DANCING YETI BOOKS

Poems, Thoughts and Stories, to Read and Hear

intro

Here’s a big welcome to my virtual home, where you can read a lot of my poetry and other writing.

This site is new and a work in hand, so you will find some pages which are still stumbling into life and have a way to go before they can walk without a bit of help and imagination. But many are ready enough and raring for you to have to have a look or buy a book. So we rush them to you now, hoping that they’ll give you many poems to read and enjoy, which you’ll want to share with your friends and family.

Soon all the pages will be reaching their adolescence, with audio tracks of readings and interviews, as well as a thriving blog where you can share your thoughts and creations with mine. So please come back again for many visits and keep ‘refreshing’ your view of these pages because they will be changing and maturing like claret or cheese, which often give more pleasure as they age.

You may be wondering what yetis have to do with this, so I’ll briefly explain. When emails first started, my address was my name but both Kevan and Myers may be written in various ways and my first name is certainly an unusual spelling. So I needed to change my address if I did not want my emails disappearing into the ether. The name I must choose would have to conform to normal spelling and also be memorable. What title could I choose?

Like many poets I am good at rhythm and love dancing right on the beat, and because I am a big oaf, I am often a bear when friends choose an animal that best fits me, so my new email address could be ‘dancing bear’, except that here too I had spelling problems, as friends would know that I am quite capable of shedding my sweaty pelt in the midst of a jive or a waltz. So I needed to be a bear-like creature who is also rare and memorable. Therefore the ‘dancing yeti’ was born.

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POETRY

A Few Short Poems to whet your appetite…

Exactly Where Do I Find My Ear?

Here in this fog
there is such silence,
one can hear
an underlying sound,
behind the bird calls
and the motor
of a solitary truck.

Is it the voice of trees and grass
conversing with the fog?
Is it the hum of distant
streams and cars?

Or could it be
the energy of life itself
that speaks to me?

Perception Of Perspectives

I am still and do not move,
as I walk through the garden,
seeing the path unwind its scenery,
as it grows closer to the end
with every step
it wanders into me.

from: Earth (first verse only)

….Each morning I explore, and it is like the time
I dwelt close to the Kentish shore,
where giant mud-flats bare themselves
and never is there stillness,
free from change, for all the time
the tide runs in or out, alive
with hues that swirl, as sun and moon
revolve their giant eyes
on waves and mud that sink and rise…..

The Optimist

Trying to catch
the Moment,
I am lying in wait,
brimful with hope,
and Nothing for bait.

Wistfulness of Non-Trystfulness

Her body is long
and slim, as the fingers
which twist her frizzy hair,
to tuck some springy bits
behind her ear,
and give a view
between the fronds
of curling eyelash
where her eyes peep through.

I only wish they looked at me,
and not at you.

from: Missing The Soul Of The Selfie

….To tell the truth, although in certain lights,
and carefully arranged,
my looks may not appear too grim,
and sometimes I’ll pull
faces at my looking-glass
to see what monsters I can make
from my slack jowls and baggy eyes,
in general, I’m inclined
to neigh and rear,
when cameras try to freeze my face
and take it off somewhere..

I have not learnt the knack
of saying “cheese” in any way
that does not look as though
it’s torture that has prised
my lips apart, to give this horrid view
of crowns and dentures,
blessedly concealed
when happiness creates
a natural smile on my face. …

Trekking Haiku

Stumbling frozen in the night;
even the stars afraid
to climb out of bed.

Where All Paths Meet

Letting go of everything,
I blunder on the lake
where the moon likes to sleep
when it’s awake.

Chinese Masterpiece

Some characters made
by strands of ink,
convey a truth
I cannot think.

Here, In The Ocean’s Motion

What lives and dies;
what comes and goes
in every fraction
of the briefest
gasp of time,
is nothing but my self.

There is no sell-by date,
no jar, no shelf.

So when I’m feeling self-ish
I’m a pearl
who had a dream
that he was trapped
inside a shell-fish.

Hide & Seek

Truth has been playing
at hiding so long,
that when it comes out
the party is over,
and all of the seekers are gone.

The Morning Is

The birdsongs pierce my body
and sing from my own inside.
The fan of my computer hums in my heart.
This new born line catches
a corner of my sight.
Words arrive and depart.

When I Feel Small

This need to wear
a definition, or to measure
where I am
against some mark
that I believe
is written on the wall,
can only be …
when I have painted
all around me
giant frescos,
up at which I stare
in all my tiny-ness,
as if it were not me
who put them there.

Back From the Shopping

I do not bring you answers,
for no man can give
the answers that another man
must find to live

The questions that would
drag me to the floor
have slipped out through the holes
to leave my bag so light
that nothing’s in it any more.

So if you search for light,
just flip the switch,
or stick your head
outside the door.

How The Future Becomes Present

The World is totally full
of unfinished business.

When will it end?

‘The World,
or the unfinished business,
my friend?’

Worlds can come and go,
but unfinished business
never ends.

from: Inside Stained Glass

In the cathedral, grey and high,
adrift in incense , floating by
the effigies of saints, the light,
through stained-glass windows,
flutters on the deacon’s fat behind,
while a class of sixth-form
schoolgirls fills his mind……

Going Walkies

Now that I must leave
this much-loved place,
my mind is dragging on its lead,
and fighting for each lamp-post
that I leave behind.

And thus I bark and whine
along this path,
where I create my time,
as though I were
a guide-dog who has chosen
to act blind.

Chacun à Son Goût

Under my veranda,
water, wild with rains, and full
of overflow from loos and drains,
conveys some dreadful stinks,
but in the field below
the maize gets high
from all the shit it drinks.

Song From A Minaret

Allah, in your eyes I am more naked
than the space between the stars.
Your hand is like a cloak of wool
as I stand trembling on the mountainside.
Your lips pour songs of skylarks
to my soul. You fill my skin
with radiance, and I am nothing
but a space within your skies
through which you shine, as wine
that pours, with moonlight in its eyes.

Keeping Sight Bright

To raise up hope is not a good idea
where hope may drop me deeper in despair,
but as I peer between these bars,
through which may come the light,
I have to hope that hope might just be right

from: Turning Over The Welcome Mat (in the sea, off Italy)

…As seas slurp up and swirl
around their knees,
their souls in terror plead
to God to let them be
among the winners of this lottery
which reels in the saved
like gasping fish
who course their way
between the bodies of the drowned,
like human garbage, on the sea.

The blank and staring eyes
of those who only yesterday
sat round the fire to share
their stories and their hopes.
Now glassy-eyed with faces
facing down, they float…

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Books by Kevan Myers

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Audios and videos

Listen to the poems and a bit of rambling on about what inspired them

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About the author

Kevan Myers was born, and lived a while, in London; then took off, thumbing his way to many lands. He divides his time between his spiritual home in India inside or near, the round and simple house that he built beside the holy mountain, and an odd-shaped house, with a gorgeous view, on the edge of a granite village, deep in the forested, Corrèze hills in France

But India remains the place which feeds his soul, and heals his body from the excess of the West, with simpler food, and ancient cures, which send him back more youthful than he came.

And while he’s there you’ll find him still, , in that climate where his windows never close, and sleeping can take place, high on his roof, near to the breathing trees and stars, which peer through the mosquito net, to light his face.

Kevan Myers

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