Stan and Bette Solomons

Poetry and Artwork

Category: Poems by Stanley Nicholls Solomons Page 1 of 2

A selection of poetry by Dr S.N Solomons (©)

Moonlight on Sea

(inspired by the poem “Lune sur mer” by Gérard d’Houville)

In deep dusk, in deep dusk green,
the crescent moon’s an air of shell sheen,
shot through with curvèd light
and clear …
polished the shells that gleam like her.

Sad moon, you complain and light your spell,
your voice like to the swell of surging sea, surging,
Goddess with thy translucent whisper!

You hush my heart that sore laments;
pour on my dreams your light.
Pour as do the trees and plants
upon the night flower.

The slim pine black and strained
hoards your song strange beneath its skin.
Moved in cadential doom …
Your song free to the wind,
oh twisted moon!

In my mind still I keep green murmurings of moon and sea,
and as the pine tree high copies the sea,
the sea sigh of shells.
Songs without cease echo your peace
oh moon so pale.

© Stanley N Solomons

Order of the Day


The new light softly streams,
Through the lace curtains,
And I try to mend my dreams
Till I’m myself again.


I look into the sky,
Where cirrus clouds collide,
Laze in the summer light,
While the breeze talks to me.


A time for rose-red thought,
Long shadows casting,
Memories fleeting,
Fading and fraught.


Dusk is for grieving,
And for private tears.
Perhaps for believing
Despite what we fear.

© S N Solomons June 16th 2009


The country night is thick,
with thin sound
and pointed pitch.

Swift shadows crease the dark air,
flicker around the trees,
or like black plums dangle
from the barn beam,
over-ripe and wrinkled.

And all of them
with button eyes that gleam
purblind in the grey light,
and ears with inner sight
producing holograms
within their mind.

All of them
avid for insects,
or fruit

Or blood.

Two Tetractys

Barely repressed
When he makes a pun and only he laughs.

She is full of years, kindness and wisdom
And yet she seems
To young

Whirlwind in France

The road clangs with heat,
and mirages tremble ahead
and melt like dreams.

The sky is tarnished copper.
On either side poplars
cast rhythmic pointed shadows.

I stop the car in shade
and mop my neck and face
and the sweat stings my eyes.

There is a sudden murmuring
The sky darkens and the thick
air washes ominously about.

The trees begin to panic,
thrash and thrust out,
and the leaves are frantic.

I leave the car and see
a black whirling wind
above the twisting trees.

I brace myself against the car,
breathing in strong air
in fear and wonder.

Unkind Cut

Tyger, Tyger, pussy cat,
Meditating on the mat.
Nowadays you can no other
Sitting like a burnished Buddha.

Tyger, Tyger, pussy cat,
I often wonder what you’re at.
Perhaps you dream of former glories
Defending all your territories.

Of victory and feral feats
Against the other alley cats.
The smiles that spread so enigmatic
Are naughty thoughts of past gymnastics.

But now, alas, these dreams of action
Are mere immaculate conception.

Oh it was the most unkindest cut
When we took you to see the vet.

From the Computer Room

The day awakes
and slowly stretches
under its grey covers
and the morning breeze
stirs the leaves.

I hear bird-song
rising along the hedges,
in brilliant bubbles of sound.

And all around the scene
colours brighten,
dark turns to brown
and grey to red

I look down
on flower-bed and lawn;
taste from the crimson cups
of tulips;
hear golden fanfares
from the daffodils;
smell the sweet flare
of apple blossom;
follow meandering
flight of bees;
and see sharp starlings,
beaks askew,
spiking the grass
quiet with dew.

And then I turn away,
from the real day,
to my computer screen.

Morning Nap

Ten o’clock and all’s well,
at least as well
as can be expected.

I recline
in the half-light
of the lace curtains

I lie long,
fitting my spine,
against the line
of the armchair
listening to the bird song
swooping and scooping
in tender bubbles of sound.

I move my eyes
and laze there,
unwilling to turn around,
and range the room.

Objects vanish and loom
full fish-eye,
paintings and photographs,
carved wood and books.

I half close my eye
and look out
through the film
around my gaze
in lieu of sight.

Awareness abates
and I retreat
from reality,
from anxiety,
from the pleasure,
and the refined pain
that fills my leisure,
and I search for beauty,
whatever that may be.

Dad Painted by Mum


He lay in the hollow
scooped from his Present,
and could not emerge,
could not see back
into his past,
nor go forward
into his Future.

Here was no cause,
and no effect,
no real relief
no end to anything.

So he smiled at grief,
the pain within,
the problems,
weighing upon him.

Smiles that friends
took, mistakenly,
at their face value.


That morning he awoke
And it was so strange
So new, so nascent,
Everything arranged
Crystal clear,
Full of an inner sense,
Relaxed and yet intense
There was no fence
Between him and the rest,
Him and events
No more regrets
All with a purpose
All with a unity
And joy.

Page 1 of 2

© Pete Gallagher - PJG Creations Ltd