Saturday 13 September 2008
BLACKBIRD TRANSFIXED
Blackbird watched a weasel weave its way through a cleft near the shore.
The petulant sea, a seething cauldron, raged against sturdy rocks,
The spreading wash passed him by,
He had no place to go.
Blackbird stood transfixed,
Terrified by Nature’s beauty,
Terrorised by her violence.
BLACKBIRD STRIKES
One day Blackbird, bored to tears, snapped,
And savaged his old enemy Al Queda,
The insensitive, resident, in house, terrorist cat.
Narrowly missing the conifer spread,
Blackbird dorniered in on his target
And cruelly struck it beastly dead.
Eyeing the throbbing mass, Blackbird took it apart,
Gorged on blood, but delayed no longer
For there was some serious business to start,
Ripping apart the whimpering soul
And binding what remained with alien DNA
With the breath of life, he took complete control,
Heavily armed, the transmogrified mog
Roared through the undergrowth,
An airborne strike primed to begin
Blackbird’s plan to destroy its feline kith and kin.
Blackbird watched a weasel weave its way through a cleft near the shore.
The petulant sea, a seething cauldron, raged against sturdy rocks,
The spreading wash passed him by,
He had no place to go.
Blackbird stood transfixed,
Terrified by Nature’s beauty,
Terrorised by her violence.
BLACKBIRD STRIKES
One day Blackbird, bored to tears, snapped,
And savaged his old enemy Al Queda,
The insensitive, resident, in house, terrorist cat.
Narrowly missing the conifer spread,
Blackbird dorniered in on his target
And cruelly struck it beastly dead.
Eyeing the throbbing mass, Blackbird took it apart,
Gorged on blood, but delayed no longer
For there was some serious business to start,
Ripping apart the whimpering soul
And binding what remained with alien DNA
With the breath of life, he took complete control,
Heavily armed, the transmogrified mog
Roared through the undergrowth,
An airborne strike primed to begin
Blackbird’s plan to destroy its feline kith and kin.
YNYSDDU
Ynysddu, island of darkness, enclosed
By the rancid river reaching to touch
With roaming fingers, north and south
The trenchant highway of steam Monsters;
Ynysddu assailed by fire and water
While we, who remain to remember,
Fail to recall iron chariots discarding
Incandescent coals to flame bracken banks,
Ghostly fires reflecting like frosted glass
In the chasms of frozen memory.
When residues of winter’s spiteful terrors
Slink away to be replaced by spring marching
In step to a wake up call like no other,
We believe we see the new beginnings,
(Things are going to be different this time.)
Yet we cannot see the Promised Land.
When we were young and ruled the hollow barns,
In summer the river meadow was green,
But rustled golden when autumn leaves tumbled,
Then weed beds teaming with frenzied life,
Disturbed the innocence of hidden havens.
‘Old Watcyn Price y ffermwr sleeps drunken on his nose,
Josh, Joy, and Raldus lay garlands around his toes,
Outside the stricken stable stentorian weeds abide,
Oh! Sing a song of sixpence and with a dance deride
Old Watcyn Price y ffermwr, who snores drunken on his nose,’
Atishoo! Atishoo! Perhaps from drink he’ll drown,
Atishoo! Atishoo! For that’s the way it goes,
Atishoo! Atishoo! All is falling down.’
Watcyn Price stirs, and rumbles loud,
And from the belly of his dream confronts
In the turgid fog of his farmyard,
The thorns of his labour. He has long ridden
The merry-go-round that stops nowhere,
And has placed, as the core of his creation,
A time bomb in the midst of a farmyard,
Into which everything dribbles from the sewer;
The wolf stands before his house of straw,
‘You are not welcome’ cried Watcyn from within.
‘Then’ whined the wolf, ‘I’ll blow your hoary house in’
The river’s bank is broken and black boughs
Of severe trees, like sleep walkers,
Are poised to fall and smash the polished mirror,
That so cruelly reflects their tired limbs.
One hand, alone, destroys Ynysddu,
And nature, singing more than a little off key,
And through no fault of its own,
Has a coarseness that offends: its song
Carries a pungent missive that spills
Into the distraught music of the meadow.
‘Man the most dangerous animal of all
Has to be held to account!’
But will Watcyn, sad Watcyn, ever redeem
The errors that taunt him within his dark dream?
‘Will Watcyn, poor Watcyn, escaping his dream,
Enter the stark nightmare, his personal scheme?
The children, still chanting, dash out in great haste
And dance through the mire and slide in the waste,
They pause for a moment to stroke Hercules,
Sentinel of the gateway to once proud Ynysddu,
But the siblings, in innocence, are yet unaware
Of the desire for revolt that lies in the air.’
They scatter; they flee as the beast breaks his rope,
Is there inspiration for revolution, or merely hope?
The answer is there, plain enough to see
In the hooves and horns of the irritable Hercules.
‘Hercules, misnamed Friesian discontented,
Watcyn price, ill-famed farmer unrepented,
Hercules, inflamed Friesian sorely demented,
Hoofed him, brained him,
Watcyn price, bloodstained farmer late lamented.’
Half doors flapping in the wind of change
Disturb the solemnity of funereal reverence;
Now the music of the meadow is silent, and
Stunned by the spectre of death
We, the carefree summer hardened children, tiptoe
Cautiously through hallowed fields.
But in fear we speak with hushed tones
Lest, with one false move, we reignite
The destructive force of violence.
Yet we, playthings of the grim barns, seek return
To the sweet disorder that was Ynysddu sojourn.
But today Black Island, in silence, cowers;
God in his wisdom has destroyed our world,
And has taken away any sense of its origin,
In readiness for a grand regeneration.
‘Chattering, checkering, hideous din,
Fretful birds, acrobatic on wing,
And placid beasts, awakened next morn
To relentlessly claim the innocent lawn.
From that moment on there was no peace or rest,
No creature safe on ground or in nest,
The birds of the air, the beasts of the field
Danced and jigged, flew and ran
When they heard death of the meddlesome man,
The welcoming death of the tiresome man.'
Ynysddu, island of darkness, enclosed
By the rancid river reaching to touch
With roaming fingers, north and south
The trenchant highway of steam Monsters;
Ynysddu assailed by fire and water
While we, who remain to remember,
Fail to recall iron chariots discarding
Incandescent coals to flame bracken banks,
Ghostly fires reflecting like frosted glass
In the chasms of frozen memory.
When residues of winter’s spiteful terrors
Slink away to be replaced by spring marching
In step to a wake up call like no other,
We believe we see the new beginnings,
(Things are going to be different this time.)
Yet we cannot see the Promised Land.
When we were young and ruled the hollow barns,
In summer the river meadow was green,
But rustled golden when autumn leaves tumbled,
Then weed beds teaming with frenzied life,
Disturbed the innocence of hidden havens.
‘Old Watcyn Price y ffermwr sleeps drunken on his nose,
Josh, Joy, and Raldus lay garlands around his toes,
Outside the stricken stable stentorian weeds abide,
Oh! Sing a song of sixpence and with a dance deride
Old Watcyn Price y ffermwr, who snores drunken on his nose,’
Atishoo! Atishoo! Perhaps from drink he’ll drown,
Atishoo! Atishoo! For that’s the way it goes,
Atishoo! Atishoo! All is falling down.’
Watcyn Price stirs, and rumbles loud,
And from the belly of his dream confronts
In the turgid fog of his farmyard,
The thorns of his labour. He has long ridden
The merry-go-round that stops nowhere,
And has placed, as the core of his creation,
A time bomb in the midst of a farmyard,
Into which everything dribbles from the sewer;
The wolf stands before his house of straw,
‘You are not welcome’ cried Watcyn from within.
‘Then’ whined the wolf, ‘I’ll blow your hoary house in’
The river’s bank is broken and black boughs
Of severe trees, like sleep walkers,
Are poised to fall and smash the polished mirror,
That so cruelly reflects their tired limbs.
One hand, alone, destroys Ynysddu,
And nature, singing more than a little off key,
And through no fault of its own,
Has a coarseness that offends: its song
Carries a pungent missive that spills
Into the distraught music of the meadow.
‘Man the most dangerous animal of all
Has to be held to account!’
But will Watcyn, sad Watcyn, ever redeem
The errors that taunt him within his dark dream?
‘Will Watcyn, poor Watcyn, escaping his dream,
Enter the stark nightmare, his personal scheme?
The children, still chanting, dash out in great haste
And dance through the mire and slide in the waste,
They pause for a moment to stroke Hercules,
Sentinel of the gateway to once proud Ynysddu,
But the siblings, in innocence, are yet unaware
Of the desire for revolt that lies in the air.’
They scatter; they flee as the beast breaks his rope,
Is there inspiration for revolution, or merely hope?
The answer is there, plain enough to see
In the hooves and horns of the irritable Hercules.
‘Hercules, misnamed Friesian discontented,
Watcyn price, ill-famed farmer unrepented,
Hercules, inflamed Friesian sorely demented,
Hoofed him, brained him,
Watcyn price, bloodstained farmer late lamented.’
Half doors flapping in the wind of change
Disturb the solemnity of funereal reverence;
Now the music of the meadow is silent, and
Stunned by the spectre of death
We, the carefree summer hardened children, tiptoe
Cautiously through hallowed fields.
But in fear we speak with hushed tones
Lest, with one false move, we reignite
The destructive force of violence.
Yet we, playthings of the grim barns, seek return
To the sweet disorder that was Ynysddu sojourn.
But today Black Island, in silence, cowers;
God in his wisdom has destroyed our world,
And has taken away any sense of its origin,
In readiness for a grand regeneration.
‘Chattering, checkering, hideous din,
Fretful birds, acrobatic on wing,
And placid beasts, awakened next morn
To relentlessly claim the innocent lawn.
From that moment on there was no peace or rest,
No creature safe on ground or in nest,
The birds of the air, the beasts of the field
Danced and jigged, flew and ran
When they heard death of the meddlesome man,
The welcoming death of the tiresome man.'
Friday 12 September 2008
STREETALOGUE
What about your cholesterol
The high street hums, there’s sulphur in the air,
Effie and Edie light a fag they’re about to share,
They splutter; they cough, and put the world to rights,
Will anyone escape their lethal sights?
––Then Edie, I goes an avs’ a brace of eggs,
Sunny side up and other dregs
From last Sunday’s left overs,
Well says I what lovely grub and then I goes…...
––but Effie you daft moll. Your cholesterol!
What about your bloody cholesterol?
––Well I’ll be dammed. It’s Effie. How’s things with you?
Still kicking the world ‘til its black and blue?.
––Oh! Bert. It’s you!
Long time since we had a cud to chew,
Boils all gone?
Can you sit down yet upon the Jon?
––My God Effie. Don’t laugh
It’s been such a bind.
If you only knew how long it was
Since I last sat down on my behind.
–– Well Ta-ra Effie. Can’t stop. I’m off to the Bell.
See you later Babe.
Right Ho Bert…..Will you bloody hell?
––Remember old Bert? Edie,
One of the best guys I’ve known,
But is the bugger to be trusted
Any further than he can be thrown,
––but Effie you daft moll. Your cholesterol!
What about your bloody cholesterol?
––Edie! Oh Edie! Don’t worry and bluster,
‘Cos it’s sorted. All sorted, I’ve downed a fat buster
Drowned with a coffee, maybe two, even three.
And Edie my love……There’s jelly for tea!
What about your cholesterol
The high street hums, there’s sulphur in the air,
Effie and Edie light a fag they’re about to share,
They splutter; they cough, and put the world to rights,
Will anyone escape their lethal sights?
––Then Edie, I goes an avs’ a brace of eggs,
Sunny side up and other dregs
From last Sunday’s left overs,
Well says I what lovely grub and then I goes…...
––but Effie you daft moll. Your cholesterol!
What about your bloody cholesterol?
––Well I’ll be dammed. It’s Effie. How’s things with you?
Still kicking the world ‘til its black and blue?.
––Oh! Bert. It’s you!
Long time since we had a cud to chew,
Boils all gone?
Can you sit down yet upon the Jon?
––My God Effie. Don’t laugh
It’s been such a bind.
If you only knew how long it was
Since I last sat down on my behind.
–– Well Ta-ra Effie. Can’t stop. I’m off to the Bell.
See you later Babe.
Right Ho Bert…..Will you bloody hell?
––Remember old Bert? Edie,
One of the best guys I’ve known,
But is the bugger to be trusted
Any further than he can be thrown,
––but Effie you daft moll. Your cholesterol!
What about your bloody cholesterol?
––Edie! Oh Edie! Don’t worry and bluster,
‘Cos it’s sorted. All sorted, I’ve downed a fat buster
Drowned with a coffee, maybe two, even three.
And Edie my love……There’s jelly for tea!
HOW BRIGHTLY ROBIN SANG THAT CHRISTMAS MORN
Sonnet
How brightly robin sang that Christmas morn,
His fiery breast a-glow with ardent pride;
His silver notes did praise that special dawn,
A special voice to greet the Christmas child.
As one who rests assured in heaven’s bright light,
That Christ had heard his song, he plainly knew,
For had it not come from a heart upright
With unremitting love so warm and true.
Did redbreast once upon the cross invest?
In Christ’s warm blood to ever bear the stain
And proudly wear it on his fragile breast
A symbol either to reject or claim.
Heed not the dainty redbreast or be fooled,
For in aggression, he is soundly schooled.
Sonnet
How brightly robin sang that Christmas morn,
His fiery breast a-glow with ardent pride;
His silver notes did praise that special dawn,
A special voice to greet the Christmas child.
As one who rests assured in heaven’s bright light,
That Christ had heard his song, he plainly knew,
For had it not come from a heart upright
With unremitting love so warm and true.
Did redbreast once upon the cross invest?
In Christ’s warm blood to ever bear the stain
And proudly wear it on his fragile breast
A symbol either to reject or claim.
Heed not the dainty redbreast or be fooled,
For in aggression, he is soundly schooled.
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