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Words of a Derbyshire Poet

Morning Rain

A conscious faint drumming of finest rain,
the hissing sound of weather’s tinnitus.
White opals drip, drip, drip, along the plain
iron railings of the varnished fire escape.
As drop, drop, drop the soaking pearls’ strung drape,
to shock the waiting puddle’s glassy plane,
in regular minute tsunamis,
yet, oh, the peace of it, this morning rain!

A limpid, sad sheen glosses, bends the trees,
cascades their canopy irregular,
to add more drenching to the drowning earth.
Some blackbird’s clear, full-hearted coda weaves
a threnody between the boughs, and leaves
its spirit in this distillation’s dearth.
On emerald grass, rich gems spun globular,
green facets of a million small seas.

Translucent mass of hanging clouds of grey,
impenetrable to the higher blue,
a stranglehold on urging push of dawn.
Ritual of morning pride’s delusion
liquefies and takes in smooth transfusion
the clearing air, silk-soothed and cleansed, and born
again of purest innocence anew.
Relieves the sorrows from some yesterday.

Even though the saturation over,
still comes the sound, re-echoed on again.
Memory reminds my ear’s affliction,
ringing, ringing in a sour annoyance.
When, in future time, this loathsome noise has
ceased, then I’ll remember with affection
the calm of that still singing, singing rain.
Oh, that morning, and its blackbird lover!


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Palhaço

Lugubriously,
a sickly grin spreads wide across his face.
The mirror tells him what he lacks and must re-paint;
his single teardrop.

Palette of make-up,
the careful outline penciled on his cheek.
A black-rimmed pool, and yet his doleful eyes are dry,
tragi-comedy.

His doubled image,
veneer of surface-sorrow, hides the depth.
The grease-paint-grief complete, his art suspends belief,
defies gravity.

Alone in his room,
he thinks of the crowd gathering to pay.
Brief humour of his misfortune helps to mask their own;
their hearts on his sleeve.

His show must go on,
a new teardrop each night which never falls.
Sorrow trapped behind the mirror he cannot break
“Vesti la giubba!”

“On with the motley” from ‘Pagliacci’
Palhaço – Clown
On hearing The Aquarelle Guitar Quartet play their arrangement of ‘Palhaço’ (by Egberto Gismonti) at The Palace Hotel, Buxton. - The Buxton Festival, 2009)


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Fourth In Line

The Slaughter

Scratch;
I’m not sure
when the word
came to be.

I know its use...
easing the way...
soothing the body into peace...
held still on this crude altar of wood.

All pain erased,
the savage sharpness over,
frenetic struggle becoming quiet,
blackening blood leaving the stark serenity of death.

Lying still now,
sacrificed on the rough-hewn pine,
conscience water washing away the... trouble of life,
quick scraping the bristles away, taking off the hair shirt.

Alast supper
stretched out on a guilty table,
bled innocent, sloughed, a riven image.
Pale body cooling into wax-bloomed peace.

Drawn, halved,
thudded, dissected.
Later, shrouded in the winding muslin,
hook-hung in the dark cellar, eternally silent,

Completed,
scrubbed down,
all sins washed away
from this killing-bench of raw necessity.

I’m not sure when the name came to be,
only my father telling me it was so.
But I know its use of dispatch.
Afinal deathbed into oblivion.

Quiet now...
except for the shrill echoing of a squeal...
heard in memory...
coming from the scratch.


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The Young Waitress

Windscreen wiper hands, and flashing eyes
that look each day to Tuscany’s tall trees,
and olive tasting skin.

She is proud, legs patterned in uproarious lace
that coyly mocks suspicion of virginity.
She has the look that says woman.

She flirts and smiles, and writes it in your heart,
and on her pad, your order.
Smiles again, repeating ‘cold milk’with false importance.

Gives the table-cloth a delicate sweep of gold-encrusted fingers
that lasts just a little too long, and yet, too short.
An almond eyelid sideways glance, too quick, observed.

October sunshine, warm enough, floods through the ageing leaves.
The guests delight in urging eating is for life itself,
hospitable in culture’s fair exchange excess.

Bresoala, rocket and grana padana,
put down in grandest flourish,
and obligatory, later, her iced dessert.

The coffee,... hot,... intense.
Her spirit,... hot,... tasted.
But not for me.

I put down too many euros in confusion.
She gives me a tip I already know,
I read it in her eyes, too old.

Memory is a fool, and gladly I am real again.
Ciao, Pistoia, arrivederci to my dream,
while in the corner sits her beau, scowling, and young.

I envy them their lack of years,
their joy, their days and nights.
But not their coming pain.


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Poetry Times Three

The Gather

We set off, you and I, on a gather.
Two friends, one troubled, one not.

We went across an open field
Leading to the spot you chose,
This time you gave the commands,
For once I simply agreed.

Two pairs of eyes, one misted, one not.
Gathered across the aching sky,
Grey, wet clouds were crowding,
By a curlew’s lamenting long cry.

Two sets of legs, one heavied, one not.
We went, you and I, with my burden
Of you in a bag on my back.
We stopped, at the place, for the working,
Not with a stick, but a spade.
And this time, I on my own.
Turning the turves to show
The welcoming, gathering brown.

Two pairs of ears, one listening, one not.
Across in the wood, the whistling wind
Lifted the mourning crows, then folded
Them back in the gathering tops.

Two hearts, one heaving, one not.
Laid low in the shrouding sack.
Wearing, the only thing ever possessed,
The collar I could not take back.

We filled up the space, you and I.
The brown covered up by the green.
Across my face I drew my arm,
Was it rain that spattered my cheek?
Or memory of a cold, damp nose,
That used to push up into my hand.
To gain the rough, good-natured pat,
Lick my fingers and leave them wet.

I turned, and left you there,
To gather the flock.


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Onion

A row of onions in my father’s garden.

The green and brown of it all.
The growing and the dying.

Pulled , lifted, thrown away
and planted in the season’s roundness.

The gnarled fingers I look on now were his,
the beetling brows, at when I dug too deeply for him,
and the faint smile around his lips as,
later on, I spaced them right,
now haunt me in the greenhouse glass.

These plants, like me, grew slowly,
I was impatient to see the hidden things below,
and tried to make the season happen quicker.
Easter preparation and Summer rain were all too slow
in bringing round the plump and praise of Harvest Festival.

And now I hold an onion in my hand.
The skins of time in wrinkling, crisping sere.
Smelling of my father’s jacket, warm and safe,
a world concealed inside its heavy cloth.

The years peel off so easily, for a while,
then cling a little tighter as each layer
Becomes more stubborn in its yielding.
The deadened brown becomes a greener shade,
the quick of life takes on a fresh appeal.
My fingers feel the slip of lighter, creamy sap
that floods my memory’s keening joy.
Yet baulks the sharing of its inner self
In awkward, youthful blush of inexperience.

I take the knife, and cut,
Its centre, infant life reveal.

A white and innocence laid bare
at the sluicing crunch against my nails.

The old, familiar strength assails my nose,
and stings my eyes, anticipates my mind to sense
the moist, crisp, succulence of earth.

These broken rings of time, now viewed in curiosity,
The zest of life communioned on my tongue,
At this, the core of memory’s thoughts,
In one small globe of pain,
No sweeter thing reminds me more.


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My Shoes

Two,
Left and right,
Conceived at the same time.
Created, grown, and fashioned twins,
Lying together, joined by parental leather,
Of the same skin, linked, though not quite Siamese.

Un-boxed, their umbilical cords tied for the first time,
They tried out their first unsure, questioning steps.
I cared for them, and showed them off with pride.
Comforted them when they had training scrapes,
Pinched, squeezed, and got to know each other.
New recruits, on parade, ready for action, platooned.

Many a time they put me on and took me out,
I only adopted them for a while, my foster feet.
And then, when we were worn in and fitted so well,
We went miles together, like three musketeers.
We arrived at so many crossroads, and tossed a coin.
Oh, the places we went, I could write a book!

I mended them when they got old and leaked,
Two old men with old men’s problems.
Shabby, down at heel, with thin soles.
I had them mended again, one last time,
As they had begun to lose their way occasionally,
In the Alzheimer time of their life.

And when they were no longer fit enough to march,
I pensioned them off, in retirement, with honours.
Taken off, they now lie helpless, but still together.
Occasionally I see them, at the back of my wardrobe
And we smile at each other, and nod, like old friends.
Remembering the miles…left…right…left…right.

My two old soldiers,
Paraplegic,
Proud.

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More Poems

Shire Horse

Sleek-moving ponderous giant,
With jangling brass and brightened chains,
Polished like a gypsy-bauble.
The red, cockaded, wired-on plumes,
Like hideous peacock, plaited, splayed.
Rude truncheon-tail plucked bare, tied up
And artificial flower mocked,
Makes clown this great colossus.
And yet his gentle ancient eye still burns
A fire primeval. When, still a wild thing,
Yet un-hindered, graced the plains,
The moors and dales his kingdom.
Which one first caught and hobbled?
Haltered, broken-in and trained?
Checked by strips of hand-stitched hide.
The spirit tamed, though never quenched.
Ploughed furrows, pulled the harvest’s
Wooden carts and Medieval jousted.
Charged at pike-men, armour-plated,
Dragged cannon, and condemned to gallows.
Hauled timber for a thousand ships,
Draughted ale for thirsty workers.
Moved mountains with a simple rope
On towpaths by the quiet canal.
And now, so rare, this splendid Shire
Sent one more time around the ring,
Applauded now in second lap of honour.
Noble friend, your work is done,
Endangered beast, as in a zoo,
And patted by a hundred hands.
A bygone age, sad memoried smells,
The clip of shoe on cobbled yard.
Soft muzzle snort and may in bloom,
My distant childhood dimmed.
The swingle-tree and rusty hames
Replaced by stinking engine.
Now stallion ghosts and mares in mists,
Shake off the centaur-half of man,
Race back through centuries gone,
Reclaim their wings of Pegasus.
Appalled to see their children’s children
Stalled and harnessed, judged and gelded,
Shod in iron, shafted, flogged
And butchered for pet dogs.


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Sale Fever

I must go down to the sales again, B.& Q. and M.F.I.
And all I ask is a Top Shop, and a Selfridges nearby,
And the Kookai, and the Woolworths, to Boots and Specs Savers,
And a Monsoon on the C.& A. , Next to Quicksavers.

I must go down to the sales again, to the Harvey Nicholls queue,
The M.& S., and the D.F.S., and maybe Debenhams too,
And all IKEA, All Sports, and Bay, with a Super-Drug flying,
And a New Look, at the Body Shop, Argos-catalogue-buying.

I must go down to the sales again, to the F.C.U.K. life,
To John Lewis, and to Harrods, with all the world and his wife;
And all I want is a plastic card, and a sell-by-date decoder,
And two new feet, and a facial scrub, at the free make-over.


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Selected Poems

(Written in broadest Staffordshire Moorlands accent of the Manifold Valley)
(Read phonetically is probably the easiest way)

The Girl With Auburn Hair

’A tell ov a mayd frum th’village grayn,                            (green)
Agnes Pickrin’ wur ’er naym.
Born at a farm ’neyth an ’ill cow’d Shayn,                        (called Sheen)
An’ ’oud gyet orbun ’air.                                                   (she had)

Oh shay wur fair, theer’s none denay,
But wildt an’ free, non fancy.
Yit th’uther wenches made ’er cray,                                  (cry)
An’ taysd abairt ’er ’air.                                                     (teased)

Th’yong men o’ frum rind abairt,
Tray’dt the best fut win ’er.
B’shay wur chusy, wi’airt a dairt,
An’ stalldt ’em wi’’er stare.

A’th’village Wakes thay danced ’er rairnd,
’Er eyes wur o’ a-sparklin’,
Win lads exed tek ’er whum, ’er frairnd,                           (asked, home)
An’ shuke that orbun ’air.

Win Agnes grew ter womanhood,
’Er Mother towd ’er then,
As shay wur born o’ chance-childt blood,                         (illegitimate)
An’ th’Feyther, none knew where.

Then th’uther wenches spiteful wur,
When it gyet airt ont’ gossip,
Thay turndt the backs an’ laughed at ’er
Sed, “Cut yer orbun ’air!”

Well, Agnes back t’th’farm ’er ran,
An’ tearful, sobbed an’ crayed,
Shay exed ’er Mother “Wheer’s the man,
“Give mey this orbun ’air?”

’Er Mother’s face then fell o’ gray,
Shay bit ’er lip i’shame,
“A gypsy lad, wi’ mey did lay,”
“An’ ey ’ad orban ’air.”

Agnes ran airt on t’th’ill,
An’ ’id among o’ rocks.
Shay ’eaved ’er ’eart wi’ scraitin’ still,                              (crying)
E’en th’shape were watchin’ there.                                    (sheep)

Er’ lay theer thinkin’ “What’s ter cum?
“Who’ll luke at mey frum nair?”
“A’l ’orn it, though, what’s done is done,”                        (put up with)
“Fer mey, ar nothin’ care.”

Neyht drew in, an’th’moun full rose,
Yit still ’er lingered theer,
Shay fell inter a fritful doze,
An’ dreemt o’’er feyther’s ’air

Well, darkness passed, an’ dawn cropt in,
Shay wok up wi’ a start.
’Er shivered wi’ ’er frock sa thin,
An’ damp ’er orbun ’air.

Then Agnes run frum offa th’ill,
Cross th’pasters dewy sward.                                            (pastures)
Th’valley filldt wi’ mist o’ still,
A saight o’ beowty rare.

Shay crossed thro’ th’edge, an’ int’t’lane,
Then stopped, surprised ter sey,
A yong mon, leading ’orse an’ wain,                                 (cart)
An’ whistlin’, wi’out a care.

“Na’ then, lass, what’s up?” ’ey axed,
“Tha lukes a bit upset,
Wut’na tell, ar’t sad?, or vexdt?                                         (Will you not, angry)
Tha’s gyet sich pretty ’air!”

Shay gloppendt wur, ’er body shuke,                                (dumbstruck)
’Ey ’eld ’er wi’ ’is eyes,
An’ neyther brok their knowin’ luke,
An’ silent, buth did stare.

’Ey fexed ’er kindly in ’is gaze,
An’ waited till shay’d calmed,
“What’s thi name?, wheer gu thi ways?,
Swait lass wi’ orban ’air!”                                                 (sweet)

“Agnes Pickrin’, frum Shayn ’ill,”
’Er answerdt, blushin’ bright,
“Br’av gyet many troubles still,                                         (But I’ve)
A’m non abairt t’share.”

Th’yong mon quickly took ’er ’and,
An’ tender ’eld it theer,
“A trouble shared’s a trouble banned,”
’Ey sed, wi’ voice o’ care.

“Gyet they ont’ cyart, a’l tek thi wom,                               (home)
Albert’Holland, that’s mi name.
Well o’er river’s weer ah’m from,                                     (where)
On’t Glutton side o’ wair.”                                                (weir)

Ey tuke ’er back t’er mother’s place,
An lifted ’er dine frum th’cyart,                                         (down)
’Ey gazed inter ’er pretty face,
An’ stroked ’er orban ’air

“A’l cum an’ sey thee, once i’a while,”
’Ey sed, “if tha dusna’ mindt.”
Shay niver spok, b’give a smile,
That niver smildt sa fair.

Thay courtdt all o’th’summer long,
As th’ yong ’uns orlis do,                                                  (always)
’Till at last, theer love sa strong,
A ring were blest to wear.

Su Albert n’Agnes ’appily wed,                                        (So)
Thay lived at ‘Stannery’,
O’er fifty yeer, wur their homestead,
The good an’ bad to share.

I’mey, theer blood flows wharmly still,                              (In me)
Ah’m proud ter tell thee nair,
Me Great- grandmother, off Shayn ’ill,
That lass wi’ orban ’air.


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