Poetry

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
www.haranapoetry.com/to-the-humble-potato-by-ali-seegar

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.