Ian Stewart Black

Modern master of classical poetry

Month: December, 2010

Moving On

Shall midnight bells resound a change,
To mark the passing time?
As silent winter, ringing still,
Is broken by the chime.
The clink of glasses in the night,
The sounds of joy, sincere.
Unquestioning of what it means,
This happy, bright, new year.
We all link arms, we smile and sing,
And wish each other well.
As troubles, past, will fade away,
To those heraldic bells.
Gone, are those mistakes we made,
And grudges that we bore.
Adrift upon the sea of time,
And we, on brighter shores.

And what of that which lies in wait,
Of all we hope and vow?
What magic is there in a year,
That we seek to endow?
There are so many, gone before,
New years, both lost and won.
With even triumph in defeat,
And always, moving on.
So as the bells are ringing clear,
Through every crowded hall.
We start afresh with simple words;
Happy New Year, one and all.



Windows frosted over,
Like mist, confined to glass.
Robins hopping over snow,
Laid thick, across the grass.
Walking through the town,
You hear jolly sounds of brass.
Young men will find some mistletoe,
And peck their bonnie lass.
People might just say hello,
To strangers as they pass.
And spare a thought for those in need,
Instead of walking past.

It’s that merry time of year again,
You’ll find your toes are going numb.
But you’ll face the winter with a cheer,
No reason to be glum.
When you think of those less fortunate,
You’re better off than some.
Putting brussel sprouts aside,
Christmas dinner’s always yum!
Though you may resist at first,
But soon you will succumb.
With all the christmas songs to sing,
And carols you will hum.

So let’s all celebrate,
The clownish, and austere.
Let’s show our love for one another,
And this once, let’s be sincere.
Tell your friends just how you feel,
And you may even shed a tear.
It’s time they really understood,
Just how you hold them dear.
And if you think I ask too much,
It’s only once a year.
So make the most of what you have,
And let’s be filled with season’s cheer.

A whole year, we’ve been waiting,
Christmas time is here!


In my sweetest, sunlit dreams, of lost and gilded shores.
There resides a succubus, a demon I adore.
When I sail to heed her call, she rests upon the beach.
She sings to me from land and sea, ever out of reach.
Her glist’ning skin, eyes of fire, her lips of scarlet red.
Her silken hair, black as Styx, the river of the dead.
As I fall to the allure of this angelic vox.
Her serenade ensnares, bids me run upon the rocks.
Melodies pervade my heart, and rest awhile thereon.
Fatal beauty, manifest, the Grace of Siren song.

The Artist (Applications of Alliteration)

What weapon does an artist wield,
When warding wretched ways?
Wand’ring through the shadowed wastes,
With words amid the haze.
Always ardent and assured,
A poet stands alone.
Architect and activist,
Of artful flesh and bone.
Incited by the ignorant,
Inelegance and vice.
Intended to idyllic dreams,
Impassioned and concise.
What weapon does an artist wield,
When wisdom wanes and blurs?
The one and legion wind of change.
The weight of watchful words.