Several of our members write poems.
Here is a selection.
With melancholic urging the music calls
I invite, you wait, you come, we move
Backwards, sideways we cross and join
Forward, side and join again
I stop, you turn, and turn again
And we move on and the music calls
I wait, you give, we feel, we move
I turn, I invite, you wait, you come
We move again and the music calls
With melancholic urging the music calls.
My sister is coming to stay
And we’ve not met since ….
Thin children pushing a trolley,
Speed down the slope and crash in a gully.
Grandfather astride his stool
The cow leg tied to counter a kick
Tail swishing rebuttal for flies,
The cream and the milk come from separate spouts.
My sister is coming to stay,
We always felt nearer near even……
With many miles.
Sticks to pen writing in the wet sand,
Castles that triumph them all,
And fish in rock pools, that never returned.
There’s a closeness that belies the 5 years,
as youngest and eldest through the confusions of school,
And exams and homework; boy friends and girl
My sister has been to stay,
And we will meet again soon…..
Years melted as anecdote gaps bridged
These lives that are really quite similar now,
Children of 5 to 11, and just after 2.
She’s in rain forest islands of family now,
And like the nations we have embraced
The ancestors and history can only be shared.
I said what should I put if I write a poem about you
He said “Say you met a man in Rosies bar in Ballydehob,
Y’knaw in Ballydehob, Ballydehob y’knaw”
He was a-jigging, a-scuffin, feet a-sliding to the rhythm
His drunk blue eyes were dancing, swaying
He spoke with the music – full and bold
“I’m descent from an Injun laydee who ....
Tart me de wayz. Dee ways y’knaw
Tart me de ways. Y’knaw in Ballydehob,
“We O’Briens. We bonesetters y’knaw,
We bonesetters. My hands see, my hands
Here and far we be from Cork to Ballydehob,
Ballydehob y’knaw”. Ballydehob,
Do you believe in destiny
D’you believe in God
May be we’ll meet again
But not in Ballydehob, y’knaw
No not Ballydehob, y’knaw”
Still a Good Deal
“Gosh!” the boy widened his eyes
And fair enough his coming seemed miraculously timed.
The whole town within a whisker of completion:
snug houses already up and companionable
and only wanting a lick or two of Mander’s paint;
and tarmac roads to nowhere very urgent
Squeezed out just yesterday for father’s Austin 10.
What luck to turn up now:
the rolling globe all pink with Empire,
and Malcolm Campbell fast as Billy-Oh,
and Mr Baldwin, stolid as a prune,
the very man for No 10.
Gosh! Everything settled already:
De Vito’s Ice-cream Parlour
a world consummated in sunlight,
No hint of impending improvement
Bolshefying its strawberry specials.
The grown-ups too, the Men of Kent
- policemen, firemen, even mothers –
ooze holy reconciliation.
Square champion of now-and-evermore,
our Town Clerk, Mr Parfitt
(his briar fat with Gold Block,
his Precedent Book with answers)
daylong endures municipal nirvana,
while sweet St George’s bell
hangs in the air the indistinguishable hours.
Dense crops of non-events and deep “Amens”
Ripen to sunset’s harvest,
when problems niggling Einstein
turn soluble in Fremlins Special Brew;
and the big world’s reported frets
(famines in China and Herr Hitler’s curse)
prove good for wrapping cod and chips.
Breath follows breath
A ragged pensioner now,
I tread in my own footsteps
(Page and Monarch both)
stalking my leafy memories
along the paths of childhood.
My God what glee!
The little town prevails!
Force-fed on calendars,
it has withstood.
Those other chaps have gone:
Hitler and Parfitt; Baldwin, Einstein,
one with a million pebbles rolling on our shore,
smoothed sleek by history or oblivion.
What luck to turn up now!
The same dear world consummated in sunlight:
My funny life within a whisker of completion,
and only wanting a lick or two of gloss.