A TALE OF TWO CITIES

Well, one city and one small island, to be precise, and two images to demonstrate the stark contrast between Christmas activities at opposite ends of the British Isles. 

The first photograph shows some of the thousand brave souls who turned out for the traditional Boxing Day swim at Cobo Bay in Guernsey, while the second, a Breughel-like snow scene, features tobogganers at Stormont on the outskirts of Belfast on the same day.  

My own Boxing Day was far less daring, as Jane and I, along with friends, sat down to eat, drink and be merry to celebrate the fact that, as 2020 draws to a close, Guernsey has only seven active cases of Covid-19 and islanders have therefore been able to enjoy this festive season with few restrictions. 

TOBOGGANING

 

The seat feels quite precarious 

but once I’m down, that feeling goes.

So odd to be this close to snow, 

chilling the fingertips, the nose: 

a child’s sensation, I suppose ...

most adults are incurious.

A snowy paradise, indeed,

this afternoon on Stormont hill 

where children’s voices, wild and shrill, 

applaud a crazy vaudeville

of adults launched, against their will, 

downhill, on icy blades, at speed. 

This granddad hugs his grandson tight 

then edges forward with his heels 

on modern blades of stainless steel. 

The child, as agile as an eel,

wriggles. I feel, amidst his squeals,

toboggan shift, the sleigh take flight.

A longing for a lifetime lost, 

assails me in the rushing wind. 

The grandson to my parka pinned, 

as once my daughter, angel-skinned, 

clung to me then, our bodies twinned, 

rocketing downward through the frost.

DOE RAY ME

It's a very great privilege to encounter wild creatures in their natural habitat, free from human interference. I've often watched deer in Ireland and more recently in Britain and France but, alas, we have no deer in Guernsey. 

DEER

Stillness makes invisible

young deer 

by the forest’s edge.

First, there is landscape only

till one slim head 

dips towards green.

 

Three shapes then,

golden, long limbed, lissome, 

impossibly fair.

In sunlight, they stand:

two adults, 

one fawn, fragile as a kitten. 

A doe grazes, 

the other stands, immobile,

soft eyes watchful. 

One movement,

a turned shoulder, raised hand,

would be enough

to send them leaping

for the forest’s

green sanctuary,

to vanish:

a dreamt poem

lost on wakening.

TRAVELLERS' TALES

With Christmas Day approaching, it’s time for a poem appropriate to the season of hope and good cheer.

BETHLEHEM

Shelter at last

and not an hour too soon

for birth is imminent.

A barnyard stench,

the reek of ordure,

straw for bed.

Beneath cross-beams,

shrill birth-screams:

a boy.

Small but perfect.

A manger his crib.

Lowing beasts look on.

One brilliant star 

illuminates the yard. 

From afar, riders come. 

IN DENIAL

With Christmas in jeopardy in numerous parts of the British Isles, could that mean a last-minute stay of execution for a few million unsuspecting turkeys?  

SONG OF THE CHRISTMAS TURKEY

We have grown fat, my friends and I,

and although some birdbrains say

these gifts of food Men bring us

must be treated with suspicion, 

this I doubt. 

I feed on corn aplenty and rejoice,

grow plumply satisfied and portly stout.

My fellows fast become inflated too:

such fine birds with no work at all to do.   

I call the doubters paranoid and mock

their pessimistic attitudes and gloom.

Another feast arrives, I gulp it down

then gobble thankful sounds 

and strut about.

We grow each day more pillowy and sleek.

Our future is assured, our species blessed.

This is the life, I think, no need to fear:

December is the season of Good Cheer.

 

DO NOT GO GENTLE ...

As an aspiring writer in my twenties, I dressed in tweeds and corduroy, smoked a pipe, drank to excess and was enthralled by the works, or, more accurately, by the unrestrained behaviour of Dylan Thomas, which I sought to imitate. I believed that such an outward appearance of Bohemianism would ensure my status as ‘a poet’ or, more importantly, endear me to members of the opposite sex. 

All that was a long time ago and my naive enthusiasm for Dylan Thomas is all but forgotten. Other literary heroes have replaced ‘the celestial blabbermouth’ in my pantheon of ‘Great Writers’. The foul pipe and tweeds have been consigned to history and I now drink alcohol sparingly. Writing, however, has endured to this day and I like to think that, occasionally, my verse achieves the grace of poetry.

TIDES OF TIME

When I was never sober, young and single,

at closing time, Auld Pat would keep repeating

Time’s up, please gentlemen ...

time’s up now please! 

his voice like tide retreating

over shingle,

but in my youthful, drunk elation,                                                         

half-legless, careless as a cat,

I gave no thought to time. 

Time’s up now, gents!

Grown old and sober, I concur with that

yet still cling on in desperation.

 

SIREN SONG

One aspect of a melancholy nature is the tendency to reflect, perhaps more than one should, on the ephemeral nature of life. 
Poetry should not shy away from such preoccupations, indeed, there can hardly be a better medium through which to engage with subjects like love and death. 

MEMENTO MORI

An ambulance howls like a hurt cat;

parts traffic as Moses did the waves.

Worms burrow in awaiting graves.

A police car buzzes like a gnat.

Stuck in a jam of steaming cars,

I contemplate how life transforms

in moments. How they wait, those worms,

so patiently, for us, for ours.

BOXED IN

I find Philip Larkin's poem Mr Bleaney a haunting one, particularly as I grow older and become increasingly aware of the isolation and consequent loneliness that so many fall prey to.

My own poem, The Landlady's Tale, taps into the anxiety that many elderly people feel as time leaks steadily away.  

THE LANDLADY’S TALE

These were the only things he had.

I put them in a cardboard box.

Just what he wore. I thought it sad.

Apart from extra pants and socks.

A good innings at eighty-one.

We never knew he had a son.

He always was a quiet chap:

no trouble, liked his mugs of tea.

He’d come down to my door and tap,

Fancy a cuppa, Mrs P?

Before you go, forgive my cheek,

he didn’t pay his rent last week.