Poetry – Reviewing the past

Posted on by Opher

Reviewing the past

As I awake and lie in limbo,

Not fully connected,

Reviewing the collage of my life –

The could have-beens,

Was and did;

The happenstance,

Chance and wonder,

Spread out

Like a huge quilt of parts

In colour.

All the sadness, ecstasy

And inspiration,

Flashes of understanding;

The loves, losses

And friendships,

The beauty, poetry

And argument –

Like fields seen from afar,

Isolated oasis

Of moments,

Each preserved

As a unique tableau.

As I lay back

To relive those moments –

The yearning,

The unusual,

The fondly remembered

And pathos –

Separated by deserts

Of forgotten days,

Forgotten nothing.

Yet all

Reinvented,

Rearranged

And altered to fit.

Nothing more than a false representation

Of what has been –

Only a life –

Nothing real –

A hazy, reimagined past –

As reality kicks in.

Opher 23.1.2016

Reviewing the past

There is a strange state of being that exists hovering between wakefulness and sleep in which the mind has not fully kicked in. It is a reverie. The mind hangs suspended. There is a lazy hand at the wheel. It drifts back and forth. Your life, thoughts, memories and dreams are intermingled.

It is a very pleasant state and one that I regularly enjoy.

Sometimes it appears to me that my life is nothing more than a series of anecdotes held together by some overriding phenomenon that is me. Memories are like the beads on a string. Moments and scenes played out in vivid colour. Around them everything else recedes into an impenetrable fog. The scenes are performed repeatedly and the intervening days, weeks, months and years have been blotted out. They are gone.

Yet even the memories are really vague snatches of what has been. They are not real. They have been redrafted, rearranged, embellished and augmented. Only a hint of the feelings and emotions remain as fleeting, tantalising glimpses.

How I would like to re-inhabit the various people I used to be; to revisit a handful of the forgotten days and become reacquainted with my former selves; to taste that idealism and certainty again.

Perhaps one day soon they will invent a drug that will enable you to do just that; to resurrect the entire experience of a day from the past. I know if that ever happened that I would be first in line. I also know that any drug like that would be instantly banned.

Until then I am quite happy to lie back and reacquaint myself with the scenes from my life, spread out before me like fields seen from a mountain top.

That will have to do.

My Weird Surreal Sixties book – Chapter 47 – Looking Back – poem

Posted on by Opher

This is a love poem that I wrote imagining the inconsolable loss of someone who you loved with all your heart. It is appropriate that I should find myself rewriting this today.

47.

Looking back,

I see her running through the long grass;

I see her running through the city crowds,

In and out, between the people,

Dancing through the cotton tops.

I see her laughing in the sunshine,

Silhouetted by the blue sky.

I see her sparkling in the neon lights,

Adrift from the dullness.

 

She wears a summer cotton dress

That flows in the breeze.

It is white with a feint blue pattern.

The dress is short.

It shows her slim legs,

Her girlish figure,

A lithe body with firm breasts.

She is always laughing, dancing, whirling.

There is silliness in the air,

Giggling on the wind.

 

It is a carefree dance she weaves,

Abandoned and unbound to steps.

Her hair is long, and free and swims

In slow cascades around her face and body.

Sometimes I can feel us lying in the bracken,

Laughing into each others eyes;

Caution only in being seen.

 

Our merging

Was always intense

And giving,

Making us closer

And more complete.

 

We never made love,

We made happiness and warmth;

We made closeness and contentment;

We made openness and repair.

We had no need to make love

We had enough to spare.

 

We never dreamed of changing

For today was always summer.

 

I can see her open mouth and sparkling eyes,

The crooked teeth and smooth face –

So pretty and so perfect

That I knew that I would wake.

 

All we did was lightly done.

All we gave was warmly given.

All we took was freely taken.

We had no obligations

And we did everything we could,

Whatever we could.

We gave with a fervour that said

‘All mine is yours

But it is not nearly enough.’

We took everything given

Freely

For it was taking nothing.

In the taking was the giving.

 

People said we were young.

They laughed at our intensity.

They thought it would soon pass.

But we had already loved an eternity;

We had given the world.

We were charged with the electricity of life.

 

People smiled and said we were naïve.

But in our innocence we found truth

And will come no closer.

 

I remember our sexuality,

Craving with a raging desire,

Melting in an alliance of pleasure.

 

I can see her with the summer’s sun

Glinting through the strands of her hair –

Streamlets of gold

Forming glowing halo

As she leans across me

In the long grass.

 

I see her as a ruddy statue,

Serene against the setting sun,

Against the orange sky and purple cloud,

Smiling sweetly to herself.

Then coming to me,

Clasping me tight

To reassure herself that the warmth

Will not go with the sun.

 

I can hear her weeping gently amid the green trees,

Sobbing violently against my shoulder,

Crushing me

In attempt to mould us closer

For greater comfort.

And I stroke her back

And whisper in her ear

In reassuring tones

With meaningless words

Until her demons are all gone.

 

If she had gone then

I would have spent a lifetime mourning.

My life would have ceased,

Frozen to time.

The energy would have flowed out of me.

A lifeless husk

Would have immersed itself

In her memory.

Those memories could never have died

For they had a life of their own.

I would have had no present

And can only have faded

To become a flimsy spectre of myself.

 

Instead she stayed.

 

Now, as I look about me

I see the young girls with some of her qualities

Who would awaken me for a short while.

I know she sees the same.

But they are only reflections of a distant past.

 

Sometimes I long.

But we still have something special

That now lives in the past.

If another was to enter now

It would banish hopes

Of resurrection.

 

No short reawakening could scale the peaks we climbed

And would cast us down to abysmal depths,

Dragging with it that idyll of our love.

 

Why did we not die then?

Only knowing perfection?

Before the slide to mediocrity,

The degrading spectacle

Of our mundane lives

With the occasion glimpse to show

How far we’ve sunk.

 

She still turns her head with smiling eyes

From a woman’s body,

Contained within

Is the girl she was.

I am a watcher;

Invisible on my vantage point.

I watch me play my scenes

For I am another person altogether.

My former selves are gods

Whose perfection I can never match.

 

I hope that somewhere in time

The people we were

Are able to live forever,

As we were,

Wanting nothing.

 

For if there is bitterness in me,

Hate, envy and accusation;

If there is despair and sadness;

If there is no hope and little love;

It is because I am a prisoner

Of my own making.

It is not what I would wish.

I would give all

To be the person I was and free,

For us to be as we were.

 

If I shout and rave

And sarcasm echoes round the room

It is merely frustration at all we’ve become

And my inability to cope.

Before, we were,

Without trying.

 

And if I feel like pulling butterflies wings off

Instead of loving their beauty;

If I feel like destroying

Instead of creating

When I would rather not,

What’s gone wrong with me?

 

If I snap at the kids for taking my time,

So precious time,

And then waste all my time,

What is wrong with me?

 

If my directions have all gone,

My ideals all compromised,

So that I no longer can think why I did anything,

Why it was so important,

And nothing is important now,

And the shallow people we scoffed at

Are our friends;

I have the mortgage I never wanted,

And the security,

And they seem important,

And I can no longer get into my house

For the clutter and possessions,

And I’ve suits hanging in the closet

So they do not get creased,

I do not say things that might offend the neighbours,

My job means more money

And a car,

But requires me being smart,

But I tell myself

I can go back to being me

Later,

Besides

You need money to travel

And a base to return to,

It’s the kids that are preventing me,

From being free.

But you do not get around

And things are not so clear anymore,

What has happened to me?

 

How did I used to look

As I watched you dancing

Through those long grass feather tops?

Did I really dance with you

Alone in the universe

With a field?

Was I so boyish and gleefully happy?

Was my face sparking with life

As we embraced?

Did I shine to you as you beaconed to me?

Opher 1973

 

My books are available on Amazon in paperback and digital formats. They are world-wide!

In the UK you might like to browse through on my link below: For overseas visitors please refer to your local Amazon. You’ll find me there.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Opher-Goodwin/e/B00MSHUX6Y/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1475747471&sr=1-2-ent

In the USA:

In the USA – https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=opher+goodwin

Here’s a few selected titles:

Rock Music

  1. The Blues Muse – the story of Rock music through the eyes of the man with no name who was there through it all.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Blues-Muse-Opher-Goodwin/dp/1518621147/ref=la_B00MSHUX6Y_1_6?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1475748276&sr=1-6

2. In Search of Captain Beefheart – The story of one man’s search for the best music from the fifties through to now.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Search-Captain-Beefheart-Opher-Goodwin-ebook/dp/B00TQ1E9ZG/ref=la_B00MSHUX6Y_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1475748276&sr=1-5

Science Fiction

1. Ebola in the Garden of Eden – a tale of overpopulation, government intrigue and a disaster that almost wipes out mankind, warmed by the humanity of children.

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2. Green – A story set in the future where pollution is destroying the planet and factions of the Green Party have different solutions – a girl is born with no nervous system.

Kindle & Paperback versions:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Green-Opher-Goodwin/dp/1500741221/ref=sr_1_10?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1413306641&sr=1-10&keywords=opher+goodwin

The Environment

1. Anthropocene Apocalypse – a detailed memoir of the destruction taking place all over the globe with views on how to deal with it.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Anthropocene-Apocalypse-Opher-Goodwin/dp/1502427079/ref=sr_1_4?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1413306641&sr=1-4&keywords=opher+goodwin

Education

  1. A passion for Education – A Headteacher’s story – The inside story of how to teach our children properly.

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There are many more – why not give them a go! You’ll love them!

Poetry – Looking back – A poem of young love changing before the pressures of life.

Posted on by Opher

IMG_5510

Looking back

I was so young then to be so cynical.

Love and life change. We change. It is a law.

No matter how hard we hold to our dreams they fade.

We always compare things to what once were and become frustrated and discontent.

The intensity of youth and young love can never be as strong again. We have to adjust. Yet we crave.

That rush of endorphins that made the world so vivid and created such dreamy bliss is forever unattainable. It is replaced by a slower pace, a deeper warmth and a more balanced contentment.

The stress and strain or career and family with the restraints that brings, the lack of time and energy, creates distance and friction. It passes.

Much as we might crave, we can never go back.

We have moved on.

I wrote this poem back in 1973 in the midst of turmoil, with a young child and career looming and a lifestyle that I knew was going to change. I think that is reflected in the poem.

I did not realise it was such an epic until I wrote it out this morning.

Hang in there.

Everything passes, everything changes.


Looking back

Looking back,

I see her running through the long grass;

I see her running through the city crowds,

In and out, between the people,

Dancing through the cotton tops.

I see her laughing in the sunshine,

Silhouetted by the blue sky.

I see her sparkling in the neon lights,

Adrift from the dullness.

 

She wears a summer cotton dress

That flows in the breeze.

It is white with a feint blue pattern.

The dress is short.

It shows her slim legs,

Her girlish figure,

A lithe body with firm breasts.

She is always laughing, dancing, whirling.

There is silliness in the air,

Giggling on the wind.

 

It is a carefree dance she weaves,

Abandoned and unbound to steps.

Her hair is long, and free and swims

In slow cascades around her face and body.

Sometimes I can feel us lying in the bracken,

Laughing into each others eyes;

Caution only in being seen.

 

Our merging

Was always intense

And giving,

Making us closer

And more complete.

 

We never made love,

We made happiness and warmth;

We made closeness and contentment;

We made openness and repair.

We had no need to make love

We had enough to spare.

 

We never dreamed of changing

For today was always summer.

 

I can see her open mouth and sparkling eyes,

The crooked teeth and smooth face –

So pretty and so perfect

That I knew that I would wake.

 

All we did was lightly done.

All we gave was warmly given.

All we took was freely taken.

We had no obligations

And we did everything we could,

Whatever we could.

We gave with a fervour that said

‘All mine is yours

But it is not nearly enough.’

We took everything given

Freely

For it was taking nothing.

In the taking was the giving.

 

People said we were young.

They laughed at our intensity.

They thought it would soon pass.

But we had already loved an eternity;

We had given the world.

We were charged with the electricity of life.

 

People smiled and said we were naïve.

But in our innocence we found truth

And will come no closer.

 

I remember our sexuality,

Craving with a raging desire,

Melting in an alliance of pleasure.

 

I can see her with the summer’s sun

Glinting through the strands of her hair –

Streamlets of gold

Forming glowing halo

As she leans across me

In the long grass.

 

I see her as a ruddy statue,

Serene against the setting sun,

Against the orange sky and purple cloud,

Smiling sweetly to herself.

Then coming to me,

Clasping me tight

To reassure herself that the warmth

Will not go with the sun.

 

I can hear her weeping gently amid the green trees,

Sobbing violently against my shoulder,

Crushing me

In attempt to mould us closer

For greater comfort.

And I stroke her back

And whisper in her ear

In reassuring tones

With meaningless words

Until her demons are all gone.

 

If she had gone then

I would have spent a lifetime mourning.

My life would have ceased,

Frozen to time.

The energy would have flowed out of me.

A lifeless husk

Would have immersed itself

In her memory.

Those memories could never have died

For they had a life of their own.

I would have had no present

And can only have faded

To become a flimsy spectre of myself.

 

Instead she stayed.

 

Now, as I look about me

I see the young girls with some of her qualities

Who would awaken me for a short while.

I know she sees the same.

But they are only reflections of a distant past.

 

Sometimes I long.

But we still have something special

That now lives in the past.

If another was to enter now

It would banish hopes

Of resurrection.

 

No short reawakening could scale the peaks we climbed

And would cast us down to abysmal depths,

Dragging with it that idyll of our love.

 

Why did we not die then?

Only knowing perfection?

Before the slide to mediocrity,

The degrading spectacle

Of our mundane lives

With the occasion glimpse to show

How far we’ve sunk.

 

She still turns her head with smiling eyes

From a woman’s body,

Contained within

Is the girl she was.

I am a watcher;

Invisible on my vantage point.

I watch me play my scenes

For I am another person altogether.

My former selves are gods

Whose perfection I can never match.

 

I hope that somewhere in time

The people we were

Are able to live forever,

As we were,

Wanting nothing.

 

For if there is bitterness in me,

Hate, envy and accusation;

If there is despair and sadness;

If there is no hope and little love;

It is because I am a prisoner

Of my own making.

It is not what I would wish.

I would give all

To be the person I was and free,

For us to be as we were.

 

If I shout and rave

And sarcasm echoes round the room

It is merely frustration at all we’ve become

And my inability to cope.

Before, we were,

Without trying.

 

And if I feel like pulling butterflies wings off

Instead of loving their beauty;

If I feel like destroying

Instead of creating

When I would rather not,

What’s gone wrong with me?

 

If I snap at the kids for taking my time,

So precious time,

And then waste all my time,

What is wrong with me?

 

If my directions have all gone,

My ideals all compromised,

So that I no longer can think why I did anything,

Why it was so important,

And nothing is important now,

And the shallow people we scoffed at

Are our friends;

I have the mortgage I never wanted,

And the security,

And they seem important,

And I can no longer get into my house

For the clutter and possessions,

And I’ve suits hanging in the closet

So they do not get creased,

I do not say things that might offend the neighbours,

My job means more money

And a car,

But requires me being smart,

But I tell myself

I can go back to being me

Later,

Besides

You need money to travel

And a base to return to,

It’s the kids that are preventing me,

From being free.

But you do not get around

And things are not so clear anymore,

What has happened to me?

 

How did I used to look

As I watched you dancing

Through those long grass feather tops?

Did I really dance with you

Alone in the universe

With a field?

Was I so boyish and gleefully happy?

Was my face sparking with life

As we embraced?

Did I shine to you as you beaconed to me?

 

Opher 1973