JG's Pages for Poets/page7.html

Poem No 47 is another

from Nick Hancock of Liverpool

BETWEEN LUNCH

AND TEA TIME

Up the drive

past the box and yew arch

into shrubberies where we’d fought

against the Foreign Legion

with valour and conkers;

under the molten dark

of the copper beech

towards the west lodge’s pudding-stone;

past the paddock

where my kite had measured the sky

and Judy and Sparks

nibbled short grass

by a luxuriance of nettles.

The long straight lane

under sycamore parachutes.

Here we prepared to un-tongue-tie

our ‘good afternoon’

for the distantly approaching villager.

On the right, collapsed in places

in answer to village prayer,

a clay wall

humped under its corrugated frill;

on the left empty fields

watched over by the waiting hazels and plane trees.

At last,

eyes meeting like furtive moth wings,

we exchanged ‘good afternoons’.

At the level crossing

with its empty signal box

we looked right, then left

and sneaked over creosoted wood.

Here withy boles and a dark stream,

and the lane swung left

under trees dripping with ivy

to a brook

where my jam jar plumbed the shallows,

chasing minnow-packs or,

more exciting,

the monstrous spines of the stickleback.

Under the bridge of the Wyllie mill race

withy wands softened in water;

along the banks of the stream we crept

in search of buffalo or mountain lion,

my arrows wounding

sedges and hostile king-cups.

Poem No 48......Also from NICK HANCOCK

TO PAVLA

14 FEBRUARY 2000

This Valentine I send to you,

convinced that violets are blue

and roses when not compost-dead

quite probably are mostly red.

The fact remains that old Descartes

and Hegel didn’t know the heart.

And why, I say, these yards and yards

of sloppy, uninspiring cards?

But still my wish to call you mine

prompts me to send this Valentine.

Yes, I would walk – or drive – for miles

to glimpse one of your sudden smiles;

I would prostrate myself – or kneel –

before you if I thought I’d feel

your secret warmth, your flesh and bone

or hear you chatter on the phone.

Yet when, my dear, push comes to shove,

you need no Valentine for love.

Just guess who this is from and who,

for heaven’s sake, it’s written to!

Poem No 49 is by ROSALIND BURTON

BLACK ICE

Black ice leaves no trace upon the pavement

Treachery concealed, danger unknown

Young lovers clasp, each finding their touchstone

Experimenting, their hormones potent

They merge together, no longer alone

Black ice leaves no trace upon the pavement

Believing in each other they feel vibrant

Until rumours are whispered but not shown

Then doubt and betrayal cuts to the bone

Black ice leaves no trace upon the pavement.

Poem No 50. I thank ARTHUR CHAPPELL, who is a new contributor to my Pages, for two poems. No 51 appears on Page No 8

JABBER.WHAT?

Hello Lewis, It's about Alice
In Wonderland. I understand
Most of it, but not this bit
With slithy toves and Bomgoves
I mean what the Hell! What the Heck!
The nearest my computer spellcheck
Offers is loaves, and stoves
Slippery toads and slimy roads.
Face it, Mister Carroll,
I've got you over a barrel
When I say its all so bloody absurd.
There's no such thing as a jub-jub bird.
Nothing gires or gimbles
And there's no such word as burbled
There's fires and thimbles
And I've heard of being burgled
Finally you advertize a snicker-snack
We called them marathon bars back
When poets wrote like William Shakespeare
And not like yourself and Edward Lear.
Oh yes, he's another one like you who cobbles
Together whole poems with words like Pobbles
That aren't really words, but you can't find the time
To find a vocabulary that will easily rhyme.
You're trying to find a word that goes with books
But drunk as a skunk you type the word gruttocks
And then you can't be bothered starting anew
So you send it here to be printed out all askew.
It's all nonsense and gibberish
But we really need to publish
Something soon, so it comes as a something of a shock
To have to accept this tripe of yours called The Jabberwock.

Arthur Chappell