Chris Ringrose Writes Poetry

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April Poetry Challenge, 2026: Day 30: For Jill, Who Read 30 Poems

As we reach the last day of April, thanks to you all for reading, and for your comments. To end the month, a poetic tribute to Jill, who was always the first read each poem 'hot off the press' and inspired me to keep going.

For Jill, who read Thirty Poems in April

During a month of being ambushed nightly

by poems – memories and impressions

that step from the shadows like lost friends

to point a pistol at my heart –

it’s calming to lay each one before you,

always my first reader. Are they any good?

You think so. That’s enough.

Spanking brand new on their white paper

beside the morning coffee – and me guessing

Which one will touch your heart.

You like the human tales, the mysteries,

those jigsaw pieces spread on the table

that need to be fitted together.

Or the half-forgotten memories like stray cats

that needed to be brought indoors.

Each morning it’s different.

Some poems are like sparrows,

Intent on examining the meaning of crumbs.

Some are like hawks that seize on a moment.

The gentlest ones settle and fold their wings like a dove

and these are the ones you love.

CR 30.04.26

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April Poetry Challenge, 2026: Day 29: Heathcliff's Lost Years.

I've been writing a poem sequence about hidden corners of famous literary works. In 'Wuthering Heights' Heathcliff disappears for three years and arrives back in Haworth a rich man. So I thought I'd guess where he went. Heathcliff's quoted words about his 'strength' always seemed poignant to me.

Heathcliff’s Lost Years

“So much the worse for me, that I am strong.”

Put his life into reverse, as would be his wont.

Headed back to Liverpool, passing through

Colne, Rishton, Burney, Blackburn,

Tockholes, Leyland, Orrell, Litherland.

Slept in barns. Heard wooden clogs on cobbles.

Saw the way the world was forced to work, in sooty towns.

Tracked down men who didn’t want to see him.

Worked hard enough, spent little.

Bought, sold, extorted. Compounded interest.

Turned a deaf ear to pleas.

Saw Catherine everywhere,

but never in his dreams.

Saved up his stuff: coins, notes, silence.

Was measured for better clothes.

Sold up everything, took a coach ride to Haworth.

Appointment with a land agent, new locks on old doors.

Only traded in two things: love and revenge,

preferring inner slavery to freedom.

Cuckoo chick, manoeuvring egg after egg

Into the hollow on his strong back.

So much the worse for him.

CR 29.06.26

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April Poetry Challenge, 2026. Day 28: The Vigil

I wanted to capture the anticipation, anxiety and excitement of waiting for someone to arrive. The image here is from the beginning of John Ford's film 'The Searchers', but there are lots of other possibilities, including W.W. Jacobs' sinister 'The Monkeys's Paw'. I've left the context and outcome open to interpretation.

The Vigil

At six we sat by the fire

with our tea on our knees

and listened for footsteps on the porch.

At seven looked out from the verandah

shading our eyes in salute

at the soon-to-be setting sun,

but still they did not come.

At eight someone suggested that we set off

as a gesture of hope and faith

down the road that leads to our place.

So we donned hats and gloves

and took off in the dusk

straining our eyes past the gate and the trees

as the road turned from silver to black.

At nine began to run as the shadowy, distant shape

raised an arm above its head.

The one who’d been away from us –

it had to be them. For us, no turning back.

CR 28.04.26

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April Poetry Challenge, 2026: Day 27: Spike

The picture is a bit harsh, because I don't remember Spike having tattoos. To me he was kind, protective and good fun. To others, obviously not. That's the paradox. But was I a good enough friend? Was I a friend (as the last line asks)?

Spike

None of us knew where that nickname came from

he must have had a proper Christian name

some common word that didn’t quite belong

to him, and seemed less masculine, too tame.

Spike of the sloping shoulders, freckled face:

the second child of seven or eight –

although we never saw them in one place

beyond their house on our redbrick estate.

It would feel good to see him up ahead

strolling through the waist high grass.

We’d smoke rollups inside the farmer’s shed

and others stepped aside to let us pass.

Quick of fists, invulnerable to pain,

outside school, he had some bitter foes

pursued his obscure feuds, time and again

that led to scuffling, savage toe to toes.

Saw less of him in later years; a shame,

but life’s ambitions took us all away

and in our brief returns he seemed the same

If thicker set, less cheerful, in his way.

He’d never reassumed his Christian name.

His palm in our handshakes was rougher than before –

that of a working man; while ours were tame,

his spoke of long hours on the warehouse floor

Sacks of fertilizer, sacks of grain

Consumed his hours, promised to sap his years.

When was it we suspected that we’d not see him again?

The fights that once involved bruised lips, thick ears

had escalated and the adult world

found Spike an object of its civic fear.

Our sort of friend . . . just had to disappear.

CR 27.04.26

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April Poetry Challenge, 2026: Day 26: A Shower of Rain

Isn't it a lovely day / To be caught in the rain? (As Fred Astaire sang) It's hard not to be in the moment in such an immersive experience . . . unless all you can think about is reaching shelter!

A Sudden Shower

Rain taps the forest

tiny pellets bouncing

on the indifferent leaves.

The sound of the creek

becomes the sound of everywhere.

The taste of warm rain on your lips

mixed with the salts of your skin

like a drink from the atmosphere

a stream off the land.

The rain soaking your roots

is pretending your hair does not exist

nothing between skull and the elements

warmed a couple of degrees

by the blood in your scalp.

The rain seeks the seams

in your jacket, to probe and soak

where the stitching lies

a cool touch reaches your shoulders

from the world you hoped to keep at bay.

As long there is a towel and a fire

somewhere up ahead,

you’re content to be anointed by liquid.

CR 26.04.26

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April Poetry Challenge, 2026: Day 25: Jean Valjean

Victor Hugo's sprawling masterpiece 'Les Misérables' also has at its heart a story of rock-bottom desperation and redemption that lends itself (I hope) to a spare, short poem. Life, compassion, despair, humility, guilt, all powerful words in the language, seem to find a home here.

Jean Valjean

To drain the bitter cup of life

or lift even that cup and find it dry

to betray those who show you compassion

and spend a life atoning for that sin

to build a life from scattered rocks

heaped up from your despair

until, proud, guilty, invulnerable

and weighing all that redemption gets

you embrace humility and pay all debts

CR 25.04.26

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April Poetry Challenge, 2026: Day 24: Homecoming

I wanted a bit of mystery about this return home, so withheld some information while including other suggestions: the greatcoat and bag, the tension at the end. Shirley is the sister, I think. I had an uncle who never came home (from war) and I wanted this poem to depict either a real scenario, or someone's wishful dream, or even a hint of the supernatural...

Homecoming

Once we’re past the last village,

the B430 unreels in the wing mirror.

We crest the hill and the farm shows up,

the big barn knee deep in trees.

Shirley cranks the window down

to let the smoky evening air glide in.

Someone’s been burning stubble

and it glows along the ridge.

Their tractor is rumbling home.

She lets the car coast down

and heave its way over the narrow bridge.

You could almost believe that

the worst has been left behind.

A fat canvas duffel bag rolls in the boot.

A greatcoat folded on the back seat.

Sweets for my sister’s kids, though they’re older now.

Shirley takes the final left. We haven’t seen

any other headlights for three or four miles.

Salty damp tang, and sheep –

still, cream shapes in the top field.

“We always knew that you’d get back,” says Shirley.

“Sure.” But why are my hands making fists in my pockets

as our tyres crunch the gravel in the yard?

CR 224.04.26

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Amaranth

Thanks to the editors of the lovely journal 'Amaranth' (devoted to writing and art about food) for publishing my poem 'Plenty' on page 22 of the Summer 2026 issue. It's a short poem about the experience of small-scale harvest.

https://amaranthjournal.com/issues/

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April Poetry Challenge, 2026: Day 23: Sonnet of the Soldier Crabs

This morning they were everywhere on Altona Beach at low tide: the inch-wide soldier crabs on the march. It was hard not to step on them. And the Ibis were feasting. Having written the loosest of sonnets yesterday, I thought I should have a stab at the real thing today.

Sonnet of the Soldier Crabs

A hundred tiny crabs where there were none

Pincer their way across the beach and show

Their backs and claws, like thin transparent stone –

Dig down into the grains, run fast and slow.

The spirit of the tides gives them few graces

And curved-beaked Ibis graze at their expense.

They wave their tiny claws before their faces

Dispensable and seasonable, par excellence.

Does Autumn’s warm salt water taste as sweet?

Is ruffled sand a fitting place to die?

They hurry on towards the waves to meet

Age-old crustacean fate with dignity.

No marine poet comes to hymn their deeds,

Thinned out by winter, lost, like Nature’s weeds.

CR 23.04.26

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April Poetry Challenge, 2026: Day 22: School Art Trip, Paris

To some it might seem naff to hang reproductions of famous paintings on your wall. But of course, it often is (or used to be) our introduction to art, and these images become part of family life. So, this little poem isn't really about disillusionment . . . more about loyalty.

School Art Trip, Paris

I remember how in the Musée d’Orsay

Monet’s ‘Regatta at Argenteuil’

proved to be half the size of the beloved one at home.

It seemed to have been squeezed into its golden frame,

although the blends of titanium white on the water,

and the layered sails on the ripples, were the real thing

not just absence of ink on fake canvas.

The pale sky reflected in the Seine in our living room

was here revived by a transfusion of blue.

After the others lowered their phones and moved on,

I peered along the picture sideways

adoring the nubs of paint that stood proud of the canvas.

Nevertheless, back home days later,

 I sat opposite our own old version

and raised a mug of tea

to its sweet, cheap, familiarity on the wall.

CR 22.04.26

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250 posts!

[chrisringrose]

April Poetry Challenge, 2026: Day 21: William Wilson

The account of using AI is pretty self-explanatory. Though you may see the photo differently from me! In Poe's brilliant story 'William Wilson', the narrator is haunted by a double or doppelganger bearing the same name, whose presence drives him mad. Don't worry, I'll be OK.

William Wilson

Too tight fisted to make an appointment

for the headshot for my book,

I pay a pittance for AI to scan my photo album

and produce ten versions of me

looking poetic in a coffee shop.

A dizzying catalogue of Chrises

comes back in minutes.

'Unheimlich' was the word Freud used

for this effect: unhomely,

unsettling, familiar, mysterious.

I have to acknowledge that

each of these is a me

that just might be out in the world,

preparing to stalk me in an Edgar Allan Poe story:

my William Wilsons, AI’s guesses at me

a little narrower in the shoulders

grafted into a world

of glamorous glow and sheen.

I remember that, in the story,

William Wilson murdered his noble double.

My finger hovers over the suicidal delete button.

CR 21.04.2026

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April Poetry Challenge, 2026: Day 20: Tomorrow: Santa Eulalia, Ibiza

Moments of unalloyed joy with our French friends in Ibiza, made all the sweeter by imagining them poised in the day before they happened. Nostalgia for the future. The Buenavista was the hotel we would stay in.

Tomorrow: Santa Eulalia, Ibiza

(for Christine Lamory)

Tomorrow morning we’ll drive to Cala Boix

in Patrick Biousse’s big Renault

squashy leather seats windows down

the salt pans will dazzle like laundered linen

before we hit the empty beach

and dance barefoot across it on hot coals.

We’ll stop at a roadside market

Carla will slip bright glass bracelets

on her wrist and wave.

Back at Buenavista outdoors

paella for lunch from an iron pan

big as a manhole cover

sun scattered across the palms

will fashion rainbows from

the shower drench by the pool.

Little Leslie will call “Regarde, Papa!”

as she dives into the pool.

We’ll squint in the sun by the water

Matthew and David will confer mid teens

Joel and Carlos will head off to ride the burros

and Christine’s lovely kids will bend

heads together in concentration

tomorrow we’ll know what they’re thinking

and the scent of sunscreen will hit us like incense.

All these things poised, waiting

like a brightly coloured cocktail

in the wide-brimmed glass of time.

CR 20.04.26

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April Poetry Challenge 2026: Day 19: Mike gets philosophical

I remember sitting with Mike Stepan (Burton) on the balcony of his flat, and him speaking the opening line of the poem. A glass of wine, a loaf bread and Mike musing on whether light existed before eyes. A variant on the old chestnut about whether trees in forest make a sound when no-one hear them crash down. I found the iambic lines here a bit hard to sustain.

Mike gets philosophical in Corbières

“I love this time of day,” Mike said,

“with distant sparkles signalling

across the valley of the Aude.

Those village lights emerge and blink

as if awakening in the dusk –

like eyes of animals lit up

by torches at the end of day.

“I love the contrast twilight brings –

its lighted glimmers that defy the dark,

just as phosphorescence curls

along the wakes of ships in tropic seas –

those tiny creatures contracting

to generate their ghostly glow –

sparks to caress the passing craft.

“To think that universal dark

was once wrapped round the universe:

black fires, and lightwaves on benighted quests

of mega-rapid peaks and troughs.

Light had need of life! Until it came,

no eager leaves to photosynthesise,

no welcoming, receiving eyes.”

CR 19.04.26

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April Poetry Challenge, 2026: Day 18: Tondo, Metro Manila, Philippines

Rochelle Anne is a child scavenger in Manila. And a school pupil. The very thought of the landslip in Aberfan is still too much to bear. There was a catastrophic one at a dump in Payatas in The Philippines, more recently.

Tondo, Metro Manila, Philippines

Rochelle Anne is eight and poor

she arrives late at school

her fellow pupils’ pinched nostrils are cruel.

But an hour of scavenging on landfill

yielded a haul of mineral water bottles

once cool on the lips

now loot on the tips

and worth US 80 cents a sack.

Rochelle defies child labour law at 8.00 a.m.

but she’s surviving in Tondo,

not dying beneath a landslide

unlike kids in places I’d rather not dwell on

Payatas dumpsite collapse 2000,

Aberfan colliery spoil heap 1966.

CR 18.04.26

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April Poetry Challenge, 2026, Day 17: Ventriloquist

And while we're on the subject of eerie effects, who hasn't felt a qualm when contemplating a ventriloquist's dummy? The word means 'stomach speaker'. We know who's putting words in his mouth. But into the mouths of which others?

Ventriloquist

Audience eyes lock on to the cherry cheeks and blank stare

as the hinged jaw clacks and the dead eyes swivel.

Dummy pupils are big and black; the eyelids even flutter.

One could swear those cries are coming from the carmine lips

even though they’re chewing words, guillotining them –

but that must be lie; it’s a voice from elsewhere.

This is stomach speaking, the throwing of a voice

into a mannequin, or a box with a lid, or a demagogue.

Those harsh old words are still migrating,

have been regurgitated a million times.

Still, you’d have to be brave or mad to get to your feet,

point a finger, argue with the glassy-eyed front man

and keep on shouting to your peers “this is fraud!” –

they’ll sneer and ask who’s got their hand up your back.

CR 17.04.26

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April Poetry Challenge, 2026: Day 16: Eric Ravilious Illustration to The Writings of Gilbert White, 1938

I love Ravilious's work and could happily write a dozen ekphrastic poems on it. Especially when allied to the wonderful naturalist Gilbert White. But I've restricted myself to the slightly strange world of that ancient form, the woodcut.

Eric Ravilious Illustration to The Writings of Gilbert White, 1938

In the eerie woodcut universe

a black heron reaches for a black pool

its surface striated by the chisel and knife

a pearwood world of hatching and subtraction

where cutting lets the light in

even onto the hatched roughness of rocks

the sun-startled flock of leaves

the pyramid stooks on the hillside

and the only sound is that of steel on wood

its intimate patient attention

until the roller arrives with its ink

CR 16.04.26

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