- About
- Tim Lenton
About Tim Lenton
Tim Lenton has written poetry most of his life, but also writes
journalism, drama, prose fiction and song lyrics. He was born in
1945 in Norwich, where he now lives, but he has also lived in
Coventry and London, as well as the Norfolk village of Yelverton.
He is married to a retired head teacher and has an adult son and
two grandchildren. He has published a book of poems, Mist and
Fire, and for 11 years up to 2008 wrote a semi–humorous
commentary column in the Eastern Daily Press, which is a daily
paper published in the east of England.
He has a website containing these articles and a number of poems
at
www.back2sq1.co.uk.
He has collaborated especially with artist Annette Rolston (but
also other artists) for various exhibitions and workshops,
notably the Creative Arts East summer touring exhibition of 2003
and the Norwich Festival Fringe at the Factory exhibition in 2004
and 2005, as well as Open Studios in 2007. He is the winner of
the Fish International Poetry Prize for 2007 and the Norwich
Writers' Circle Open Competition for 2010. He contributed
poems to The Pastons' Country handmade book (2008) and to its
smaller sequel, Another Country (2011)
Tim can be contacted at timlenton@mac.com.
Syleham Light
At Syleham bridge
light from nowhere paints
abstracts on the tree-lined river:
modern art on ancient canvas
A ladder leads into troubled water
and an empty bench waits for the right man
or woman
Not quite angel country
but rumours of a dove persist
somewhere upstream
and the bright white walls of
Tollbridge Cottage
stand sentry for free
as needles weave summer
into patchwork veins
and the usual suspects
pretend to leave
Here is the Book
Here on the edge of a drowned world
land of the True Cross
we walk on the moon, dark side,
among marbled pillars
touching unearthly colours
dusty passages
fingering forgotten legends
Treasure buried in the priory
where foreign knights battle secretly
against skeletons
and in the Kingdom of God
near Bromholm
the dead are raised
Iron stands like spears against the sun
while stone dissolves
As in the beginning
the word breathes on
until the void takes form
becomes a sacred, fertile field
Visions of Hildegard or Agnes in the rain
play dark tricks
as the world folds into paper,
holding on
Ruins bought and sold
breathe again
words emerge from the rock:
locks are broken
Burning kingfishers perch on fallen walls:
paths burst from the undergrowth
Here on the edge of the moon
Here is the book
Here are the letters thrown down and lifted up
Here the rushing wind
fire and water
laid like a cloth of gold and silver
under the patient stars
Poet's comment: This was written for the Paston Project in 2008 and draws on many aspects of the work, especially history and the surrounding countryside – and of course the book itself.
Leaf
From the womb of the woman
and the heart of the man
a new tree grows
Through each fragile leaf
a narrow way opens
to other worlds:
a way like birth containing pain
and ecstasy
Drops of blood like light
pour through the darkness:
strange dew defeating time and space,
blotting out the stench
of decay:
turning the universe over
healing the curse of chaos
The tree survives flood and famine
dances to the music of eternity
Distant Funeral
Wind fills our sails on Camden Bay.
You slip away
while timbers crack against the deep.
I miss your final knocking at the door,
your sudden sleep.
Three thousand miles beyond the light
the misty warnings of the owl
fade into eagle’s flight:
you see it now.
Way beyond certainty
outside the rings of time
delivered, blue, in unconditioned air
made whole, you stand and stare,
dance on a pin,
unfold
while gravity retreats
you meet
the sting, the tumble
and the healing cold.
I journey on the margin way,
rock–sitting, brave
to watch the seventh wave decay
and read
your letters from the grave.
Tim Lenton
Poet's comment: I had been visiting my uncle, Frank Lenton, for some time. He was 95, bedbound and very weak but not in great pain physically. But he could not understand, as a Christian, why God should want him to be a burden to his wife and an embarrassment to himself. I meant to visit him in the week before leaving for a holiday in Canada and New England, but somehow there wasn't time. I was shattered to hear just after leaving Camden, Maine, that he had died, and I would miss the funeral. Images in the poem reflect what we were doing in Maine as well as his life.
Forgiven
Saw you held
encircled
by pulses of the past
coming like a knife
with a point to make
over and over
You were blind in there
unable to forget
heavy as horses held
at the starting gate
Then
like a seed sensing light
straight out
tape falling, free
racing
Wings open
almost unbearable
being forgiven
Tim Lenton
Poet's comment: This is an example of a poem being inspired by a picture, but taking a different track in response to it. Annette's stunning image is called Fruitful, for obvious reasons, but I saw it also as a picture of someone being set free, which prompted the idea of forgiveness.
African Dream
Looking down again, I see
the glow of the desert where we met.
You lie naked by the bush
that burned; you are
alone, having received
no message.
You put on your shoes again
and dance past bare walls into the trees, chasing
memories of lion and giraffe.
Flamingos discover the source
of the Nile: it is autumn, and you
are climbing into the snow.
The sky turns, and I plunge
through breadcrumb stars; you stand
beside elephants and rushing water,
wondering whether to risk
the crossing.
Your knees are bruised: I look down again,
then close my eyes. Suddenly
everything is clear.
Tim Lenton
Poet's comment: Here there is little direct correspondence between Annette's picture and the images in the poem. But the title of the picture and the atmosphere it created set me off on a dreamlike trail into aspects of Africa which I found striking.
Mist and fire
I live in mist and look at fire
I take the kiss and touch the wire
The mist is cold upon my cheek
The fire I see plays hide and seek
I cannot pin the fire down
The mist is all around the town
The mist is changing shapes for me
It shows me things I like to see
The fire is hard to understand
It blazes forth and burns my hand
The mist relieves the fire in me
The fire outside waits patiently
The mist attempts to hide the flames
With hit and run and fun and games
I hold the mist and love the fire
And one is true and one's a liar
Tim Lenton
Annette Rolston's image appears on the front page of the book of Tim's poetry collection, Mist and Fire.
Soul swimmer
I lie on the sand
Where you stripped chaos from me
Cupped my heart in your hand
Like a feather
Together we fed at the edge of the sea
No further
Your hair splashed over me
Tongues touching and leaving
Now I haunt the island
A shadow that falls
And you are two birds
Flying towards the dawn
Tim Lenton
Poet's comment: Here the images in the poem bear a very strong correlation with Annette's picture. I was able to respond in a direct way to what she had done, and I think the poem and the picture work well together, amplifying each other.
Sins of Omission
He lies in the hollow of smooth white rock
worn down, watching her
adjust her clothes.
Sharp wind stipples her skin:
hips rise and fall.
Out there the tide hesitates, wondering
if it can decently return.
Years ago, wreckers crouched here
lighting false fires
altering lives
Now the white flame
warns all who sail close.
She puts on her sandals
and smiles at him: behind her
a broken tree.
They climb back up the coloured cliffs
as tongues of water push in.
He offers her his hand.
Pause: clean canvas.
Sins washed away.
Nothing happened here.
Tim Lenton
Poet's comment I spent a few days one May in retreat on the Holy Island of Lindisfarne. I fell in love with the bleak northern beaches and spent some time there. It was during one of these solitary walks that the idea for this rather enigmatic poem came to me, as I watched the tide rising and falling and saw the shapes it made in the rocks and stones. The idea of cleansing of sins followed, but the ending is playfully provocative. The link with Annette's image came later.
Stripping
When you walked out across the burning bridge
and threw your keys into the sand
I tried to strip you from my mind
like wallpaper.
Parts of you came off easily,
without a struggle, as if
you were just hanging there prettily,
never really attached.
But other parts stuck fast,
even though I diluted you
with liquid
and scraped hard into the night.
Months later, after much rubbing,
the wall looks smooth.
But if I run my fingers over it
I can still feel
your goosebumps on
its thin, thin skin.
Tim Lenton