Tag Archives: poem

From My Window

From my window,

I imagine les frères Lumière,

wish, dream of sound,

wrens, lavericks, whaaps an shalders, as

beaks open, muted by glass that

separates us from

their verve,

time to

bill-read and celebrate deprived of

notes, arpeggios, songs…

From my window,

salt smudges clouds, blue,

The Old Manse,

sunsets,

seasons – each shaft of light creates pictures always defined by

criptic skies,

limelight from sun,

my human eyes, stunned cameras in

Shetlandscope caged in a frame

rectangular.

From my window,

life secluded in a fisheye, where

herring gulls turn barn owls, and

corbies re-write their shadows,

corvids, alive, play in

our sky…

CO-VID confined us behind glass, like

a Chaplin on celluloid.

© Nat Hall 2020

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A Tale of Two Islands

You, in your corner of Antrim, where your sea jewel emerald, a giant heaved up a causeway in

a story black as basalt, hexagonal to crystalise wrath from ocean;

and yet too short to reach my shore. He never thought of a land bridge, since you fret at

Carrick-a-Reede,

planks and ropes, in suspension between two cliffs, where fulmars glide, cackle with pride – in that Northern Irish accent…

You should be dreaming in Glasgow.

Broch making in Hoswick

Here, we build brochs as watch towers from rounded stones to eye each movement from the sea.

Da Roost has declared us landlocked.

I made a fresh pot of veg soup with enough carrots, leek and kale; freed my coatrack from winter tales And polished taps to revive chrome…

A full spring clean I call redd-up.

I count minutes between two gusts, knot for windspeed around headlands where lights still blink and

refract hope…

Instead our world’s tied to bollards, silenced and still; locked inside docks, behind closed doors,

I too wish to forward the clock;

watch you sail past my island shore, as the sun rises in your eyes… Watch you glide across the pressgang, long corrugated corridor that reunites our words and smiles,

Instead, I listen to the wind…

What a start to the new decade, April and voar. Somebody unleashed a devil, a terrorist invisible that sweeps and snatches blindfolded…

And pray it spares you in Belfast.

© Nat Hall 2020

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Cacophonous

Cirrus clouds above our land

In this world silenced by a terrorist disease, skylarks still sing above an early April hissing gale.

In this part of the main island, where Sandness looks lost inside haze, tussock grass yields, yet those birds we call laverick have returned as lairds o’da braes – elevated above da tun an da scattald (human dwellings and open fields where grazing’s shared among crofters…).

Deserted world except for birds…

They will defy the harshest gust, ignore that brutal tongue from gales to sing to blueness and the sun.

To each passing of cirrus clouds, they do not know the world’s locked down, as they ascend among ravens, oblivious to material us.

They have returned in their hundreds to the daresay of each hillside.

On this Monday lost in April, this sky has turned cacophonous, as hillsides home song of skylarks, that dare to ignore gusts from gales…

And us, below, slaved to silence.

© Nat Hall 2020

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Hiroshima

No siren or red flag,

high from blue sky without warning.

I should have read each 

little sign, but

June began

bright, so

hazy – 

bluebells 

untouched in the garden,

air filled with 

     song from summer birds –

curlews, skylarks and

                        bold blackbirds.

In between Lino and floorboards,

our frantic feet would

slide through time;

and imagined 

                yours on tarmac about to

                       to leap out through

             thick clouds.

High from

blue sky without 

warning,

one 

     single ring,

                your frantic voice,

                      shaped one single cloud

champignon,

          and felt that bright light,

                       blasted heart –

one final blow without 

warning. 

Nat Hall 2017

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Vagvísir

Now, to a darker one…

Have you chosen your place of death?

Is it in the shade of blossoms, 

where the 

wind 

blows to carry words

no 

one will 

know? Or 

is it outside a

lighthouse – where 

whiteness stands so 

close to

gold,

where

maalies* glide,

the great wild bairn* 

free and 

shameless?

Now, in

the 

eye of

the compass,

you see the meaning of

your birth –

your talisman 

in between breasts,

the 

tattoo of

staves in circles;

what’s left of

It lives inside you,

deep inside

the womb of the dead, and 

yet you need me

as a

guide – as

no one points to

their last 

breath.
Notes:

(From Shetland dialect)

maalies: fulmar petrels 

bairn: child 
© Nat Hall 2016 

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Heading North Is Here!

Here, here, poetry from fellow poet Andy Murray: available for your bookshelf. His initial post read as follows:

The day has finally arrived: my poetry collection, Heading North, is published today by Nordland Publishing. I’ve seen a preview copy and I’m really pleased with it, and proud of its inclusion into Nordland’s Songs Of The North series. The blurb on the back of the book reads: Andrew James Murray is a writer and poet from Manchester, […]

https://cityjackdaw.wordpress.com/2015/12/06/heading-north-is-here/

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blue

20150827-002036.jpg

blue on the orange cloud

blue

Isa,
rune of ice,
written as I,
in prey to time, there,
motionless;
found in blue boreal forest,
rooted inside depth of winter,
where frost records
prints of our souls in icicles.
As you descend into
our world,
trees bear homage to
your static sense of ego –
they may recite those words for
snow, so many eyes
deep in cold air,
born of lone
clouds in
a blind
sky.
That woman’s voice in
the forest, with
a piano,
calls
for
her child
somebody
turn in a snowflake.

© Nat Hall 2015

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August 26, 2015 · 11:20 pm

together

Here,
as gales gradually sweep away the harshness of winter, and birds begin to fill our sky with slightly bolder songs, a poem of love 🙂

Together

Now come undone.

Into
the garden
they gathered,
in between branches and
dawn’s pearls, as
blue dominated their
world, and
blackbirds dreamt
deep in ivy;

Asleep
they fell on satin
leaves,
as sunrise
burnt their game of
lust,
entangled in
jet black
iris
that
fell to prey,
pleasure & dust…

As furtive as dawn may vanish,
they will nestle in secret
leaves,
feel
warmth from an
afternoon
sun,
flutter
along sweet
summer breeze,
in an orchard charged with
apples, cherries & love.

© Nat Hall 2015

through the green

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Giants

A poem in anticipation to spring tides 🙂

Earth Giants

Tell me the story of the stone.

Behind each
rock stands a giant.

Old Man of Storr has a brother
on an island North by
North East,
lost
in
darkness
most of winter,
who
answers to
Old Man of Hoy –

Ancient headlands
now separated
by a shore;
how do they
grow is a mystery
only water carves deep in
time…

And if you
obey your compass,

you will
enter the dragon’s
den & face its
teeth,
polished by
sleek North Atlantic & ballroom
moon laced inside
tides;
salt,
satin sari
Nordic style.

They are immobile
travellers in
the face
of
seafaring stars.

© Nat Hall 2015

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stirring

Les prémices
(Early Stirrings)

It
has
begun.

Earthly
murmurs,
February in 2 digits,
that’s when town birds begin to
sing –
twenty
past nine,
sparrows engage in
real chatter,
starlings
gather at the
gutter to yarn & sip from
last night’s rain…
Echoing gulls round
Bressay Sound
call to a sky
made
of
graphite
inside a world of
statistics,
like his pencil on
plain paper.

© Nat Hall 2015

IMG_9489

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