas festivity

Tis the season to be jolly
Crowned with mistletoe and holly
Paper chains, mince pies and gifts,
Snow in painter-pleasing drifts…

– by Anne Smith

Epiphany

They came to Bethlehem, it seems, by the light
Of a supernova, these men – or women –
Interested in the stars and science in general.
There were three gifts, we are told…

– by Anne Smith

Fairy Tale

She was a bundle of sticks and bones –
He less so, but then he went sooner –
Who would chirp and smile to meet the new day…

– by Anne Smith

Cause and Effect

Archimedes, it seems,
Invented the computer,
Through whose gears he could show…

– by Anne Smith

Rant

The man on the radio said
Having your family round you
Makes life worth while.
And I thought…

– by Anne Smith

Stereotyping

Oats and whisky, pibroch and caber;
Beret, absinthe, Croque Monsieur-
These are the words we use to remind us…

– by Anne Smith

Room 101

What shall I put into Room 101?
What do I dislike so much that I want it
To be gone, never to have been?
I can rant as much as I like…

– by Anne Smith

On a Mathematical Plane

‘Nature’s great book is written in Mathematical symbols’ -Galileo

On the Mathematical Plain
A troupe of those small…

– by Anne Smith

Magic and Mystery

Under our feet
Where we stand
On what we call reality
Lie magic and mystery…

– by Anne Smith

Invocation: to a pumpkin

Orange-glowing globe, light the gloaming,
Banish gloom, ward off goblins
With terrifying teeth: your face frightens folk…

– by Anne Smith

Meditation

In that inner room
There are no windows.
When I shut the door
Only velvet blackness…

– by Anne Smith

Hurricane life

In the eye of the storm of life
Round which all places, all times, whirl,
Multi-faceted, separate, confused…

– by Anne Smith

Varieties of happiness

The world is glorious, shining, sparkling,
Green and gold with promise;
Childhood holidays or being in love,
You can’t keep still for a moment…

– by Anne Smith

If only...

If only, in real life,
We went round as if in a film
Hearing the music which tells us
If we should expect the worst…

– by Anne Smith

Today is a doing day

Today is a doing day:
Washing and cleaning, tidying
And reorganising.
The pale blue sky looks down…

– by Anne Smith

Innocence

In church today a baby called out
A loud holy coo of interest or pleasure.
The sound had no accent,
Gave no information as to gender…

– by Anne Smith

Lachrymosa

A tear shines
In the Virgin’s eye,
Slides down her cheek,
Quietly splashing…

– by Anne Smith

Divine Speculation

Is heaven, I wonder, warm
Like a summer day in a flowery park?
Or bright,like a sharp frosty day…

– by Anne Smith

Knitting

When we are born we are nothing,
An inchoate blob of physical needs.

When we are young we begin…

– by Anne Smith

When we die....

And when we die
We start to be forgotten.
As we fall asleep
Our lives become a dream…

– by Anne Smith

The End of the World

Above the earth
Beyond the stars
Behind all galaxies
At the edge of the universe…

– by Anne Smith

Auschwitz

We carry the guilt of the living.
We carry the guilt of the Gentile.
We do not come here as tourists
But in expiation: to pay our respects…

– by Anne Smith

Van with Man

I passed a van today with on its side
Advertisement: Bespoke
Curtains and blinds and something else.
I wondered idly what the driver’d say…

– by Anne Smith

Morning Thought

about dementia

Waking, I’d suddenly no idea
Who or where I was
Or the time or day…

– by Anne Smith

History lesson

The dark gods swooped down;
They smelled the reeking hecatombs
Burning on the temple floor.
They sniffed, they lapped the pools of blood…

– by Anne Smith

If everyone believed.

If everyone believed
And I don’t mean ‘If only
Everyone believed’ –
My mood being reflective…

– by Anne Smith

Wind crackles...

Wind crackles through the withered stalks,
Through leafless trees grotesquely stretching claws
Towards the oppressive and metallic sky…

– by Anne Smith

Dreaming

Sometimes in the night
We slip from our familiar world
Into the sepia world of dreaming
Where everything is different…

– by Anne Smith

Nights

No man’s land, between the days, nights lie
Uninterested, black, mysterious.
Dark pearls upon the endless strings of time…

– by Anne Smith

A waking

I wake up
I open my eyes
it is not too hot
it is not too cold…

– by Anne Smith

Night Light

when it is dark
my bedside light
fights shadows
drives back goblins…

– by Anne Smith

Night sounds

Come to the door at night. Listen.
The wind breathes softly through the leafless boughs
With a tiny rattle as they move together…

– by Anne Smith

A grey day?

‘It’s a grey day’ we tell each other;
In fact the sky is white not grey.
As we cross the river the water
Shimmers in silver, and raindrops…

– by Anne Smith

Family Matters

When family members die
They live in memory;
They, with our childhoods too,
Are part of who we are.

– by Anne Smith

Family Tree

My family tree unrolls before me,
A tattered fan, thin, with holes
Where people are missing.
Facing the other way I know everyone…

– by Anne Smith

Reminiscence from WW2

When I was little they said
After the war we’ll have bananas.
They talked about them so much
I rather thought they were fighting…

– by Anne Smith

Fifty three years ago..

You sit by the fire with crumpets
Your face flushed slightly in its rising heat;
I pour the tea and play the gramophone…

– by Anne Smith

Family death

A parent has died:
Generations shift their places
On the family tree…

– by Anne Smith

Sonnet for my Mother

Gwen Pickard: 1914-1979
Your photo, standing on my windowsill,
Perpetuates a joke I did not share…

– by Anne Smith

Gwen

for my mother

You’ re sitting on a table
In a photographic studio;
You are three or four…

– by Anne Smith

My Father

(for ERM, aged 92)

I’ll tell you what it is:
Old people, sometimes, shrink
And are so wizened, mind and body…

– by Anne Smith

For Ernest Millington, my father: 1916-2009

Read at his funeral in May 2009
I see you, hanging on my kitchen wall,
Pointing a minatory finger in that way you had…

– by Anne Smith

To those who follow me

To those who follow me
So far ahead you haven’t yet been born
Ileave this message:
If you’ve an interest in who we were…

– by Anne Smith

A Life

Spinning the thread of the life,
Trailing it behind her,
Black-cloaked Fate sits brooding.
Silver-gowned Fate weaves the thread

– by Anne Smith