A FOOL'S GAME

I tend to post my more serious verse and fiction here on Bard at Bay and steer my more lighthearted material towards my Facebook page (https://www.facebook.com/richard.fleming.92102564). Now and then, however, I feel there’s room on BaB for a spot of levity, hence Romance? No Chance! featured below.

ROMANCE? NO CHANCE!

Most great romances end in tears.  

Dead Romeo and Juliet

is an example. Tristan too,

his love for Isolde a bet

he lost. So, sadly, it appears

that too much love’s not good for you

and as for all that love-song crap,

it only lures you to a trap.

Best stick to books if you want love:          

romantic novels don’t cause pain: 

a tear or two, perhaps, but soon                 

you can forget and start again.

It’s best to give that stuff the shove.

Who needs the stars? Who wants the moon?

Be a romantic if you must.

Not me, I’ll opt for simple lust.

WAR OF THE WORDS

Written in response to last month’s Poetry Open Mic theme of “Romance”, The Quarrel is a contrarian’s take on the subject. 

I hasten to add that it’s not autobiographical. 

THE QUARREL

We had, perhaps, too much to drink.       

You mentioned some love from the past

and I, in jealousy, replied

too hastily, harsh words were cast

like stones, but little did I think

that moments later, angry-eyed,

we’d escalate from stones to knives

and, with sharp words, would cut and rend,  

trade insults like colliding trains,

each with our corner to defend.

This morning, nothing much survives.

In our bed-sitter what remains

is one spent candle, blackened, dead,

its wax like tears, an upturned chair,

a carpet stained with spilt red wine

and, what now fills me with despair, 

the memory of things we said,

words we can never reassign,

angry, malign, your words and mine.

 

IN MEMORIAM

“A poet's autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote.”

Yevgeny Yevtushenko

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

Laurence Binyon

THE RAILWAY LINE

(For John Simpson)

We walked together side by side,

at dusk along the disused line,

restless and glad to be outside.

I had Woodbines, you brought cheap wine.

Fifteen, unthinkingly alive,

truants from our suburban drive,

we talked excitedly of life

how we had cracked it, knew the score.

We worked the cork out with your knife

then drank sweet wine and wanted more.

We smoked our fags, ignored the cold,  

could not imagine being old.

https://arts.gg/talent/richard-fleming

BENEATH THE SURFACE

Some years ago I visited Geevor Tin Mine in Cornwall, now a museum and heritage centre, covering an area of 67 acres. It was formerly a working mine, among the foremost in the area and is the largest preserved tin mining site in Great Britain.

One of the most poignant moments of my visit was entering The Dry, an area where miners would have changed into and out of their working clothes at start and end of shift. 

The Dry has been preserved unchanged, with safety helmets and overalls hanging where the  departing miners left them at the end of their final shift in 1990.

THE DRY

Overalls and safety-wear, 

hung carelessly at that last night-shift’s end

in the long locker-room loud with shouts and banter,

hang now, 

abandoned

in the empty Dry.

A patina of red dust covers everything.

On pegs, drab boiler-suits, like terracotta men, line up 

as though to muster at the shaft’s mouth

for another shift, another morning.

Once, coarse bravado conquered fear 

of the laborious descent, of voluntary entombment.

Like Jonahs in the whale’s dark gut,

men sweated, year on year, for meagre pay.

Some died in those recesses, bodies winched up to the light,

to be interred again 

with prayers and season’s flowers.

Now, all is history: tin-mining an anachronism, the pit

a heritage trail for visitors in shorts and beanie hats.

A Cornish way of life, hereditary, vanished,

its roots, deep in pre-Christian times, outdated now, 

its doughty sons dispersed and gone,

yet still they hang on pegs in rows, those overalls and safety-hats, 

imprinted with the russet dust 

they carried from that underworld 

along with what men sought within

the belly of the monster, tin.

RISK ASSESSMENT

It's sometimes difficult for a man to appreciate just how vulnerable some women feel when walking at night although, nowadays, it's not just women who are at risk as our world becomes a more lawless place.

KING KONG

It had been a terrific film, Jill reflected as she walked to the bus station.

She’d thoroughly enjoyed the 1933 version of King Kong, this month’s offering at her local film club: somehow these old movies really captured the pioneer spirit of cinema.  

Early for the last bus, Jill stepped into the station’s late-night cafe and ordered a hot chocolate: just what she needed now the nights were growing colder.

The place wasn’t busy and the lad behind the counter seemed listless, bored. The chocolate, however, was great: hot, sweet and deliciously foamy.  

She noticed the guy early on. It was hard to miss him: a huge bloke, black-browed and bearded, dressed in grubby combats, with a brown beanie pulled down over what appeared to be a shaven head. His densely tattooed arms rested heavily on the tabletop as he glared around him. 

Jill quickly looked away and concentrated on her drink.

When she raised her head again he hadn’t moved. She was sure he was watching her. His gaze was steady, animalistic, disquieting.

There was something about him that seemed to exude menace. He seemed out of place amongst the shiny rows of cafe-tables. 

He had begun rolling a cigarette and she noticed how deftly his massive fingers moved.

He’s not allowed to smoke in here, she thought. He’s just the sort who would though, and you’d get an earful of abuse if you told him he shouldn’t. 

The lad behind the counter wouldn’t help: he looked as though he’d hide rather than argue with ... King Kong. Jill realised she’d already given the stranger a name.

Glancing towards the window, she saw the late-bus pull in and decided not to rush the last of her chocolate: the bus usually waited ten minutes or so before it left.

She watched King Kong out of the corner of her eye. He hadn’t lit up but was twirling the cigarette around between his fingers. He seemed to be talking to himself.

Suddenly Jill heard the bus-engine cough, saw the interior lights blink and heard the doors hiss shut.

Springing to her feet, she hurriedly set two pound coins on the counter and ran outside in time to see the bus move away with a belch of diesel.

The rotten sod, she thought. He’s cleared off early. Now I’ll have to walk.

Jill set off along Station Road, already feeling the cold seeping through her anorak. She hitched her shoulder-bag more tightly under her arm headed in the direction of Moorside, where the streetlights were better.

She had only gone a short distance when she heard footsteps behind her and, glancing back, saw a dark figure hurrying towards her.

Even in the limited light she knew right away that it was King Kong: he moved with an exaggerated roll as though his legs were carrying the weight of a torso too heavy for them.

Something about his hunched shoulders and the way he lowered his simian head filled Jill with terror. 

He’s been eyeing me in the cafe and now he’s going to try to grab me, she thought.

Suddenly aware of the darkened street, the absence of people, Jill panicked and broke into a trot. 

Kong too increased his pace: she could hear his heavy footsteps drumming on the uneven pavement.

Jill scrabbled with her shoulder-bag, couldn’t locate her mobile in the labyrinth of zipped pockets, and started to run.

She heard Kong, too, increase his pace and knew she’d never outrun him.

When her ankle twisted, Jill knew it was the end. With a desperate cry, she stumbled into a shop doorway and tried to make herself small.

Seconds later, King Kong was there, panting, looming over her, massive, dark and intimidating. His blackness seemed to swallow what little light there was as he reached towards her.

"Here, you left it in the cafe," he gasped handing Jill her mobile phone.