Roses entwine.
Are they mine
Or thine?
The bee
Will make free
With the flower
For the lifetime of an hour.
Sting
Then, on his swift wing
Flit to an as yet, uncried
Plaything.
O see how man does sow
The seed
To feed
His need
(Although
He may not fertilise).
She does not protest but her eyes
Say
“I would prefer
That there were
Another way.
Yet
The bee will have his honey
And I my money
And when day
Is over, we may
Both regret”.
One of my earliest recollections of growing up in Liverpool, is of a relative (I called him big granddad or Captain Jim), who had fought and been wounded in World War I. I remember him tapping with the walking stick, which he invariably used, on the fish tank which sat in a corner of my grandfather’s (on my Mother’s side) living room. In later life I learned that he had been (and remained until his death) a member of the Labour Party and that meetings of the local organisation had taken place in his home.
I have no memory of ever having talked with this kind gentleman regarding how he came to walk with a stick but, later in life I learned that he had been wounded in the trenches. I have no idea of what this man had been through (its difficult at this distance in time to comprehend the horror of trench warfare other than by reading the accounts of eye witnesses, the recordings of those who fought in the “Great War” and, of course the poetry of the war poets such as Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon and Rupert Brooke). In retrospect I wish that I had spoken with Captain Jim about his experiences. However I was a small boy so did not do so. Even had I raised the subject, its perfectly possible that he may not have wished to engage with me (or anyone else) on it.
Back in November 2016 I wrote the below poem “Poppy” which is reproduced below:
”
To those who died that you and me
Might live free.
To those who gave their sweet breath for King and Countrie.
I regret that yesterday
I had no cash to pay
For a poppy deep red
To remember the dead.
I will not know the stench
Of trench
Nor the wrench
Of fear
And pain as spear
Drains the life away.
What can the poet say
Who has never known
The touch of steel against bone?
We die alone
But most will peaceful go
And will not know
The whoa
Of comrades lost,
Nor count the cost
Of bloody strife.
They will not give their life
That others (you and me)
May live free.
Having only my debit card I regret to say
That I could not buy
A blood red
Poppy to remember the dead
As I wended my way
To my nine to five job yesterday”.
I am offering my readers the chance to win a signed copy of my collection of poems, “The Writer’s Pen and Other Poems”, (paperback edition), https://www.amazon.com/dp/1730814883/.
1. Only one signed copy of “The Writer’s Pen and Other Poems” is available.
2. The first person to provide the answer to the question posed at the end of this post will receive a signed copy of my book.
3. The winner will have their prize mailed to them in December 2018.
4. Anyone (irrespective of their location) may enter.
5. To enter please send an email to newauthoronline (at) gmail dot com, (the address is given thus to defeat spam bots etc)! Please put “competition to win a copy of The Writer’s Pen” in the subject line of your email.
6. The competition closes on 28 November. No entries received after this date will be considered.
Who wrote the poem which begins thus:
“The curfew tolls the knell of parting day
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way
And leaves the world to darkness and to me”.
An interesting article in The Guardian regarding who will fill the role of the United Kingdom’s next Poet Laureate, when the current incumbent, Carol Ann Duffy vacates the position in 2019, https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2018/nov/10/wanted-one-royal-rhymester-an-interest-in-trees-and-homeopathy-an-advantage. You can find out more about the UK’s Poet Laureate by following this link, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poet_Laureate_of_the_United_Kingdom.
A man by the name of Spink
Maintains an erotic link
Where a young lady named Bess
Takes off her dress.
Or so I’m told by Spink …
I know a young lady called Suzette
Who works on the internet.
When you click on her link
She’s a girl called Spink
And sometimes she’s Yvette …
A girl by the name of Spink
Is possessed of a particular kink.
But take great care
For I speak of her hair
And one should never insult Miss Spink!
When a naughty young lady called Lou
Was caught stealing a single shoe
A store detective named Ted
Scratched his head
And said, “why did you not steal 2?”
Dusk is falling.
I hear
In the autumn of my year
Crows calling
And the chatter of the magpie
As I
Ponder on days of yore.
The caw
Of this dark bird
Was no
Doubt heard
Long ago
By those who walked this self-same track.
The evening is chill
But I will
Not turn back
For melancholy is a precious part
Of the human heart,
And those who forever laugh
Do not comprehend
That every path
Must reach its end.
—
I hear children playing in a garden close to the park.
‘Tis a happy sound after the cawing of the crows.
Who knows
Perhaps matters
Are not so stark
For not all dreams shatter
And something of what is precious may survive.
A powerful reading by Dame Hellen Mirren of Siegfried Sassoon’s poem “Attack”,
We authors/poets are often exhorted to “show not tell”. Sassoon’s poem does a lot of “telling” and does it extremely effectively. Indeed I am of the firm conviction that many of those who exhort we writers to “show not tell” can not hold a candle to Sassoon.
Kevin
