10-04-2013, 06:10 PM
1
Verse or Worse
ClamourWhy do people shout so? Is it anger that they’re feeling
When they yell at nearby children, scream at partners in the street?
Have they lost their sense of hearing, do they think it sounds appealing?
Why has no-one taught them what it means to be discreet?
What’s with mobile phone calls and the need to share the drivel?
And the blaring dins from cars that pass for music, windows wide?
Has all the world gone mad with no concern for being civil,
Or is it symptomatic of a fear of what’s inside?
For peace, and total quietitude with no disturbing din
Will force an inner thoughtfulness, a self assessing trawl
Of errors, insecurities, and failings deep within -
Perhaps that terrifies us most of all.
DRIPPY DROPPY APRIL
‘Twas drippy and the dampen rain
Did slosh and soak within my wellies.
All gloopy went it down the drain
And landed splashy on rats’ bellies.
“Beware the April month! My daughter!
The greying, dismal weeks, the soak!
Beware the plop plop of the water!
Beware the brollies born to poke!”
I took my pokey stick, my mac ,
And bent my head, and danced away;
The droppy drippy soaky track
Brilligly a wet display.
One two! One two! and through and through
The pokey stick did slithe past crowds
‘Till I emerged into the blue –
Looked up, to find May swathed in clouds.
AN ANGEL LANDED
An angel landed on my roof last night
As I lay weeping and bereft.
I heard nothing but my heartbeat,
Mocking dregs of what was left.
My pillow sodden, as I tossed and turned;
A prisoner tied to chains of love,
Deaf, blind and unaware of what
A wondrous happening up above.
Tis torture, this giving up of heart, of sharing
A lifetime’s love, so cruelly taken,
Abandoned by your other half –
To leave a wish to never waken.
But an angel landed on my roof last night
Enfolding hope within my soul,
Suffusing light and sharing trust
That together, we could become whole.
I found no feather on my pillow –
But sank asleep in warming glow,
And, waking gentle, saw beside me
A frozen, crystal flake of snow.
SSSIZZLE
Sweet sizzling in my vein today, and everything seems brighter.
Insidious hissing in my brain, and life seems sharper, whiter.
My edges blurred, an inner fizz
That thrills and enervates alike.
I’m slower, dreamy, broken down
My heart’s all peak and spike.
Wondrous sparking round my brain, and shit! I’m God, I am!
The knowledge hurts my skull, the thought that everything’s a sham.
My eyeballs itch, my eyelids twitch
I hear a song, it must be me,
But coming deep within some other
Me, a stoned-out zombie of a bitch.
The racing heart tick tocks my life, and good stuff fills up my vein,
Luscious sleep fights alien limbs and maybe it’s insane –
But me and my fix, my whole box of tricks
Take me somewhere far off,
Out there, better world,
A whole other way to get kicks.
ME, OTHER ME
I had a voice inside my head that hissed and whispered subtle things.
I tried translating what it said, its rhythms, its insidious wings
That fluttered just behind my eyes, that washed my senses clean away;
And though it told me wicked lies, I thought it spoke not of decay,
Of horrors, but of angel wings.
The voice – I called it Other Me – crooning as a lover’s sigh,
Lulling me within my skull to instigate a mad reply.
And though it spoke of love of sorts, a soup of feelings round me flowed,
Yet still I could not break the code,
But yearned to tell the voice goodbye.
But now the Other Me has fled, inhabiting who knows what space?
And left me here, becalmed and blank, presenting but an empty face;
Surrounded by some careful others, gentle handling of my needs –
Who never question, never judge, and deftly dismiss past misdeeds.
I miss Other Me.
IT
It’s on the stair! It’s on the stair!
I lie in bed, ears straining.
I hear the creak – I want to shriek!
With what breath is remaining.
It’s tippy-toeing up the stairs,
And thinking I won’t hear,
But even through my desperate prayers
I know it’s coming near.
My bed is soft and warm and wide,
And it, I know, is cold.
What better place to crawl inside –
And round my body mould?
I curl up tight, eyes shut with dread
My eyelids red and burning –
And now I hear the topmost tread –
Oh God! The handle’s turning …..
OK, that's it for now, don't want to spoil you!
11-04-2013, 06:59 AM
5
Re: Verse or Worse
OK, here are a few more. The Visit is particularly meaningful for me. I used to dread visiting mum in her nursing home.A SEVERE CASE OF HYPERBOLE
I’m not one to moan, but I feel just like death!
My head’s just a throbbing big drum;
I’m unable to breathe, I can’t catch my breath
And my smell, taste and hearing’s quite numb.
I know what you’re thinking, it’s only a cold;
They’re so trivial you’re hardly aware,
But this is the Big One, it’s got a firm hold;
I’m certain it’s deadly and rare.
I’d go to the docs but my legs feel so weak
I could hardly fall into my car,
Should my eyes be so red, and so pasty my cheek?
And my hair, standing out, so bizarre?
Oh God, where’s my Will, did I pay all my debts?
Should I send a quick text to my mum?
“Hi, can’t stop, am expiring, feed dad, feed pets.
“Don’t be sad, I’m about to succumb…”
I’m not one to fuss, God knows I’m a trooper
Who wouldn’t complain just for sneezing,
But my legs feel like lead, my brain’s in a stupor -
I’m shivery, wheezing and freezing.
So a final request on the way to my tomb,
And before I keel over, stone dead –
On NO account dare to assume
It was only a cold in the head!
HOME TOWN
Cor’ help it, Oi love it, my Birmingham town,
They luvvly, them bostin’, black, white and brown;
Allus a curry just around the bend,
A crackin’ humour that wun’t never offend.
In town, the crowds, noise and crush!
Yo wun’t never believe the manic mad rush.
The stores, they’m all heaving, the cafes, the bars,
It’s challenging crossing the road with the cars.
Canals! More than Venice, so Oi’ve bin told,
Though the boats aren’t the same once the rain rusts the gold,
Still – in summer, you might hear an Eyetie in song,
And Brummies, they cor but help sing along.
Parks, museums, a fabulous hall
Where symphony concerts can really enthral,
Yes, we do culture – we’m posh, certain parts,
Though it ‘as to be said lots of blokes prefer darts.
Life’s more than buildings, concrete, glass
More than division of colour and class,
It’s humour, history, catastrophies, art ….
It’s home, I’m a Brummie, it’s part of my heart
THE VISIT
I visit my mother, my thrice-weekly duty
And listen to worries and small discontentments
In her box of a room where she’s full of resentments;
“My savings are going, the meals are too bland,”
And I hold her hand.
Her gaze flicks distractedly wall to wall –
“Will you dust?
I’m sorry for making a fuss.”
And I dutifully do the needless chores,
And look with longing out of doors.
I visit my mother and rush past the others,
The vacant-eyed residents slumped by the telly –
The fretful whining from Connie and Dolly –
“Don’t sit THERE, that’s MY chair!”
Oh, God help us all.
And mum’s eyes brim with fear for the thought
That she might
Need the commode for the third time that night.
And I sit and I stare
And crave the fresh air.
MY GENERATION
“I’ll never grow old!” at sixteen, said I -
My mantra The Who with their wish to first die.
“It must be hell to be thirty” I grimaced at twenty;
My skin all aglow with future a-plenty.
At thirty I cried for my teenage excesses,
For the start of the end, first grey hair, grown up dresses.
Was that a wrinkle? Did I need cream?
Not youthful, not old, a hybrid between.
At fifty my head told my heart – “middle aged”.
But cruelly, my brain just refused to engage.
Inside, I could still hear The Who’s rebel yell
To be out of it all, to break the “old” spell.
I count off the years, disbelieving, askance.
Ever closer that something, that scary last dance.
But you know what? I hope near the end, my adieu -
My last dance will be danced to that song by The Who…
It hisses, it pisses, all drizzle and leak,
The rats run for cover, all oily and sleek,
The sky’s black and heavy from holding its load
Until, bursting its cloud bank, it starts to explode.
The fields and the byways become something new –
No longer a landscape of green, brown and blue
But extending the seas, bleeding over the shores
To cover our gardens and lap at our doors.
Our cats and our dogs slink quickly from sight,
Our outdoor events end in tears, not delight.
The crops sink in mud and the birds hide, dejected –
We turn up our collars, rush by unconnected.
It’s shivery, slithery, dank, grey and dark –
So who’s the first one to start building their ark?
12-04-2013, 01:48 PM
6
Re: Verse or Worse
I loved An Angel Landed, so beautiful. However, I need to know what IT was! As a Brummie, I have copied your Home Town poem, I really really liked that. Loved My Generation as well. And the last one about the weather.Yourself and Robert as so gifted, I'm quite envious!
13-04-2013, 07:22 AM
8
Re: Verse or Worse
I can't reveal what It is, or I'd have to kill you - but It's here again ....THE CORNER OF THE ROOM
There’s Something in the corner of the room –
I sense it, lurking, crouching in the gloom.
If I look, then It goes,
But I know that It knows
That seeing It will bring about my doom.
There’s an Evil, hiding darkly out of sight,
Creeping ever nearer in the night.
There’s no way to prevent,
For It will not relent –
And I hear It chuckle softly with delight.
There’s a Coldness ever growing in my room,
A coldness emanating from the tomb,
And the blackness gathers strength
As the shadows take on length –
And my terror stricken eyes will watch It loom.
And now, tonight at last, I see Its eyes,
And the menace that Its ghastly smile belies;
Its hot fetid breath
Brings a portent of death …
Now It’s here, and there’s no time for cri..….
and here's another Brummie reminiscence for you ........
A BIRMINGHAM CHILDHOOD REMEMBERED
Oh deeply missed, you Bull Ring, miscellany of stalls,
A youth remembered, clutching coat hem, wide-eyed.
Wigs, salami, gaudy rings, old shoes, the raucous Brummie calls,
Bouncing off the walls.
“’ ’andy carrier!” Thickly yelled, and “Apples a pound pears!”
A language understood by all, a Midlands code in grey old Brum
Co-existent with the church
Cups of orange tea, chips, prayers.
The big red buses veering madly through the melee, blocking roads
The smell of diesel, dripping raincoat, Hippodrome –
“One Night Only – Frankie Laine!”
Peered at through the rain.
Lewis’s with its rubber road and magical roof top gardens
Where Uncle Holly Christmas time dispensed largesse
Along with tiny Brummie elves
Playing themselves.
Further back again, the smog, a grey-green poison, part of play;
Where we would hide and breathe in death
And smell its fumes in muffled day.
And creep and grope our homeward way.
13-04-2013, 08:35 AM
9
Re: Verse or Worse
That one makes Birmingham sound awful eccles! I lived in Bournville, one of the most beautiful and green parts of Birmingham - Birmingham was one of England's greenest cities. The city centre, like all city centres, could be a bit grim but I have very happy memories of going around the market stalls with my mum (she wouldn't buy any fresh produce from supermarkets), having tea in a little cafe before going home and, of course, the inevitable visit to Lewis' wonderful Grotto at Christmas - to my young eyes, Disney could not have done a better job
such happy memories. Thank you for rekindling them.
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