Issue 9
December 2001
Tim Chapman
42 years old. Secondary school teacher (like your High School) for 18 years, teaching Economics and Business Studies. Worked in the "Midlands" of England (Leicester and Coventry), finally had enough (of Government education policy, not the kids!) and went freelance a year ago, moving to the east coast of England (Suffolk) with a wife and four cats. I have two step children (23 and 25) who mean much to me and intend to see more of them in London. Have never published before (apart from educational texts), but now have the time to think about such things!
Housekeeping
Not knowing my next move,
I pick up the potpourri
(to stir the autumn bowl,
to sit silently, sense
the flaking and remember:
the stored year -
autumn's camera, its season linked
to memories):
the urge to take the bowl
and discard the debris
is as strong as the need to sink
deep into its sleep.
But because we can neither reject
or forget the place we're found in,
I put the potpurri back:
let its fragrance fill the day.
Accepting
Sometimes the door is opened
and it was always this way:
framed by streetlight suddenly kind,
you offer me a million paths
and all night to choose.Stepping across the threshold,
how infinite the senses:
pulling down the stars, grabbing
fistfuls of light and hurling the stuff
into the future.Sinking down to happiness,
the world expands to a laughing bed:
tasting flesh and dreams -
a time of childhood play
in startling gardens.And sometimes the heart is opened
and it must always be this way:
the acceptance of journeying,
regardless of destination -
adrift in hope’s chances.