JG's Pages for Poets
Page 3
Our first poem on this page is by HARRY GREEN who is the Secretary of
The Inklings.
Harry has not been known to write poetry before this but his short stories are legion.
| Poem No 21 MISSISSIPPI REVERIE
A tree branch cracks, The sound echoes, drifts lazily beyond mangrove shadows. A frog croaks, stirs others into raucous harmony. Darkness hangs, stifling, over the river. In the humid air, flies dance.
Features bathed by the glow of his fire He stares ahead, losing himself to his loneliness, Feeling warm air wrap itself around him As he exchanges thoughts For dreams.
The paddle steamer glides by And swamp sounds fade, Overcome by the weight of man-made music. Momentarily he is whisked aboard, Squints against light, flinches at the noise.
Tour done, he is returning to his vantage point, Made to watch; held in languid fascination As turgid, mud-brown water flows by. Night closes in - then mushrooms into light And a chocolate bar breaks the spell.
Tired, he reaches for the remote, Exercises God-like power, Closes down that other world, Then makes his way upstairs To sleep and dream some more.
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| Poem No 22
THE WOMAN IN THE OTHER BED IS DEAD
Nurse, Nurse, did you hear what I said? The woman in the other bed is dead!
She was alive at five, she nodded her head when they said, "Tea anybody?" She didn't get any, there were too many to see to.
I know that you're busy. Why, you've been in a tizzy since the confusion when a patient's transfusion leaked blood on the floor, right up to the door, bright red.
Then Doctor came round, smelled of drink, gave a wink to the pretty nurse. Er...no not you- Were a few took his glance but not Mrs. France, the patient in the other bed.
At six thirty-two, it was you took the temps, gave the jabs. Sister was terse- "Nurse, Nurse, take these to the labs," she said. So with no time to spare, you forgot about her.
The Vicar came too but with wealth earned from sin- she'd had no time for him, ever before; What's more, he knew; gave her bed a miss, just blew her a kiss as he passed- was her last.
Then Sister served supper; hung a sign on her bed. "Nil by mouth," it read. Told me, "She'll pop off for her op' any mo'." No one came with a stretcher to fetch her- But she did 'pop off'.
Nurse, can't you see she's as white as a sheet- or is it a ghost? Yes, a ghost. Nurse, Nurse don't go, no, no, please stay behind. I've something to say- Wait! Be kind!
Are you deaf, dumb or blind? It's a detail, I know, but I think you should show some concern, when you learn that THE WOMAN IN THE OTHER BED IS DEAD.
This poem is by Antoinette Loftus and is taken from her collection of 32 poems. Another of her poems appears on my page 2. If you wish to purchase a copy of her collection, entitled 'The Poet in the Willow Tree looks dead', please contact her by e-mail at ailoftus@tesco.net.
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Poem No 23 is from Ros Burton of Liverpool
CONSERVING THE HOUSES BY SEFTON PARK
They're building a house over the road, banging and sawing from dawn to dusk, ensuring it fits in with the postcode, shovelling away the rubble and rust.
Conserving the area; it's for the best, bricks the same colour. They are meant to mould into the area, look like the rest, but you can bet the interiors won't be as cold.
Not built on the slave trade or left to rot and crumble by absent landlords but still built for a price that can be paid by entrepreneurs and those whom society applauds.
As the facade is built what is being conserved; gentility or craftsmanship? What is being so carefully preserved; stability or ownership?
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Return to my Home Page or Index of poets
| And
now for another of my own
Poem No 24 EYES DOWN It's no use looking to the sky for inspiration however dry your stream of consciousness so try a little effort and by and by some lines of verse you may espy upon the page or screen whereby your talent may be noticed by a passer-by don't ask why he should bother and do not pry into his motives instead be sly and offer thanks to God on high that he may bless and sanctify your works and transform this guy into a publisher |
| Lucie
Robb Raven, aged 17, has sent in these two poems.
Thank you, Lucie.
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| Now, a
poem from Ena Orrell, a resident of Wirral and a member of The Inklings.
Ena, who writes enjoyable prose, claims this is her first attempt at poetry. Poem No 27 PERPETUITY Babies and toddlers. The indescribable happiness of a spontaneous hug. Play group, Bright blobs of paint on paper Displayed on the kitchen wall. "What is it, dear?" "A picture of you, Mummy." "Of course it is." A small boy in grey school trousers. A bigger boy in school blazer and cap, Tie always askew. Teenage. Perhaps some memories best forgotten. Then adulthood, and a growing friendship.
Babies and toddlers. The indescribable happiness of a spontaneous hug. Play group. More colourful blobs of paint on paper, Displayed on the kitchen wall. "What is it, dear?" A picture of you, Grandma. Silly." "Of course it is."
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| A
second poem from NICK HANCOCK. All Nick's poems are well
written, often inspiring, frequently evocative. This one is worthy
of any top-notch poetry magazine.
Poem No 28 THE
SHEPHERD They told me the man was ninety. He’d stopped under the cane shelter on his grey horse – erect and very frail. What struck me most was that the spurs were strapped to the ankles of his bare feet. And I wondered – but naturally did not ask – why he was unshod. Were
boots too dear or did he simply prefer it that way? Did he wear them in winter (we were in full December heats) or never?
In imagination I saw sun glint from frosted nails as he sat his grey horse by the ice of the creek, a thin white skin over caimans lurking for his sheep. His sheep? All
he possessed was those large-rowelled rusted spurs, sweat-rotted bombachas showing both his knees and the poncho he woke and slept in. They gave him a mate [1]
which he sucked in the saddle – slowly to make it last. ‘More?’ But
he shook his head, took his food, dropped it in the saddle bag, thanked us and commended us to God. As he rode away, fragile and straight, I asked, ‘If he falls sick, doesn’t he have a grandchild before whose fire he can rest?’ ‘No one. He’s
survived them all. Death favoured his family.’ Fifty years have passed, and I often wonder how he died. Did
some kind peón, enriched with an adobe hut and hearth, take him in? Or
did he die in the saddle, cold among rocks with the estanciero’s[2]
sheep tearing short grasses, tearing, tearing? And how long did he lie in the path of the ants before the men found him?
Or did his bones whiten like a sheep’s under the passing clouds? 1.
Pronounced MAH-tay, it is Paraguayan tea, the drink of the
‘gaucho’. 2. Pronounced es-tan-SYAIR-O, it is the South American word for rancher. |
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| Here
are two poems from JEAN STANBURY of West Kirby.
A collection of Jean's poems has been published by The National Poetry Foundation. She has been successful in a number of competitions.
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| Poem
No 30
THE BAKER She sifts a waterfall of flour, silk through her fingers while her thoughts dredge dreams.
Whips up warm froth of yeast, sections lard skimming small cones, her knife slicing like ice-skates.
Kneads dough knuckling frustration, bakes into being the scent of Summer wheat.
Sometimes her loaves, like ambitions, are full of holes. She cuts, slices, butters crumbs together. |
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