Tag Archives: Robin Helweg-Larsen

Sonnet: RHL, ‘Walls of Work’

2 Replies

With walls of work that never wear away
my house is halfway hilled above a plain;
ghosts of unwritten books moan and complain;
I step out on to scree, sloping and grey.
I’ve tried for thirty years to build up high,
raising five kids free of smog, vice and town;
the treacherous slope of scree slips, I fall down,
am shown – kids grown and gone – more work’s a lie.

Now I’m spreadeagled on the eager shale,
not daring move, gripping at slipping fears
of sliding down to sneered-at country vale
where poor folk pick, don’t buy, fresh fruit from trees
and I could go, unknown, to known warm seas,
run barefoot on the beach of my ideas.

*****

First published in The Road Not Taken – The Journal of Formal Poetry in Summer 2016 (but written a decade before that); thanks, Dr. Kathryn Jacobs!

“While everybody on the beach is relaxing, this chap runs by like he stole running.” by Gerald Lau is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Using form: Nonce form: RHL, ‘Camelot at Dusk’

3 Replies

From under low clouds spreading from the south
The red sun drops slow to night’s waiting mouth.
Rush lamps are lit; the guards changed on the walls;
Supper will not be served in the Great Halls
With Arthur still away. Each in their room,
The members of the Court leave books or loom
To say their Vespers in the encroaching gloom.

Lancelot, up in his tower,
Sees the sunset storm clouds glower,
Feels his blood’s full tidal power,
Knows he has to go.
In her bower, Gwenivere
Puts a ruby to her ear,
Brushes firelight through her hair,
Feels her heartbeat grow.

Guard, guard, watch well:
For the daylight thickens
And the low cloud blackens
And the hot heart quickens
To rebel.

From his tower, caring not
For consequences, Lancelot
Crosses courts of Camelot,
Pitying his King.
In her bower, Gwenivere
Feels his presence coming near,
Waits for footfalls on the stair,
Lets her will take wing.

Guard, guard, watch well:
If attention slackens
When the deep bond beckons,
Evil knows Pendragon’s
In its spell.

And as the storm clouds, rubbing out the stars,
Deafened the castle and carved lightning scars,
Drenched Arthur rode for flash-lit Camelot
Where he, by Queen and Knight, was all forgot.

*****

‘Camelot at Dusk’ was originally published by Candelabrum, a now-defunct poetry magazine in the UK which appeared twice-yearly from April 1970 to October 2010. Candelabrum provided what was, in the 1970s, a very rare platform for British poets working in metrical and rhymed verse.

Technically, the poem uses a variety of forms. The opening and closing passages use iambic pentameter with simple sequential rhyme for a level of detachment (and the only times Arthur is mentioned by name). The passages with Lancelot and Gwenivere use shorter trochaic lines with denser rhymes for more intensity. The passages of warnings to the guards… well, they have a shifting but repeating structure all their own.

Because of the bracketing of the more emotional passages by the more detached opening and closing, the piece feels very complete. As a whole, it is a nonce form. Whether I can ever repeat it successfully, I don’t know. I have tried, but not been satisfied with the result.

‘Camelot at Dusk’ can also now be found in The Hypertexts, which gives it a very respectable Seal of Approval. And it features in the Potcake Chapbook ‘Lost Love’.

Photo: “Eilean Donan Castle at Dusk” by Bruce MacRae is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

Short poem: RHL, ‘Many Marriages’

Leave a reply

Lots of marriage is good –
go ahead! We all should…
but bigamy sadly‘s illegal.
The solution, of course,
is: Encourage divorce!
And remarry. Kings do it. Be regal!

*****

Just published in The Asses of Parnassus – thanks, Brooke Clark!

Photo: “Charles Camilla Jamaica 2008” by Mattnad is licensed under CC BY-SA 3.0.

Sonnet: RHL, ‘Zombies and Wolves’

Leave a reply

Women I’ve failed or wronged or left behind
approach my thoughts like zombies for the kill;
I’ve literary walled defences – still
given the chance, they’ll eat my brains, my mind.

Through forest, orchard, farmyard in decay,
a shadow of a wolf slips greyly in,
my thoughts of death, grim, wasted, ill, rib-thin,
tracking my weak resolve, hungry to slay.

Mountaintops blown apart, forests clear-cut,
where’s there to hide? Nature doesn’t exist;
her landscapes crushed in patriarchal fist.
This former farmland hides my ruined hut.

Impotent, I still write, thus giving birth
to future wolves and zombies of the earth.

*****

This sonnet was originally published in Candelabrum (a twice-yearly print magazine of formal verse that ran bravely from 1970 to 2010… now sadly defunct, eaten by wolves or zombies or whatever snacks on print poetry magazines), and republished in Bewildering Stories #1039, a decades-old online magazine of primarily speculative fiction.

Photo: “Full ‘Wolf’ Moon – January 22, 2008” by Rick Leche is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Short NSFW poem: RHL, ‘The Fig Tree’

1 Reply

The fig leaf symbol’s one of History’s greats
As, inter alia,
It hides, discloses and exaggerates
Male genitalia.
The fruit itself suggests the female form —
Dripping with honey
The little hole breaks open, pink and warm…
The Bible’s funny.

First published in The Asses of Parnassus, this poem was republished in Better Than Starbucks, which earned a “Kudos on your brilliant ‘The Fig Tree'” from Melissa Balmain, editor of Light. And it has now been added by Michael R. Burch to my page in The HyperTexts. That’s a wonderful set of editorial acceptances – it makes me proud, and I have to erase my lingering suspicion that the poem would be thought too rude for publication. Now I rate the poem more highly, as being not just a personal favourite but also acceptable to a wider audience.

It sometimes feels that all I write is iambic pentameter. It is always reassuring when a poem presents itself with half the lines being something else, and the result is a lighter, less sonorous verse. The rhymes are good; the poem’s succinct and easy to memorise. I’m happy with it.

Photo: “Ripe Fig at Dawn” by zeevveez is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Short poem: RHL, ‘Flying to Majorca in March’

Leave a reply

Drop me down out of the cold wet gloom
into the orange trees in bloom:
the olives, almonds, windmills, cypresses,
the black-eyed girls with wild tresses;
where once were barren hillsides, peasants, mules,
are now estates with swimming pools.

*****

Mallorca, or Majorca to the English, has always been an attractive destination for people from further north. Frederic Chopin and George Sand moved there at the beginning of their relationship, spending three months while Chopin completed his 23 preludes in each of the major and minor keys (but the locals were suspicious of his coughing, and were antagonised by George Sand’s avoidance of church; the couple moved on). Robert Graves (whose Wikipedia entry’s Sexuality section is mind-boggling) lived for decades in the village of Deia, also associated with Anais Nin, Richard Branson, Mick Jagger, Mark Knopfler, etc. And these days Mallorca gets over 10 million tourists a year.

My short poem is inconsequential, but it has just been published in the September issue of Allegro, which is themed on ‘Flight’. It was a simple reflection on revisiting Mallorca decades after summer holidays there.

Photo: “Parella i ase” by Arxiu del So i de la Imatge de Mallorca is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Short poem: RHL, ‘I Started Out Alone’

1 Reply

I started out alone,
No numbers and no words.
The people gave me food and clothes.
I loved the sun and birds.

And when I reach the end
Numbers and words all done,
Have to be fed and dressed again,
I’ll love the birds and sun.

*****

This is one of my favourite poems, for several reasons:
First, it extols the combination of curiosity, enjoyment and acceptance that I believe is appropriate for this thing called life.
Second, it is simple in expression: simple words, simple rhythm, in iambics with simple full and slant rhymes.
And third (and perhaps most importantly) it is easy to memorise: it has lodged itself in my brain without any effort or even intent on my part and, as this blog frequently claims, that is the essence of poetry.

‘I Started Out Alone’ was originally published in Bewildering Stories in 2019. More recently it was included in a batch of my poems that Michael R. Burch spotlighted in The Hypertexts for August 2024.

Photo: “Baby face” by matsuyuki is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Semi-formal: RHL, ‘Laffable Religion’

Leave a reply

No matter how seemingly affable,
a priest always hopes to be greased;
while others, invoking hellfire,
have us wait for our trip in the hearse
and preach in their suits neatly creased,
these fishers of men that are gaffable,
in this world that they’ve made mud and mire.
That the point of a flock’s to be fleeced
can only be said in light verse;
for religion is simply so laughable
it’s amazing it’s not yet deceased.

*****

Isn’t it amazing that the Pope can claim to have voluntarily taken a vow of lifelong poverty, and millions of his supporters who live in involuntary poverty send money to support him living in a palace? Is it different from a billionaire politician soliciting donations from his impoverished supporters? Is the human need to glorify the tribal god and the tribal leader never going to end?

This poem was first published in The HyperTexts, as part of the August 2024 Spotlight.

Using form: Ruba’i: RHL, ‘Ancient Tales of Love and War’

Leave a reply

The pipes and women wail and skirl,
deaths following the flowering girl.
Ancient tales of love and war
show costs of dimple or a curl.

Tamil spear tips illustrate
intent before the towering gate;
bangles slide on her young wrists;
kings make war when made to wait.

Gods and goddesses choose sides:
a Trojan steals a youthful bride.
Who Trojans were we’ll never know –
Greeks burn the city, once inside.

A lovely face, a swelling bust –
and treasure, fame – inspired by lust
kings storm the ramparts, steal the girl,
before, like all, they turn to dust.

*****

This poem was inspired by a blog post in ‘Horace & friends’ on ‘Doing without consolation – Tamil poetry, Yeats and Simone Weil‘. The author, Victoria, touches on a lot more topics than my small piece does; visit her blog to see how Yeats’ “Like a long-legged fly upon the stream / Her mind moves upon silence” connects to ancient Tamil as well as ancient Greek poetry…

My poem here is in iambic tetrameter (with some liberties taken), rhyming AABA in English ruba’i form. It was published in the current (August 2024) Snakeskin, issue 320.

Illustration: The Fall of Troy by Johann Georg Trautmann (1713–1769)

Short poem: RHL, ‘Ghosts Twitter’

Leave a reply

Ghosts twitter in my head like the memory of predawn birds.
Digging below my present house I find
a structural supportive past with rock veins to be mined.
Upstairs the future isn’t fully built or roofed.
Has someone goofed?
The Architect is vague on final thirds.

*****

I am finding many ways to say I don’t understand existence at all; this is one of them.

This short, semi-formal poem was published recently in The Lyric.

Photo: “unfinished house” by Lodigs is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.