Writing poetry is rather like opening your soul to the world.
There are emotions and themes such as bereavement that I find I can express most fully in its rawest form when I write poetry. I also like to experiment with satire and humour. I normally find a poem mulling in my head for days or weeks before it starts to emerge. I can’t force it… it’s a very organic process.

I hope you enjoy the ones I am sharing here.

Ali Seegar, 'All our tomorrows' -<br />
When passion fades, like colour kissed by sun,<br />
And silence falls where once our breath came fast,<br />
Tomorrow’s hope we’ve nurtured has begun<br />
And we can share love’s gentleness at last.<br />
For over years a lifetime has been made,<br />
Our secrets shared – our loves, our losses, too.<br />
And through this time not once was I afraid,<br />
Because, darling, our love stayed always true.<br />
And as we wake each day our journey grows<br />
With memories, fine layers to brace our bond.<br />
Complacency failing to interpose,<br />
Unwilling yet to start to look beyond.<br />
Though both aware one yesterday, when gone,<br />
Leaves one of us alone to journey on.
Ali Seegar<br />
'To the humble potato'</p>
<p>Gromperen –<br />
the word rolls round your tongue,<br />
with a growl at the front<br />
or maybe a grunt.</p>
<p>and an omp like a lump;<br />
the gromp a grump.</p>
<p>For a Lëtzebuerger<br />
it’s served on their order<br />
and fried, perhaps, mashed<br />
with a steak that’s been flashed</p>
<p>in the grill. Swilled down<br />
with some wine from the Rhein.</p>
<p>Yet for me, it’s not tea,<br />
it’s a textbook entry<br />
as I attempt to finesse<br />
my Lëtzebuergesch,</p>
<p>its vowels the toughest,<br />
its accent the gruffest.</p>
<p>When I first said Moien<br />
to greet a cool guy in<br />
his tongue, it was light<br />
it felt a delight,</p>
<p>but with a guffaw<br />
he replied like Eeyore.</p>
<p>This Sprooch I must speak,<br />
my citizenship I seek,<br />
in the beautiful land;<br />
this Duchy so Grande.</p>
<p>But until I can fit in<br />
I’ll stick with Pommes Fritten.

First published in havana poetry, issue 9 – December 2021

Ali Seegar<br />
Vive la pêche<br />
(A tongue-in-cheek look at the 2021 dispute between<br />
French fishermen and the Government of Jersey<br />
over fishing licences.)</p>
<p>They never asked the fish, you know,<br />
if it was time to fight,<br />
but near the shores of Jersey, old<br />
Poseidon felt uptight.</p>
<p>For seventeen French fishermen,<br />
their noses out of joint,<br />
sailed home without their licences.<br />
T’was bound to disappoint.</p>
<p>Bitter, the men complained. ‘To fish,<br />
eet ees our right,’ they sighed.<br />
‘Then tell us where you’ve fished before,’<br />
the Jersey men replied.</p>
<p>‘Unless you let zem fish!’ cried France,<br />
‘we’re turneeng off ze pipes<br />
zat breengs ‘lectreecity to you.’<br />
No fish, no lights? Oh yikes!</p>
<p>The problem is two new rules made<br />
since Brexit has been signed.<br />
For conservation of the beds,<br />
Jersey has maintained.</p>
<p>The EU said, ‘You’fe breached our termz!’<br />
The Brits replied, ‘We’ve not!¬¬¬<br />
And what about those damn fishes<br />
you banned and left to rot?</p>
<p>‘We’re sending two Royal Navy boats<br />
to guard our waters blue<br />
and see whatever mischief you<br />
get up to, what! Gung ho!’</p>
<p>With tensions mounting hot and quick,<br />
solutions not yet sought,<br />
there came a fleet of French fishboats<br />
to gather at the port.</p>
<p>‘Trahfalgahr, here we cahme!’ they yelled<br />
throughout the long standoff,<br />
as ministers from both sides tried<br />
to find a good trade off.</p>
<p>The diplomatic waters calmed,<br />
‘though no one got their wish.<br />
And what I’ll say of this sad tale,<br />
they never asked the fish.
Ali Seegar<br />
Essence in a silken scarf</p>
<p>Her scent lingers on it. Still now. After, all the years of after her: though now I am as old as her. Traces of powder, perfume, her. A waft of silken flowers entwined in twists of time, failing in its fight not to be her. For although it is mine now, to me it will always be her. </p>
<p>Tears shed on silken flowers, fading silently like my memories of her. Sometimes I long to be her child again, to find her arms and hide myself within them. </p>
<p>Once warmed silk is still no substitute but it carries me to her, folded within silken flowers. Her scarf lies loosely crumpled in my palms. I let my eyes fall closed and lift it to my face. If I had the chance, I would take her in my arms and I would breathe her in.