Blog Archives

Night train to Berlin-Alexanderplatz, by Guy Fletcher

30/1/2017

Night train to Berlin-Alexanderplatz,
unknown stations flicker by,
I see your reflection, blessing my fortune
then shivering for I realise
everything beautiful comes to an end
and from high up on the ugly, yet majestic Fernsehturm
we view a myriad of neon lights
from the sprawling metropolis below.

I reflect on the horror here before
in the dark days of the Second World War

and all the petty dramas enacted now,
the same themes in any language.
We cross the Spree and enter a bar
drinking Pilsner into the early hours.
Night train to Berlin-Alexanderplatz,
a name to grace any poem,
these magical hours swiftly glide
yet I feel a tinge of sadness for

everything beautiful comes to an end,
I dread a broken heart which cannot mend.

The Lonely Tomb, by Ian Fletcher

23/1/2017

Lonely tomb beside the road
I cycle past you every day
sometimes stopping to reflect
on your sad ruin and neglect
before continuing on my way.

Now neither flowers nor wreaths
are laid upon your weathered stones
in memory of those who lie beneath
world-forgotten, abandoned so long
to the elements and rampant weeds.

Oh, lonely tomb beside the road
is it only I who rides past each day
that can hear your melancholy call
a call which haunts and seems to say
“Life means nothing, nothing at all”?

In Search Of The Perfect View, by Guy Fletcher

23/1/2017

He ventured in search of the perfect view
to make his fortune as an artist
but fatally fell from Striding Edge
dying by the shores of cold Red Tarn Lake,
found three months later by a shepherd
with faithful dog still by his side
though his bones were whitened and the dog well fed!

Today the wind is raw and wild
as if the forlorn spirit of Charles Gough,
bruise coloured clouds paint the sky
high up on sinister, untamed Helvellyn
where many a soul has met an untimely end.
He thought this perfect view would make his name
but as a tragic subject he found fame.

Spectre In A Church, by Guy Fletcher

19/1/2017

I entered the ancient church to escape
the mass of people and stifling urban air
believing I was alone but then my eyes
were transfixed by a young woman on a pew.
She rose, I noticed her beauty:
clothes from an era long since past,
tall and alluring with platinum hair,
I glimpsed her lovely eyes and sensed despair.

She smiled sadly and then vanished
as the sun illuminated holy murals
and I noticed a beam of light, speckles of dust
wondering if she were there at all.
Last night I fell into a vivid dream
following her out of the silent church.
Like the sun burns away a wispy cloud
she disappeared...into the city crowd.

Letter To Marianne, by Guy Fletcher

14/1/2017

"If you stretch out your hand, I think you can reach mine." - Leonard Cohen

Leonard Cohen heard his old lover was dying
so penned her a touching letter.
He must have pictured their years in Greece
feeling as immortal as Zeus,
drinking and smoking under an azure Aegean sky,
laughing ,caressing, old age far ahead
now the days of their youth are long since dead.

He wrote the poignant song Marianne,
a farewell tune full of pathos
but Hydra times lay decades in the past,
once youthful bodies decaying.
Yes, he pictures their years in Greece
writing that he would very soon depart
like poor Marianne...who once shared his heart.

Last Orders At The Vulcan, by Guy Fletcher

9/1/2017

Last orders have been called,
now it stands alone and forlorn,
surrounded by an angry army of traffic cones;
yet in St. Fagan's it'll be reborn.
But Saturday laughter is a thing of the past
and punters' ghosts peer with dismay
at the pitiful boarded-up old pub,
another Cardiff landmark wrenched away.

Yes, ghosts will weep at the sight,
also people very much alive,
and I wonder what monstrosity
in this place will arrive.
Goodbye friend now consigned to history,
one more pub closed in times so tough;
I guess you were loved by many
but perhaps in the end...by not enough.

The Lighthouse, by Guy Fletcher

6/1/2017

So many times you lost the view
of the lighthouse from the golden sand;
the poison mist of melancholia rolled in
and though you could sense it coming and feel it
make you shudder, it was unstoppable.
How you feared those voices in your mind
that sickened your soul and made reason blind.

So many times you lost the view
but the sun always burned the mist away.
When your creative spirit had run its course,
that is when the danger signs appeared
from distant thunder to a brutal brainstorm,
but when you saw the foul fog once again
you chose the River Ouse to save you from the pain.