Nigel Siddall - Artist & Writer
Index
Alexander
Barcelona
Bloody fate
Body
Bonfire night
Broken bones
Carol service
Cathedral of trees
Chain
Cold Comfort farm
Collecting clothes
Dartmouth
Divorce Court
Dust
Exchanges
Execution
Faces
Garden Rhymes
Home
Houses
Idle moment
In our time
Last ride of the Indian
Marietta
Motorway visions
Mountains
Nimrod
Old friend
Poverty
Prague
Reflections in the window pane
Returning
Season Poems: SummerAutumn
Snow
Squirrel
Tears
Water
Wings
Winter walk
Yesterday’s tunes
Barcelona
And what would you have made
of this ?
dancing in the sun kissed
streets
psalms and palms
of a different faith
to celebrate
a triumph that was defeat
here
where you fought
and died
in a bitter war
here
against the fascist law
against the black cloaked priest
what would you have made
of this ?
and as you waking turn
in your bitter fold of earth
and see
the crowds of worshippers
dancing joyous in the square
around the beggar
women
shrouds of black
and reaching hand
here
where you shed your blood
for a better land
here
where you strove
to be free
from the ritualised lies
of suppression and pain
which now return
again
what would you have made
of this ?
And as you are summoned
from your futile dream
by chanted dirge and smoking urn
here in this town
where tank and gun
imposed their rule
and Catalans wept
for their fallen sons
what price the truth
that died
before them,
save the coppers
in the hat
Yes, my friends
what
would you have made
of that ?
Cathedral of Trees
Plumes of ostrich
Feathers, red and orange, yellowing
In the lee of a frowning silver-grey pine
That soar in serried ridge
Of foliage, cascading in every tone
And hue
High into the slowly dwindling afternoon
Like buttresses of stone built church
That watched my youthful games,
Giant dowagers who carpet the sky,
And through each branch
And reaching leaf
Dappled colours catch the eye
As stained-glass window shards
Flicking in and out of the sun
Which slowly begins to set.
Then three tall firs of olive green
Flanked and curtseyed
By puddles of bubbling japanese maple tree
Bristle their moustaches and form a bearskin honour guard
Faces fixed firmly beneath the rim
Solemnly resisting the tug and pull
Of the ever strengthening wind
And we are summoned within
A nave whose breadth is lined
By pillared trunk of mighty beech
And a whispering phalanx of soft and delicately fashioned bamboo cane
That clicks and murmurs
As we, like pilgrim thieves, creep through
This holy place
Where all the words with which we clothe ourselves seem vain
And the breath itself
Is carried upon an ever rising wave
Of cedars, layered green and stretching
Thrusting fingers
Deep into the clouds above.
Twilight images hovering on the edge of dream
Beckon us on
Past muscular columns of medieval apse
And side chapels of quiet and subtle charm
That silent sit in thought filled pools of shadow
And gently soothe the watching eye
With a soft and healing calm.
Past rows of kneeling bush
That fringe this grassy aisle
Past statue of sculpted green and brown
Until ………
A house, huge
and Gothic
supplants it all
and drags us back
within the walls
of a drab and empty
imitation
a dullened replica
of a creed of slender touch and ancient sound
of a wind-whispered mantra, too old for word,
that lies beyond
this steepling, spiralling world
of man.
31/1/99
Cold Comfort Farm
Trees crest the line
Of the softly slumbering hill,
Distant guardians parading along
The valley’s rim
Caught cold in the scudding cloud.
A curious medley of broken barn
And gap eyed house peers
From above the folds
Of the brown and green
Blanket that rolls
And sweeps luxuriantly
Down to the rushing
Of the brook below.
Buzz saws splutter and spit
Over some unseen corpse
Between the crack and slap
Of a gun, not for the sheep
I’m told
But that demon of the soul, the crow-
And menace stalks the wind.
A harsh unspoken sadness that drifts
Upon the tide of plague and culling,
A beast returned to haunt these killing
Fields.
Hard times here
As ghosts of the future-past mutter
in this bygone land
And wander sightless
Through the furroughs
Of cold comfort farm.
Hard times here
In the silence of decay
In this huddle of unknown humanity
Braced before the incessant rising
Of a bitter storm.
And yes even they,
These gentle laughing children
Of a long lost yesterday
Frown in the glooming
And huddle tight in their den,
So full of delicate warmth and artistry,
And pray for better times
Ahead.
Dartmouth
Boats bobbing in the catch and reach
Between the crowded hills and the awaiting beach
Sunlight breaking through the early morning mist
And glinting in the pools of rain kissed streets
And us all arriving dulled by the strain
Of a world that pulls and tears at every grain
Forests of masts rising like urchins from the deep
People scuttling and cawing like the gulls at their feet
Artists and sailors calling the tourists to look at the sights
Everywhere rock hewn steps soaring to impossible heights
And us all striving to unwind
And starting to look forward, rather than behind
From castle fastness to the edge of the moors
The river creeps and the curlew soars
From hotel window and red bricked college on the rise
The ferries plough like wagons through fields capped in ice
And us all talking about knots and ribs
And even beginning to smile a bit
Then a cottage caught on the edge of dream
And a couple as sweet as strawberries and cream
Then a world without time, like an ancient book,
And the ducklings waddling by the chuckling brook
It was good to be with you and to share in it all
And yes the Jacuzzi was fun
And it was good to be away from the maddening turmoil
Yes, even when I got it wrong.
And who were those people,
Anyway?
April ‘99
Dust
Well here we are
The scattering dust of a blazing star
Temporary tenants
Wandering a temporary earth
Momentary migrants
Trying to give our birth
Some meaning
And here we strive to exist
Like butterflies in the mist
Our colours glinting in the light
As we soar and fall in the fickle wind
And give the lie to the night
Remorselessly drawing in
On our yearning
Yes, here we live and here we die
Like fireflies in the darkening sky
Intense and bright with the flickers of flame
As madly we dance and spin
Before the grey tendrils of the rain
Dampen the life from the fragile wing
Vainly fluttering
And what is it for? This bubble of dream
We cry, as we fall in the ceaseless stream
This froth of a wave that beats on the beach
And briefly scours the formless sand
What is it for? We call as we reach
And desperately clutch at the land
Now fading
And when we are gone
What, if anything, lingers on?
An echo here, a shadow in the gloom?
A smile recalled, an occasional tear?
Gone, you say, and gone too soon
Yes, but even so I’m glad I was here
Quietly smiling!
Wings
Nestled softly
Into the hollow shoulder
She sleeps
Bird in the hand
Paused for a moment
From the swoop and flutter
She rests
Within the warmth
Of a shy, uncertain heart
Delicately
She moves
In the fold
Of a loving eye
Still ready for flight
She stretches
And I start
To pray
For wings.
The Season Poems
Autumn
Leaves of yellow, dappled red
Peacock feathers strut
In this a final show
Of pulsing, blushing pride.
Grass green chatters​
As water heals
The summer’s blight
And summons forth
The carnival’s delight.
The world is alive
With subtle tones and brooding hues
An artist’s palette ablaze
With all the colours left unused.
Olive and saffron, vermilion too
The painters are out tonight
With dab and dash
To mourn and mock
The coming of the fall.
Copper and crimson, and emerald as well
Defiant and resplendent
They weave a tapestry, a spell
To enchant the watcher
In this, the waning of their hour.
Stately, elegant in their finery
Like courtiers in a masque
They step and curtsey,
Whispering behind their painted fans,
And murmuring at the cooling winds
And squalls of rain
That mark their imminent death.
A banquet of bitter joy is this,
A harlequin’s jest
In the face of the coming storm,
A final flurry
Before the world begins to turn
And casts off its chequered robes
In a dull, decaying chest.
Almond and hazel, and mottled pink
The world is finally aflame
With coals that will burn, and gleam
Long after the tearful sun
Has ceased to weep
And all has been shrouded
With the snow-white mantle of sleep.
A store of colour
To keep the mind alive
Throughout the grey-black days
That stretch so seamlessly ahead.
A squirrel’s cache, a pirate’s cave,
Filled with auburn and gold
The sparkling embers of a dying year
Whose warmth holds back the empty cold
As the world prepares
For the silent, sombre wait
Renewed.
​
​
Summer
Patchwork folds of earth
Creased by the idle trickle
Of brook and sleepy stream
Yawn and stretch
Beneath the beating of the sun
Like a tabby cat on the garden swing
Legs akimbo, lazily hoping for a tickle
Of its soft and furry tum.
Somnambulant bumble bees
Float easy on the breeze
Their lazy drone gently mocking
The hidden cars drifting by
In the valley far below.
Cows and slumbering trees
Stir for a moment
In the fluttering pools of heat
Then return content
To the dappled stillness of the field.
The lines are rounded
Edges softened and curved
Like puddles of moulded wax
And even the time
Seems to melt and drip
Across the dry and mottled weald
That turns its ochre face
And stares wide-eyed
At the blueness of the sky
Broken only by the easy sweep
Of a kestrel effortlessly gliding by.
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Spring
Just as you’ve given up all hope
Ping
A bud pops into view
A flicker of life long unseen
Brightening up the branch
Just as you think it will never come
Splot
A dot of water spots the floor
A cheeky messenger of the thaw
Now at last arriving
Just as you resign yourself to winter’s hold
Taweeeee
A chaffinch blows out its chest and sings
And the empty silence begins to ring
With the sounds of rebirth
Just as the greyness seems without end
Badowww
Colours pop and flash and leap
From plant to tree and tree to leaf
Pouring into the dullened spaces
And just as you can take no more
Yippeeeeeee
The wizard returns and waves his wand
Over sterile garden and silent pond
And the world is born again
With the jewels of spiders’ webs
And freshness in every breath
With the streams that gurgle
To the chattering brooks
And the fields that glisten
In the early morning dew
With the smell of abundance
That fills the nostrils
With its bewitching brew
And the air that touches you
As if to say hello
Then kisses you on the cheek
As if it too
Is pleased to be back
And the heart feels young again
And the blood begins to race
Within the pulsing vein
And the shoulders lose their weary stoop
And legs regain their purpose in the stride
As eyes and ears are filled
With the sights and sounds consigned
To the dusty tomes of yesteryear
In this chorus of awakening
In this celebration of tomorrow
Yes, just at the end of the breath you’d held
Since the fading autumn’s sad farewell
Pheeeeeeewwwwwwwwwww
It’s spring again
And the world is born anew.
​
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Winter
Not even white
Just half light
In the grey and rainy days
That trudge along the sludge-lined street
Like convicts in the grim Siberian wastes.
A vampire has come
To suck the blood
To drain the colour away
And all the world
Is full of its own ending
Not even a frost
Just everything lost
In the twilight zone
That holds the eye and grips the heart
And dullens its every beat
A robber of warmth
A thief of the day
Has stolen the sun
And hidden it away
In his bag of drabness
Not even a sound
Just the cold, sterile ground
In the brooding fields outside
That press their bitter silence on the ear
And mourn their flesh laid bare
All is quiet
Beneath the snap and the bite
Of the damp and miserly air
And the threats and the bluster
Of the bullying wind
Not even the enveloping snow
Just jagged edges everywhere you go
To cut the unwary foot
And the bony fingers of skeletal trees
And hedgerows that shiver on the rise
All is still
Only the rivers seem alive
As they flee to the sea for shelter
And the crow that sits upon its post
Like an evil mocking harbinger
Even hope has gone away
Leaving just a lingering faith in another day
Of returning spring
And, despite the blazing fires and Christmas feasts
That warm our well-lined nests,
A spirit of gloom
Sits heavy on the land
And draws the marrow from its bones
Until even the sky begins to weep