DEAD POETS SOCIETY 2

My recent visit to Cornwall provided me with an opportunity to visit the graves of two significant and much loved Twentieth Century poets, Charles Causley and Sir John Betjeman. 

ST ENODOC’S CHURCHYARD
                        
A rhymer at a poet’s grave,
I wonder what unwritten words
lie buried with the great man’s bones.
Would those fine verses we admire
be overshadowed were his voice
to reawaken and declaim
some better poem than his best?
Sir John, beneath this ornate stone
in his beloved Cornish ground,
knew life is far from infinite,
that poems and passion, too, must die.
The great man, dear man, gentle man,
who said his piece and rests in peace,
now lends his pen to other men
while I stand here, amid the dunes
that guard his grave, my coat a shield
against the wind, and hear the sea
declaiming words that end in waves.

CHRISTMAS POEM

Here's a little poem for those of you who hope to receive a gadget from Santa this year.

SATNAV-TIVITY

Once, Three Wise Men went on a quest
to seek and find the Christ-Child, blessed,
they took with them the new “must have”,
a camel-friendly, cool Sat.Nav.

A Guiding Star said travel East
and, as its radiance increased,
they harkened to this Bright Informer
and muttered, “Guys, we’re getting warmer!”

But hark! The Sat.Nav disagreed:
due North was what it guaranteed.
So off they trekked on camel-back.
(Alas, they were on the wrong track.)

They’d brought, as gifts, diamonds and fur
(sadly, no Frankincense and Myrrh)
and fancy jewellery, gold-plated,
to clothe the Christ-Child when located.

Instead of East, they galloped North
and that is why these three, henceforth,
those Sat.Nav-trusting Un-Wise Men,
were simply never seen again.

DEAD POETS SOCIETY 1

My travels in England earlier this year brought me to numerous places of interest: fine old pubs, rustic churches and tiny, peaceful hamlets far removed from the angst and clamour of urban life in the UK nowadays.  
One of the most tranquil and visually pleasing villages I visited was Grantchester, of which the poet Rupert Brooke wrote:
  
          Stands the Church clock at ten to three?  
         And is there honey still for tea? 

... the famous, closing lines of his poem The Old Vicarage, Grantchester.
 
Jane and I arrived in Grantchester on a particularly rainy day and took refuge in The Green Man pub where I jotted down the opening lines of my own “Grantchester” poem.

GRANTCHESTER

Like waking in a former time
from dreams of future-shock and fear,
I stare at streets devoid of grime,
expecting spray-paint to appear
on gable-ends pristinely white,
with no graffitied words in sight.

An ancient pub, a village hall,
with thatched roof, nearby meadowland,
recalls a time when this was all
the norm: a peaceful, car-less land
without fake-news or food made fast,
with fixed foundations built to last.

PARIS BLUES

Paris has been in the news recently for all the wrong reasons. It looks as though les gilets jaunes have begun a modern-day French Revolution.
Here's a short piece of fiction about a drunken incident set in Paris in happier times.

ROLL OVER BEETHOVEN

The Parish Church is full to bursting. Light pours through the ancient stained-glass windows. The glorious notes of a Beethoven Sonata fill the air.
I glance down at Chuck Berry’s shoes as the Minister’s voice intones those familiar words: Who gives this woman? I answer firmly: I do. 

It was Nineteen-eighty-something. I was a young man, free as air, making my way around Europe in what I suppose you’d now call a ‘gap year’. I’d arrived in Paris and, after a month of tatty, one-star hotels, decided to splash out and stay for one barely-affordable night at the Hotel d’Aubusson on Rue Dauphine.
I spotted him when I was checking in: Chuck Berry, the Poet Laureate of Rock ‘n Roll, making his way to the elevator. He was dressed in a white suit and carried a small valise. I’d heard he was careful with money and usually travelled from one gig to another without an entourage, employing whatever session musicians were on hand for his live shows. After all, the adoring public came to hear the legendary Chuck Berry: everything else was just sonic wallpaper.
My room on the third floor was as luxurious as I’d expected and I treated myself to a hot bath and a few drinks before heading out for an evening’s excitement in the City of Light. As I waited for the down-elevator, a door opened along the corridor and Chuck Berry stepped out, saw me and nodded. He set a pair of shoes down outside his door.
I’m sure it still happens in the best hotels nowadays: you leave your shoes outside your door, a porter takes them away, polishes them and returns them. Anyway, they did that thirty years ago, the last time I was able to splash out on an hotel of that quality.
Paris at night was a place of delight and wonder. I stumbled back around midnight having imbibed one too many cocktails and rode the elevator up to the third floor.
Outside Chuck Berry’s door sat his newly-polished shoes. In my inebriated state I couldn’t resist the temptation to slip off my own shoes and try Chuck’s on. Amazingly, they fitted me perfectly and, in that surreal state alcohol can foster, it seemed natural for me to leave my own shoes outside his door and walk away in those shiny wingtip brogues.
I woke the following morning with a thunderous hangover and noticed the shoes by my bed. I grabbed them, fought down a wave of nausea and embarrassment and set off to apologise and return them.
I was too late. A maid was busy cleaning Chuck Berry’s room when I arrived and enquiries at Reception confirmed that the great man had checked out.   

I’ve had them nearly thirty years now: these shoes. Wingtip brogues in soft two-tone leather, a bit flash maybe: probably quite old-fashioned ... but I’ll never part with them. I wore them when Jill and I were married and later when each of the children were christened, and today I’m wearing them again at Anne, our daughter’s, wedding.
Nowadays I don’t feel so bad about pinching them. I’ve bought enough Chuck Berry records through the years to pay for them ten times over. 

Now listen to some great music at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sij1R6cjh4A 
                                                                                                                                                                                  

A PASSING GLANCE

Youth and age briefly glimpsed each other one April Sunday when I was walking in the lanes around Bordeaux. 
I wrote this poem when I arrived home.

MY LIKENESS-CHILD

A child stands by a windowpane,
looks down through Sunday rain, as I
trudge slowly down a rural lane,
head bowed, beneath a leaden sky
like a too-laden hammock slung.
Though April, spring seems yet unsprung.

I glimpse a movement to the right,
glance up and see him standing there.
He waves, perhaps to be polite,
and I wave back, return his stare.
I think how much he looks like me
when I was his age, guileless, free.

I trudge along against grey rain
that threatens to engulf the day,
then hesitate, look back again:
my likeness-child has slipped away
back to his games, his screen, his book.
I’m hardly worth a second look.

FROZEN

Here on the island, winters tend to be mild. In Northern Ireland, where I grew up, they can be harsh and unforgiving. 
From December till February in that grey northern province, frost, snow and ice may be expected and I recall, as a child, the thrill of venturing out to slip and slide on frozen lakes.
In older age, of course, it's different. We feel the cold more acutely and are aware of the danger. Nevertheless, there's something magical about the transformation that winter brings to the landscape.

WILD GEESE

When we awoke the lake had turned to glass.
We ventured out into the crystal glare,
in rubber boots, through luminescent snow,
and were amazed, for nothing could surpass
the magic stillness of December air.
On glinting ice, young lovers skated slow,
their eyes, beneath their tousled hair, aglow.

Our exhaled breaths were visible; we laughed
to see those skaters gliding on the lake
as in warm summer evenings wild geese do, 
austere, white-breasted, splendid sailing craft.
and, as we watched, I felt a sudden ache
as I remembered, long ago we too
were young and fleet, before the wild geese flew.

STONED AGAIN

As poetry collections go, my book Stone Witness has sold well and continues to do so. 
Who knows, some discerning friend may buy it for you at Christmas, if you don't already have a well-thumbed copy on your bookshelf. 
I'm currently working towards my next collection.
Its working title is The Granite Ship and central to it will be the poem featured below.

THE GRANITE SHIP

Waves crash around the granite ship,
unceasingly, unceasingly,
and though the sturdy structure holds
the vessel is increasingly
at peril from the hungry whip
of breakers while the ocean scolds
as we, poor mariners, steadfast,
stand resolute beneath the mast.

Our shipmates, hardy island men,        
crew of the granite ship, respect
the awesome hunger of the sea,
its rage, were it to go unchecked,
might rise and inundate again
the living land, our sanctuary.
Our ship sails on, we pray that day
may never come, wish it away.

One day, not in our lifetime, no,     
the sea will overcome and spill
across this deck of leafy lanes,
into the hold where secrets still
lie undisturbed: a grim cargo
of wartime crimes, unwholesome gains,
to drown the shining steeples, tall,
and finance houses, one and all.

Beleaguered Guernsey, ship of stone,         
sea-salt encrusts abandoned cars,
coats ancient wells, old walls, those trees
that still remain like jutting spars;
encrusts greenhouses, overgrown,
their old vines riddled with disease,
while, constantly, relentless waves
thrust deeper into coast and caves.

We watch the fierce tide fall and rise. 
Secure on deck, our granite ship
implants its staunchness in our hearts,
embeds in us a coarse-grained chip.
We mariners would be unwise,
however, to rely on charts:
that unrelenting enemy
will sink us yet, the sea, the sea.


https://www.blueormer.co.uk/?page_id=850  

FLIGHT OF FANCY

After a week of war poems, here's something lighthearted, fanciful and, perhaps, a little surreal from that airy realm where birds, not bullets, fly.

BIRDS OF A FEATHER

Like starlings in a close-knit flock,
they swoop then gather in the pews
before the vicar in his smock,
a rook-like man of sombre hues.
Then children cluster, sparrow-pert,
up in the front row, noisily.
The boys look bored while young girls flirt
and fluff their feathers quietly.
A magpie-person sits alone:
his elegant, eye-catching suit
draws comment from a starling clone.
From lakeside comes a nervous coot
and, hardly noticed, now a wren
flits in, her costume copper-bright.
She bows and chirps a soft amen,
her small head cocked, her tail upright.
A couple, blackbirds by their look,
respectively in black and brown,
receive a stern nod from the rook
as they arrive and settle down
then one plump robin, always late,
red-cheeked and jaunty, hurries in.
His redness serves to recreate
the blood of Christ that conquers sin.
A choir of larks begins to sing
the old, familiar, Hymnal words
and all join in, their voices ring
for they are full of joy, these birds
that, somehow, find a place to perch
in this strange aviary, the church.

FORGOTTEN HEROES

On Remembrance Sunday we celebrate the fallen in two World Wars and the many conflicts that have followed. 
Whist we remember those who died, spare a thought, too, for those who survived and returned home, gravely injured, to something less than a hero's welcome.

 





REMEMBER US

Remember us, the dead that live,
who now resume our former lives.
Disfigured, maimed, in mind and flesh,
we living-dead do not forgive
the lies we marched to, young and fresh;
those orders, lost in dark archives,
that sent us out to die like rats
for what? Pro patria, they said.
Pro patria, my arse, we thought,
half-drowned in trenches, deaf as bats,
half-starved, downhearted, feeling naught
but resignation, fear and dread.
We won no medals, no hurrahs
were raised for us when we returned.
War-ravaged men, afraid to sleep,
our lungs destroyed by German gas,
we envy comrades buried deep
while we, who did not die, are spurned.

BLOOD SACRIFICE

The Battle of the Somme, and particularly the bloody first day with its appalling loss of nearly 60,000 British troops, stands out as one of the most infamous in the history of the British Army.
The 36th (Ulster) Division alone lost more than 2,000 men that day and commemoration of their blood sacrifice has been an intrinsic part of Ulster loyalist tradition ever since. 
The Division's insignia was the Red Hand of Ulster.

 







THE SOMME 
July 1, 1916.

What mad, fierce courage, what death-knell
drew them, against all common sense,
into the Pit of No Man’s Land,
the bloody butcher-shop of Hell,
into the waiting German guns?
What chinless imbecile’s command
led them to mount a flawed offense
on the entrenched, awaiting Huns?  

We can but hope adrenaline,
an end to fearful waiting and
the shouts of comrades by their side,   
benumbed them when their frail, pale skin      
was shredded by machine-gun flak
as blood-companions fell and died.   
What chinless imbecile’s command
launched them but could not bring them back?

They fell, those gallant men, that day
in thousands and in thousands, died.
The streets and farms of Ulster wept,
a generation passed away,
and only names engraved in stone
remind us that a pledge was kept.
In war, the lowly must provide
a sacrifice in blood and bone.

A century has passed, the fields
of northern France are lush and green.
Life hurries on. The past is past
yet every year the tilled earth yields
war artifacts and, in a sense,    
awareness of the unsurpassed 
insanity of that obscene 
misjudgment and its consequence. 




 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ntt3wy-L8Ok

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

World War One quickly became the most brutal conflict in history and even the most seasoned servicemen were ill-prepared for the scale of carnage that unfolded before them.
When the horror proved too much, some soldiers simply ran away.
Desertion in the face of the enemy was regarded as a crime punishable by death.
The British and Commonwealth military command executed 306 of its own men during World War One. 
Many of those shot were classified as deserters. 

 






DESERTER

Morphine they gave him, whiskey too,
so when they walked him out to die
he was unsteady. 
                          It was dawn,
the killing-ground was wet with dew,
a six-man firing squad stood by,
a chaplain, pale and woebegone,
spoke words that made no sense to him.
Hands firmly bound him, tightened knots,
a hoarse voice whispered, Coward, cunt!
Masked by a blindfold, upright, trim,
he did not hear the fatal shots.

Thousands were dying at the Front.

GO WEST YOUNG MAN

After the outbreak of World War One, recruiting offices were besieged by volunteers and public buildings had to be co-opted as additional recruitment points.

Administrative and medical staff were seconded to process the thousands eager to fight for King and Country. 

Some areas experienced overwhelming numbers and many young men were turned away with an appointment to come back another day.

Little did they know the horrors that would greet them on the Western Front.

 

TURQUOISE SKY  

The child’s eyes are full of fear. He sees
light subtly altered, fields pulsating red.
Be a brave soldier, his mother soothes
and tucks him back in bed.

His father’s eyes are full of fear. He yells:
Get ready Men. Men tremble in the pit
then go over the top, following his shout.
Soldiers in dirty khaki kit.

No time for words or thoughts of home.
Only a moment to glance upwards and spy
something silver falling towards him
out of a turquoise sky.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ntt3wy-L8Ok

GOING UP IN SMOKE

It's one hundred years since the end of World War One and, prior to Armistice Day on the 11th November, I'll be featuring five poems with a common theme, World War One.
This one deals with the disillusionment that many serving soldiers felt as the conflict dragged on and on.

TRENCH RAT

A battered Woodbine is a precious thing.  
If you can light the bugger, better still.

Inhale the harsh, uplifting, acrid smoke   
and, for a fleeting moment, you’re a King.
   
Dear old King George can keep his best cigars
and damn Lloyd George, may that sly bastard choke. 

It’s him and and not the Hun I’d choose to kill
to end this bloody war to end all wars.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ntt3wy-L8Ok

POETIC PILGRIMAGE

Two inspirational Twentieth Century poets, John Betjeman and Charles Causley, lie buried in Cornwall and whilst visiting the area I made a pilgrimage to their graves.
The poems of former Poet Laureate John Betjeman are well known but Causley’s poetry may be rather less so.
Charles Causley was born in Launceston and spent most of his life there. He died on 4th November 2003, aged 86, and is buried in St Thomas Churchyard.
Although known as an intensely private person, Causley was a friend of fellow poets, Siegfried Sassoon, Philip Larkin and Ted Hughes.
Charles Causley’s poetry deals with issues of faith, friendship and family. His work is noted for its simplicity and directness and for its associations with folklore, especially when linked to his native Cornwall.
His poems for children also proved very popular. He is quoted as saying that the royalties for his much-loved poem, Timothy Winters, were sufficient to retire on.
Here's my favourite Causley poem, Eden Rock. 

EDEN ROCK

They are waiting for me somewhere beyond Eden Rock:

My father, twenty-five, in the same suit
Of Genuine Irish Tweed, his terrier Jack
Still two years old and trembling at his feet.

My mother, twenty-three, in a sprigged dress

Drawn at the waist, ribbon in her straw hat,

Has spread the stiff white cloth over the grass.

Her hair, the colour of wheat, takes on the light.

She pours tea from a Thermos, the milk straight
From an old H.P. sauce-bottle, a screw
Of paper for a cork; slowly sets out

The same three plates, the tin cups painted blue.

The sky whitens as if lit by three suns.
My mother shades her eyes and looks my way

Over the drifted stream. My father spins

A stone along the water. Leisurely,

They beckon to me from the other bank.

I hear them call, 'See where the stream-path is!

Crossing is not as hard as you might think.'

I had not thought that it would be like this.

 
Charles Causley

https://www.poetryarchive.org/search/site/Eden%20Rock

HALLOWE'EN BAKE OFF

Here's a bit of sinister fun for Hallowe'en ...

TILL DEATH US DO PART

I cannot stand my ghastly wife:
instead, I love her sister, dear.
The former one pollutes my life.
The latter woman I revere.
I’ve hatched a plot to rid me of
my wife, I’ve simply had enough.

I’ve put rat-poison in a cake:
my wife is fond of sweets and treats.
One slice is all she’ll have to take:
rich cream will guarantee she eats
then she’ll be gone and I’ll have Maud.
It’s simple: just give fate a prod.

Maud’s phoned me to my work and said
she’s at our house to tend my wife
who’s got the sniffles, gone to bed: 
there’s germs around and flu is rife.
I fear I’ve made a great mistake:
Maud’s brewed some tea and scoffed the cake.
 

AIMING TO PLEASE

At an early age it becomes apparent that one way to be sure of succeeding in the romance stakes is to impress one's beloved with some extraordinary skill: playing the guitar, always seemed to work when I was a kid, though never for me with my total absence of musical ability. 
Being good at sport was certain to garner popularity or, if all else failed, being a "poet" (or, more importantly, looking like one) was a pretty good bet. 
At the fairground, too, there would have been opportunities aplenty to demonstrate one's desirability to the opposite sex through a host of daredevil activities like helter-skelter or the dodgems. 
Prowess at the rifle range, too, would almost certainly have guaranteed a chaste kiss.

KIDS

He swears the air-gun’s fixed to miss,
the moving target’s somehow rigged
but still he pays and takes three shots,
and misses. 
She demands a kiss
for consolation. 
Then the slots,
small change, fixed too, 
by now he’s twigged
it’s all a con, but loads of fun,
as they go running, hand in hand.
She laughs, cries out,
Let’s get some chips!
A childish romance has begun.
He kisses her chip-salty lips
behind the Punch and Judy stand.

THE GENERATION GAME

It's said that we turn into our parents as we grow older.

A FATHER’S REFLECTION      
 
In my shaving mirror, increasingly,
as I grow old, my father’s face
replaces mine. As I erase
the moisture, he stares back at me.

His father’s son, he too took on
his father’s brow, his father’s jaw,
his narrow nose, cheekbones and chin.
Now I, first-born son of that son,
obey dictates of Nature’s law
as fine lines autograph my skin.
So here I stand, the mirror a lake.
He signals, from the other side,
a gentle smile, a loving wave,  
while I stand here hardly awake
with soap and razor, bleary-eyed,
forgetting that I need to shave.
That thread that links us binds us tight
yet spirals outward, upward still,
to moor my daughter as she sails
up through life’s thermals like a kite,
her bright ambitions to fulfill.
Through generations blood prevails
and we retain some small imprint
of our begetters, yet display
our own uniqueness, our own guise.
We carry then, some clue, some hint,
of them, our loved, our lost, away
into the future and reprise
their smile, the way they stood, their walk.
So something of my father stays
forever in my stance, my skin,
my eyes, my voice, the way I talk,
my dialect, my turn of phrase:
an echo sounding deep within.

The bristle on my jaw is braille.
its message clear in words, sublime:
although we are devoured by Time,
souls will survive when bodies fail.

SMALL BUT PERFECTLY FORMED

Situated in a picturesque valley in St Andrew’s parish, The Little Chapel is a popular tourist destination and one of Guernsey’s most well-known landmarks.
Originally constructed in 1914, and planned as a miniature version of the Rosary Basillica at Lourdes, the chapel was built and demolished twice before the present version was finally completed.
Decorated with seashells, pebbles and broken china, this unique building measures just sixteen feet by nine feet, has room for about seven people, and is thought to be the smallest consecrated church anywhere in the world.

LITTLE CHAPEL

On full-moon nights the Chapel glows
with holy light. No tourists now,
with cameras or summer clothes
or catalogues to tell them how
the Chapel grew, how earth and shards
created, like a house of cards,
this tiny masterpiece that stands
here in a valley far from town;
how loving, dextrous human hands
raised it, from soil to spire and crown,
through faith for spiritual reward,
so long ago, to praise the Lord.

Only the barn owl, hunting low
over the meadow, and the shrew
crouching immobile, eyes aglow,
in the accumulating dew
of the amazing full-moon night
bathe in its spreading Godly light.

ANYONE FOR TENNYSON?

Lord Tennyson's narrative poem, The Lady of Shalott, first learned when I was at school, is an enduring favourite of mine.
In our online world with its dependence on computer screens, I see a marked similarity with the life of that sad, imprisoned lady condemned to view the world only through its mirror image.

 










SHALOTT 

A river, like a passing life,
flows steadily to Camelot.
Along its bank slim aspens grow, 
wild irises, long-limbed loose-strife,
and, hourly, sloops with cargoes go
to that far place where she dare not.

She moves within a spartan room
where silence like a boulder-weight
bears down on her.
She may despise
her morning’s work upon the loom:
a woven history of lies,
at best half-truths, half-told too late,
but if she does, she puts aside
such sentiments and turns again
to watch the world swim in a mirror
where shadow-shapes, like fishes, glide
and, daily, mysteries occur.
A curse demands she must refrain
from gazing on the world beyond
her tall, arched window:
she must view
the passing moment in a glass.
Each risen morning, rosy-dawned,
incarcerated, she must pass
her time by weaving and eschew
a life unscreened, where touch and scent
enliven the most sluggish hearts:
where sunlight warms the dappled shade
and lovers lie enwrapped, content
in their belief love will not fade;
where, brightly, the kingfisher darts
and snap of twig drives startled deer,
in wingless flight, a honeyed wave,
towards the tree-line, darkly green,
where auburn foxes, without fear,
like black-eyed sorcerers, convene
beneath a leafy architrave.
Where, daily, west wind’s untamed spin
scrawls patterns on broad fields of grain;
where spring unfolds its giving hand,
and harmony exists within 
an unseen, heady-scented land 
that lies beyond her window pane.
In short, hers is a cruel fate
as, cloistered, she needs must deny
the living world:
her limpid screen,
devoid of life, can not create 
the elemental shout of green,
the singing river slipping by.

She does not view the world direct:
instead she visits on a screen
a hundred-million web-sites where
facsimiles of life collect.
One moment here, next moment there ...
Her touch-pad banishes each scene.

A WARM BATH

Warm memories of happy times recently spent in Bath, that most beautiful of cities. 

 








THE ROYAL CRESCENT, BATH

From the green park, the Crescent gleams
ethereal in morning light:
a bright tiara glinting there,
discarded carelessly, it seems
to scintillate, to float on air
or drift away, as well it might,
as though it were mere fantasy.
What must once have been meadowland 
with sloping banks, cascading streams,
has now a different majesty.
The mansions we explore in dreams   
are no more fair and no less grand.      

PET-SIT HEAVEN

Walking with our borrowed dog, Wilbur, in the tree-lined gardens of The Royal Crescent, it's no longer possible to ignore the fact that autumn has arrived.

The paths are littered with fallen leaves and an abundance of horse-chestnuts. 
My days of playing conkers are long past but I still delight in their glorious texture and colour.  

Due to the recent storms the leaf-fall has been less gradual than normal at this time of year.
A limitless ocean of auburn and gold spreads out before us as we walk and seems to whisper as we paddle our way through it. 


Wilbur, pictured here, is one of more than a dozen pets we've taken care of this year. A gentle, obedient fellow with a charismatic personality, he's one of our favourites.  

 
 


AUTUMN WALK

Two sets of boots displace dead leaves,
two pairs of eyes inspect bare trees,
two hands, ungloved, create a bridge:
across it warm affection flows
and, once again, I recognise
that this is love, a love that grows,
unchecked, though autumn lays its hand
on everything, on light, on bough;
that this, in its simplicity.
is everything that I desire. 
All love before was counterfeit.
Life, till you came, was incomplete.

GENTRY DOES IT

I've been visiting a number of National Trust properties during my travels in England this year. One former stately-home inspired this piece of verse.

ENDANGERED SPECIES

A walnut table dominates
the panelled room, dark as a scowl,
where gloomy stags stare, glassy-eyed,
from rosewood mounts with dull brass plates.
We gather round the genteel Guide
to gaze at oils where foxhounds howl
in hunting scenes as, endlessly,
red-coated men hurrah and bray,
sup stirrup-cups, slap riding crops,
while, over meadows, foxes flee.
On mantlepiece and sideboard tops
old photographs are on display
of tweedy chaps, posed ankle-deep
in broken birds, caps raised in cheers,   
or coltish girls in evening dress,
their eyes as innocent as sheep,
all champagne, laughter and largesse,
dead now, it must be fifty years.

We stand there, pale suburbanites,
and marvel at the upper class,
strange creatures from a world long gone.
Those peers, the debs, the gartered knights
against the odds, they linger on
like cut-flowers wilting in a glass.

BULLET POINTS

As Autumn closes in about us, here's a bit of fun to lighten up the day.

BRAND NEW HAT

I wander into Kevin’s Bar. Scotch-rocks, I ask for, then kick back. I drink there for about an hour, maybe a couple. I lose track.
I wear my brand new Stetson hat. My watch-chain fob hangs on my vest. I fill that vest but I ain’t fat. I’m one smart cat, you might of guessed.
I watch the game and drink some more. Those goddam Redskins sure have form. I get confused, forget the score. Kevin’s is cool but over-warm.
Behind the barkeep, hangs a mirror. Reflected in it is the door. What happens next is just a blur. A guy bursts in, emits a roar.
I know his face: a dame I see, called Maymee, has his photograph. He’s sweet Maymee’s new fee-on-see. Guess he don’t want my autograph.
I think it circumspect to split. Maymee is one amazing chick, but I’m no hero I’ll admit. I gulp my Scotch and exit quick,
dart down the alley out at back, the goddam guy in hot pursuit. I got no gun: I never pack. He’s leaded up and sure to shoot.
I’m in the alley, moving fast, as agile as an alley-cat. A trashcan spins, I hear a blast. A bullet smacks my brand new hat.
I run like crazy. Bullets fly. This bozo sure is mad at me. A sleeping drunk trips up the guy, who tumbles like a fallen tree.
I make the corner, spot a cop, who’s looking elsewhere, shoulders squared. I walk real fast. No time to stop. Just gotta get this hat repaired.

A MOMENT IN TIME

On 11 September 2001 the United States suffered a devastating blow from the jihadi forces of militant Islam when hi-jacked airliners were employed as improvised bombs to target the World Trade Centre in New York.

Around 3,000 people died that day and, overnight, America’s attitude to terrorism was transformed. US financial and emotional support for the IRA was immediately and drastically reduced, leading to a downturn in violence in Ulster and the British mainland.
 
Sadly, the new era of global terrorism, ushered in by the events of that grim September day, is one that continues to affect us all. 

REWIND

Wind Time back.

Reel Time in
so that the struck towers
rise from dust, reassemble themselves:
all their glass, their concrete,
a huge jigsaw,
locked together, complete again.

Thousands of keyboards blink to life,
telephones ring, lights come back on, vending machines cough,
eject fresh coffee into plastic cups, air-conditioning sighs
then restarts,
elevators descend, ascend, video conferencing re-commences,
work-stations reconstruct themselves,
conversations resume mid-sentence, emails beep,
digital clocks flicker like quick, green lizards ...

Restart time
as though it had never ended.

All the scattered particles
of mothers, fathers, daughters, sons,
fly back together:
fingers, lips, eyes, soft faces, scorched cinder-black
or blown to bloody shreds: these are re-made.
Lost shoes, lost handbags, mobiles, neck-ties,
day-dreams, expectations, plans, engagements:
all these un-melt, re-form,
resume their shapes.

The terrible, unearthly screams
die down
and down
and down
to whispers.

Wind Time back. Reel Time in.

Backwards
the soft clouds drift.

Birds fly in reverse.

Those grim death-planes,
stiletto-silver in the morning sun,
glide backwards,
withdrawn
like daggers from the shattered towers,
whose twin
glass skins,
pristine again, shimmer
like smooth, un-rippled water.