Thought
Caught
In the flames of this fire,
Fanning my desire
For a past when the publican laid logs
In fireplaces
And drinker’s faces
Gathered around the blaze as their dogs
Lazed beside the eternal flame.
It is not the same
Since the pub changed hands. The beer
Remains unchanged, yet I fear
The flame does not burn as bright
Of a winter’s night
And the grate is too often cold.
The below poem was inspired by a comment overheard by me while enjoying a drink in a pub last weekend (Saturday 29 October).
—
“This beer tastes like lady’s knickers”, says an elderly man at a table.
Standing at the bar, I am scarcely able
To contain my laughter, and idly think
As I enjoy my drink
“what about a bra
And are
There knickers for the male kind?”
I find
In pubs much amusement
And bemusement.
“How would he know?”
Better not to go
There I think
As I sink
My drink.
“Lady’s Knickers” beer
Would taste most queer.
I shall be boring and stick to a well known brew
Although ‘tis true
I am curious to know.
But better not to go …
Finishing my second pint, I leave.
I perceive
This incident will stay with me.
I shall with glee
Write it down
Though it be
Nothing profound.
You wow them in the saloon bar
Surely my friend you will go far.
You link
with those who drink
and refuse to think.
The pub goers applaud.
There can be no discord,
We must be protected from the unwashed horde.
A few wise old owls dissent
It’s a big tent
There must be room for dissent.
But the customers hear what they want to hear.
The regulars cheer
Never fear
Your friends are here.
Shortly before Christmas 2014 I stood at a busy bar waiting to be served. Time passed but no one seemed inclined to attend to my requirements. I turned to the gentleman standing next to me,
“Do you think they have noticed me?” I said.
“Everyone seems to want food. I don’t know why they can’t eat at home, that is what I do. You are different, being blind I mean” my companion said.
The above conversation intrigued me. Was my fellow pub goer some kind of puritan with a deep seated objection to people spending money on eating out when they could, perfectly well knock up a meal at home? Puritans generally object to the drinking of alcohol and as my new found acquaintance was imbibing the demon drink I dismissed the idea that he was a strict Puritan.
The idea that the gentleman might be the adherent of a form of extreme left-wing radicalism crossed my mind. Did he feel in the very depths of his being that it was wrong to spend money on luxuries such as eating out when there are people starving in the world? But if he did indeed adhere to such an extreme perspective why allow himself the “luxury” of a drink as alcohol is, surely not a necessity?
As I pondered such philosophical questions a barman approached and enquiring what I wanted proceeded to serve me. I never did get to the bottom of what precisely my new found friend had against people who choose to spend a convivial Sunday afternoon enjoying a roast in a pub rather than slaving over a hot stove. It just goes to prove, as is often remarked in the north of England that “there is nowt so queer as folk”.
Laughter in the bar. Drink flows, hail fellow, well met.
Standing at the urinal, looking out, through frosted glass into the darkness from whence we came and to which we shall return.
We fear the eternal night, surround ourselves with light but, when we look into the darkness we are faced, struggle as we may to avoid the truth of it,
with the inevitability of death, the undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns.
Returning once more to the laughter. The clinking of glasses while, outside the darkness waits, patiently to swallow me.
(I am blind but can distinguish between light and dark and perceive outlines of objects but not their detail. So, for example I might see a shape but have no idea as to whether it was a man, woman or tree).
An Autumn evening. The park deserted save for me and my dog. A solitary birds sings. Entranced I stand, his song bringing thoughts of sorrow comingled with joy. Beauty, pain and happiness, contradictory emotions stir within my breast.
The lonely bird continues to sing, his voice filling the darkening park.
Distant sound of traffick. I linger, reluctant to break the spell.
Later, the pub full of noise. Yet, through the din I fancy, dim and distant, the singing of the birds can be heard.
Lying here on this sofa. I should go to bed really but I’m so tired after a hard days work I can hardly move. Besides my bed’s getting old now and the sofa is so comfortable.
Maybe I should get into bed, after all its only just across the room from where I’m snoozing on the sofa but this cushion under my head is so comfortable, perhaps I could take it to bed with me. Even with the cushion in the bed, the fact is the sofas still much softer.
Another hard day in the office tomorrow, roll on the weekend say I. The weekend’s my favourite time as I can have a lie-in.
Oh I hate those crowded tube trains, everyones in such a rush bumping into one another. I’ve lost count of the amount of times I’ve been trodden on, people seem not to see me. It isn’t deliberate but it hurts none the less.
I’m lucky, my colleagues are really nice, even though people are busy someone or other always has time to stop and chat. I’d hate to work in a place where you couldn’t socialise with people. As a wise person once said “all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy”.
There is a big tradition of colleagues bringing in cakes and biscuits. I’m a little mean in that respect, I will help myself to food but I never bring anything in nor do I stand my round in the pub however, people still appear to like me.
Oh this sofa is heaven, it beats me why I need a bed at all, perhaps I’ll sleep on it every night.
What was that sound? Is he coming in here? False alarm I can stay right here, he isn’t coming in.
I can here him snoring. Do I snore like that I wonder? I have the most vivid dreams, mostly about chasing things or, occasionally being chased. I guess we all must dream. I know he does because I sometimes here him talking in his sleep.
I’m so tired, living and working in London really takes it out of you. Personally I’d prefer to live in the country as I love all that green grass but beggers can’t be choosers and I’m stuck in the capital so long as his majesty decides to stay here. If I sleep now will I hear him getting up? My hearing is very acute, I’ll be sure to be up and about as soon as he opens his bedroom door.
“Get down you naughty dog, you know you aren’t allowed to sleep on the sofa!”
Oh know I must have been very tired, I didn’t here him come in. Back to my basket for me. Tail between my legs, pretend to be sorry and hope he’ll take pity on me.
(The above is dedicated to my guide dog, Trigger who has been known to spend the odd night on my sofa)!
Thronging the doorway
“Excuse me please”. The throng parts letting me through. Sometimes a kind soul holds open the door allowing me to enter.
In all weathers the die hards stand puffing away. In summer the scent of cigarettes wafts through the pub’s open door bringing with it memories of yester year, a time when walls turned yellow with nicotine and I, a non smoker returned home, my clothes smelling of smoke, cursing the filthy weed.
The rain drives the hardy band ever closer to the pub’s sheltering doorway
“Excuse me, excuse me” I say attempting to retain my fixed smile as I try to enter or leave.
Some said the British would never stand for it, this intrusion into the rights of the individual to light up in public. But what about the liberty of the non smoker not to have his lungs clogged with poison? The latter argument won the day.
and so you stand. Not quite the last hurrah but something noble in your tenacity not to give up despite the pouring rain.
I sit enjoying a pint, thinking of the bedraggled smokers outside.
This morning I popped into my local Whetherspoons pub for breakfast. As I sat tucking into my fry up the words of a fellow customer reached me.
“I don’t go into Croydon because of the blacks”.
The man then proceeded to regail his fellow patrons with his views on race relations which where reminiscent of those expounded by the late Enoch Powell in his “Rivers Of Blood” speech delivered on 20 April 1968, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/comment/3643823/Enoch-Powells-Rivers-of-Blood-speech.html. The speech derived it’s title from Powell’s statement
“As I look ahead, I am filled with foreboding; like
the Roman, I seem to see “the River Tiber foaming with much blood.”
I am white and my first girlfriend was of West Indian origin but born in the UK which makes her as British as I am. It is not the colour of a person’s skin but what lies within which renders them human. The colour of one’s skin is a mere accident of birth and to imply (as my fellow pub goer did) that an entire section of the population ought to be avoided due to the colour of their skin is monstrous. I was sorely tempted to walk across and express my displeasure to the speaker, however this would have served no purpose other than making me feel better and could have resulted in a blazing argument. Such an argument would have benefited no one so I held my tongue.
One of the strengths of the area in which I live is that people of many races live together in harmony. People are just that, people. Skin colour is surface deep, it is the heart which beats within that matters.
This evening I am meeting friends for a drink and the first round will be on me as I am rich! Well not quite but I have just received notification of my first payment from Amazon (a grand total of £8.86) which covers sales of my e-books in the Amazon Kindle store. Not quite enough to retire to that island in the sun, but out of small acorns great oaks grow. Many thanks to all those who have purchased my books.
Kevin
K Morris - Poet 