About rick vick

Rick facilitates the Wednesday writing group. He is a writer and also organises events for Stroud Festival.

I saw i and the sky this morning

in a drop of dew on a rosebud

the savage spiders of the mind ceased

and in that tremble of reflection

there was everything and nothing

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Biro

I may be only a 50p biro but when your fingers

close about my clear plastic shaft –

thumb and fore fingers pressing down – I feel

the tremors vibrating through my dark juices

to my silver tip from where they flow

 into any shapes you want.  I may be cheap

but I’m as classy as you could ever crave.

–  I am wanton – and I know no rule –

so make me do what ever you desire –

               my sighs are silent  

I am your slave, don’t be afraid. 

I will reveal your darkest, sweetest,

             most hidden secrets

surprise you with what you didn’t know you knew. 

Be afraid and pass right through that thin skin

To Zanadu, to Paradise and Hell  –  yours,

to reveal the longing of now,

                   for ever and ever

 

 

What am I?

I am as chaste as snow, new fallen.

Upon me you may reveal all you dream, all you fear.

I await corruption or blessing, all the same to me.

I am no priest nor critic nor spying mother.

Look upon me and do what you will.

I will gift you reflection of your willingness

To smile, to cry, to reveal your secrets.

You may risk upon me with tenderness,

With longing.  Let them out.

All those miserable, trapped sinners.

I am a playground, an unexplored jungle.

Let yourself loose upon me.

 

Rick Vick

 

 

Indian Eye

 

If, for one blink

I saw as you see

in your cobalt eyes

I would die in that apparition.

Idea of self shatter to fragments.

 

You observe so closely, so remotely.

Is it ‘I’ that those lenses receive

Or some other arrangement of creation?

Meeting your un-blinking gaze

A black hole opens.

Never so l close as this where I come from –

The managed world.

Your dark discretion always at a distance

– branch or wire –

Or commanding your faultless composition

from way up there.

 

Here, in this random,

Clashed land of spiced hearts,

You reign, pecking on rotting corpse

or, as now, a few inches

from my plate of rice, unruffled.

Kra      Kra

you called your name,

long before human utterance.

I fade to a shade in the swoop

of your flight into your universe

with a grain of rice.

 

 

 

 

 

Wishes

 

A film strip replayed over and over, the trip

we took to the park in London, you and I and the children.

in blustering October – leaves flying

– wishes the children ran to catch arms out stretched –

crying out in delight when they did, pressing them

to their chests and eyes closed, just as they do

each year cutting their birthday cakes,

making wishes in the innocence of their growing.

If only we could have endured our promises.

Did we know deep in our hearts,

our leaf unfurling lives, that

The trees of our trust, boughs interlaced,

were tipping apart, already askew

in the lonely forest.

Biro

I may be only a 50p biro but when your fingers

close about my clear plastic shaft –

thumb and fore fingers pressing down – I feel

the tremors vibrating through my dark juices

to my silver tip from where they flow

into any shapes you want.  I maybe cheap

but I’m as classy as you could ever want

and  I am wanton – and I know no rule –

so make me do what ever you desire –

my sighs are silent

I am your slave, don’t be afraid.

I will reveal your darkest, sweetest,

most hidden secrets

surprise you with what you didn’t know you knew.

Be afraid and pass right through that thin skin

To Zanadu, to paradise and hell  – yours,

to reveal the longing of now,

for ever and ever

 

 

Forever and Ever

We’ve arrived at the last page of this black bound note book, my pen and I.

Wet lozenges of light skid into oblivion across the glass sloping over my head.

Imagine God arriving at the end of creation and he’s still got a bucket –

(an early useful invention) of stars to fling about and some half

finished clay doodles to do something with –

and when he sets it all spinning – he’s already practised with a top –

there might be some collisions, a re-arranging of orbits but by and large

it all fits – no  pattern of course – nothing before and there won’t be any

after.  This is it. Forever and Ever and what keeps it going  –  his joke – are these

incomplete clay figures.  Stroke of genius – ‘cos they will keep on and on

trying to figure out what they are missing and how and why it all works.

That’s why I’m surrounded by books…seemingly endless

computations of  words…….ah yes, he added them last of all just to be sure

chaos persisted – forever and ever – in the mind…that his final flourish after fox,

crow, snake, ant, elephant, cheetah, gorilla etc –

Cleverness….the best of all his illusions…oh, and………………………  laughter.

HO

After student re-cycling show at sva…ha!

Treadmill brain jerked jolted jimmied – a face behind shop window plated platted glass hooplay sidestep her fingers spread lapidary luminous lap dancer – tender sprites quaint quintessence of quaternary circumnavigation tea time trollop tripping  p’s or q’s oopla pyramid pic n trix probiscus pipe pompour penis pah. Catastrophe of technology scream screen diamand jubilleee- predators pre-destined despots circling hungry flies on gore, jarred frogs in formaldehyde, phew  xray contusions – scatlogical incisions scissored liver cauterflied surgeons somniferous sambuccas screaming – probiscus pivoting away – up and over the triumphal arch – verdigris and valium – verrukhas in Valhalla valedictory vanquishment – hoe green the valley of the blue forgotten hill – rue rabid  rabbit run over the rubicon and afar.  Flatter no mess is deep enough to lose breach languish laboriously jettison curse of jehova, noa, Jerimiah – jackels prawn in hinterland –  I say I says aye bah bah boo blood – black opium stripes stagnant lochs of galore and incense myrrh and myra conjoined – copulating   crib – mulish mawkish mesopotamia – jerricho and soddom ouch calabash of clitorii and floppy floozy fourskins angels down whispered to putrid puddles of ire – iridescent fathoms deep drink  ink spots stargazers, geezers in trench coats stooped in puddles of jissom – holy holy buttons and breeze afloat and flung welcome anchorage astephan and castellated winds anally projected smooth sloped doing detritus and dewy cheeks half in half under sweet the pitch and flail all hail not tail of fire no mercy cry pipe pope pius pings Euphrates torched a jeroboam whiskey the arse calabash calaban supping dildo brow draped drastically damnation blotched nether hinder nor succour screemed stukka stitched in dream of nought  a bunny hop away wretched wrought rancour ruminating the pot oer’flowing – dribble dram reminder – heigh heaven portside only – after you ole mate – leeward thrust a cockney step – go lightly abyss or vernicular valium dinged disgust disguised . Major Jonks RME by right a bounder a bluff stoke to boschs’ mare breugels udders quoth a quaff of chagg phew in the gallow – a wifely wind vent to spleen- splendid labia wind sock gorgonzola ah brie ripening roller coaster leprachauns languishing mist over donegal and ne’er kiss an arse left behind – heave aboard  bard and buck up and away,,,,,

Philip Larkin

On the few occasions Larkin explained why he wrote poetry, he did so in the most humdrum, almost DIYish, terms. Speaking on the BBC Overseas Service in 1958, he put it as simply as this: “If I must account for it, I think it would be best described as the only possible reaction to a particular kind of experience, a feeling that you are the only one to have noticed something, something especially beautiful or sad or significant. Then there follows a sense of responsibility, responsibility for preserving this remarkable thing by means of a verbal device that will set off the same experience in other people, so that they too will feel How beautiful, how significant, how sad, and the experience will be preserved.”

This Be The Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don't have any kids yourself.

 

 

Father

 

Did we collect chestnuts together?
Why am I even imagining we might have?
The image grows –
Tying them with string through holes pierced
Into hard skin to white flesh and out again.

No, we didn’t and never ever would have.

He was a tree I wanted so much to climb –
Not a chestnut or oak – more likely a conifer,
one with branches close to the trunk, Juniper or Cyprus.
Reaching tall, spreading narrowly.

I shrink inside to think of us playing that game.
Face to face, conkers dangling.
What if I had broken his?
I have no idea.
So little do I know, who he was – Daddy.

We skirted about one another, he and I –
And when we met – eye to eye,
Recognising noses and shaggy brows –
And maybe, a look deep in our eyes,
Of sadness and of bewilderment.

I wish we had found some game to play,
Not chess, nor tennis or golf or scrabble –
one with dice and all the chance
that fate plays –
That might have teased
father and son.
.