I have written poetry ever since I was a child. And sometimes the poems come quite unbidden. Apart from the poems which occur in my novels, I have never tried t o have them published mainly because I have seen them as consequences or accidental by-products, like the ripples that remain when a great ship has passed. I never really thought of them as things with a life of their own. This, however, may be changing, for I have found of late that poems can be a consolation in solitude, and I am aware of a different voice sounding and different, darker themes emerging. I once experienced a deluge of poetry. It was as though I had opened a cupboard door, and all the cups and saucers and plates stacked inside came tumbling out at once. At least that was how I experienced it. It was a lovely chaos. I was doing the washing up at the time, at my mother’s house in Yorkshire, and I kept having to stop and dry my hands and pick up my pencil. There were love poems, and sudden little burst of inspiration and odd flights of fancy. Lusty and earthy… and somewhat sad too. Unfortunately most of the poems written at that time were lost: left behind in a telephone booth at London’s Heathrow Airport. By the time I realized and hurried back to the telephone booth, the notebook containing the poems was gone. I hope whoever found the book, enjoyed it for those poems were all written in the heat of passion, and that at least I hold in memory.
Anyway…
I hope you enjoy some of these poems. You are welcome to download them and use them. The only thing I ask is, if you do use them, please credit me as the author and say where you found them.
A MAN FOR SMALL SPACES
I am a man for small spaces.
For me, the piazza
not Tien An Men
is where grace is.
Here may you sit
in dappled light
while a brave bird pecks
crumbs at your table.
Sounds of the world
are muted here,
where time too passes
on slippered feet.
Here you will hear
the little sounds:
bees at their work, a
murmur of trees,
the cheek of a bird
scolding a cat,
and a woman who
hums at her loom.
The child too knows
a still centre. A place
scaled to his pleasure,
mysterious.
Here would I lean back,,
sip black coffee,
read yesterday’s news,
watch shadows move,
while in the blue above,
higher than clouds,
planes on their missions
scratch lines in the sky.
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Phillip Mann - writer, teacher and theatre director 
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