Poetry - QueenSpark Poetry Anthology 1

Poetry

Won’t fight my battles for me / Doesn’t necessarily make me feel better / Only sometimes says what I mean / Isn’t the only way out / Isn’t a death wish / Is a gem in my fingers / Is turd in my hands / Is physical torture / Or bliss / Loves indiscriminately / Hates with a passion / Likes the sound of its own voice / Isn’t at the service of anyone’s revolution…

Listens when it hears / Speaks in many voices / Cries out in the night / Doesn’t drive a car / Walks when it has to / Runs after its enemies / Is hardly cricket / Is a tiny bug in the undergrowth / Lusts wildly / Recants without grace / Whis¬pers “nevertheless it moves…”

Is repulsed by the truly ugly / Feigns madness occasionally / Eats fish on Fridays but meat never / Is an English curry / Spits glass in the mayonnaise / Swears at the streets / Gets weepy in the country / Has no national boundaries / Swears no allegiance / Pledges support…

Peers slyly out of a cupboard / Eavesdrops shamelessly / Doesn’t read letters pages / Eats when it’s hungry / Takes fright but never flight / Stands its ground…

Doesn’t write politicians’ speeches for them / Sings to itself / Is shy and coy / Is bold as brass / Questions itself constantly / Sometimes finds answers / Takes heat from the fire / — There’s no smoke without it / Cuts its own throat / Doesn’t pay for the razor blades / Eats grass to survive / Borrows but pays back…

Indulges in a kind of drug abuse / Respects itself / Lives in the neighbourhood / Isn’t the girl-next-door / Never watches soap operas / Lasts only a flash / Is there forever / Doesn’t write thankyou letters / Is on strike for a better deal / Takes in the neighbours’ kids / Does horrible things to them / Burns churches / Laughs at the powerful / Teaches its granny to suck eggs…

Isn’t faithful / Philanders / Returns to true love / Cries itself to sleep at night / Listens to music / Makes a cup of tea and thinks / Doesn’t want to go home / Stays up late / Is a dirty stop-out / Leers madly / Feels sorry for itself / Always recov¬ers / Sneezes adolescent confidences / Is Black & White in Technicolor / Makes films about the poor / Hitches a lift to somewhere / Reads in the dark / Gets up early for the dawn…

Contradicts itself / Is a two-timing, lying, double-crossing bastard / Rots your brain / Makes your willy shrink / Has a dry-weave top-layer lyric / Wears shiny, shiny boots of leather / Eats its young / Smells like last night’s dinner / Lives in a shotgun shack / Has a steel bucket on its head / Says “fuck you” / Has four shredded wheat for breakfast / Takes no bribes or backhanders / Is true to itself / Lies to no-one…

Kills fascists / Loves lefties / Is ultra-liberal with a bite / Has bile / Gnaws its own testicles off in frustration / Has big tits / Exercises daily / Sleeps in, dreaming / Wakes scream¬ing from its nightmares / Feels dead funny sometimes / Concerns itself with the abused / Cuts and slices up / Folds in upon itself / Has heroes but no gods / Is at the cutting edge of the new / Eats dinner in the past / Waits for the stranger to visit / Despises the man from Porlock / Skins up / Lives at the top of a towerblock / Is white-noise static / Is the best thing since sliced bread.

Danny Birchall

Introduction

This is, we hope, the first of a series of QueenSpark poetry anthologies.

The poems within were selected by a group of six people, members of QueenSpark Books who volunteered for the job of sifting through the many submissions we received. We decided to publish several works by each poet, so as to give the reader a feel for the style and interests of each individual writer. In this volume you will find poetry written on many different themes, by people of widely varying ages and backgrounds — from an ex-con in his twenties to an ex-don in his sixties. We hope that we have chosen a selection of poems that can be appreciated by an audience as varied as the contributors. These are the poems that we enjoyed, and we enjoyed them for many different reasons — some made us laugh, some made us think, some resonated with our own experience and some gave us insight into experiences outside of our own.

All readers of this book are welcome to get involved in the production of our next anthology, whether by submitting your work (one of the QueenSpark writing groups might be able to help you with inspiration) or by helping to make the next lot of difficult choices!

Joe Benjamin

Present Tense

I sit on the beach
And dream of my youth;
Of the girls I courted
In search of the Truth.

What happened to Hilda?
Did Minna marry?
And was there an aura
Around Leonora?

No, I don’t want to see them;
It wouldn’t be fun.
I’d do well to remember
They’re now seventy-one.

My wife sits beside me,
Aware of my dreams.
I’m glad she’ll soon leave me —
To return with ice creams.

Hair Today

My hair always had a will of its own
And, on the left, a parting.
But now it’s on a different tack,
And when I try to brush it back
It waves before departing.

Ancient Rites

Tonight, my love, when the moon appears,
And the stars are brightly dressed,
We must dance
And take a chance
On a cardiac arrest.

But, I guess, when the moon is high,
And the stars shine overhead,
We’ll talk for a while
About walking that mile,
Then decide to take a taxi instead.

Testament for Today

God said to Allah “It would truly be news
If I blessed the Arabs and you praised the Jews.”

“But the truth you well know” Allah replied,
“Is that headlines are based on the numbers that died.”

“And they fight and they die” cried the Humanist
“In the name of religions that claim you exist.”

The new Church is the Media
Whose ethics we share.

Its high priests are the ad. men,
Their jingles our prayer.

And the One Truth lies bleeding,
For there are no gods who care.

Image

If we are, all of us,
Made in the image of God,
Why ain’t I a saint
As well as a sod?

Danny Birchall

The old man grows pigeons

One of those late August Sundays
In the park — the sound of sweet funky jazz
Should permeate, instead the soft click
Of bowling balls launched by ladies in white
Provides the afternoon’s soundtrack.

Stooped, sweltering, in a grey suit,
He gives birth to pigeons from his skin;
They feed and flutter off as he bears more.
Feathered scavengers stream upwards
Towards the sun, grateful for the bread
Of his afternoon stroll.

Fixed-fluid, a statue to the unknown
Bird-nourisher, he feeds as they feed,
Gaining power in his ancient rusty limbs
With the ceaseless coming and going, and slowly
Pushes out his chest…

Strutting slightly at first,
He throws his shoulders back to twitch
Newfound feathers on unfamiliar wings — turns
A proud beak to watch the white bowlers.
No longer belonging to this stifling afternoon:
Grey as grey, he cocks an eye
And throws himself into the sky.

A Swan at Apsley
On the Grand Union Canal

Once, it seems
This was a paper mill
Or factory
And the driven waters of the canal
Brought timber to pulp and press
(“You don’t hear many birds around here”
says the old man.
— Not since the Industrial Revolution, I guess)
Now, scum eddies
Around submerged trolleys
Brought to final rusting-place
And derelict-eyed children
Have smashed holes in the windows
Of the delinquent warehouse storeys
A train thunders through, not stopping.
— By the sluice sound of the lock
In overalls, a few remaining industrialists lie
Soaking early spring into their pores.

Ask the swan, who floats like fine china
Through wet concrete and corroded steel
What she dreams of.
The swan who, with one strong wing
Can break the arms that ran presses
The arms that threw stones
The arms that signed demolition contracts.
Ask the swan where her grandmother rested
Before a nice brown armchair
Was placed in the water for the convenience of wildfowl.

Here, a talented landscape painter
Has been, with brush, and eye, and pigment,
Retouched the world with shattered greys,
Rusty browns and polluted yellows — but careless
He neglected to recolour the swan.
She drifts on.

And dreams of paper white as her feathers,
Of steam, opaque mother-of-pearl smudges
Against the sky, and strangely, newsprint
Floating on barges down to London’s press
Her grandmother, once, on the Serpentine
Graced the front page of a national daily.

Nowadays, of course, nobody reads newspapers.
We watch TV, and dump our shit in canals.

Junky Boy Tom on the Nod

The problem is this man
Uninspires the poetry in me:
A toot on the tinfoil flute
And he slumps forward uncomfortably;
Stupor certainly not slumber, I find him
In the livingroom each morning
Out cold, stained silver strip by his head.
As a drug experience in the watching
It’s unlyrical to say the least.

Art Therapy?

Shaky cold junky boy and I
Set to sketching in chalk
On the livingroom walls —
The front bonnet and steering wheel
Of a sportscar — speedo at a ton,
Road clear ahead, a single tree.
We step back to admire our mural,
Both dreaming
Of places we each want to go.

Jackie Blackwell

Morning Coffee

A tea room in Rottingdean,
Only me and a sixtyish couple
Sit
And drink coffee.
“Nice coffee …. proper coffee …
And out of a proper cup”
She says,
“Nice scones, compliments to the Chef’
She continues;
He just wipes his nose
With a large white scrumpled hankerchief.
She wants to talk and anyone will do.
She captures the proprietor,
(Whilst He pays for their drinks),
And begins her life story.
It’s not busy and
She is able to recall
Her life before she came here,
She gets nods and uumms in reply;
Business is quiet, so keep the customers happy.
Meanwhile in the corner, I can just observe,
And they leave
Not even noticing I’m here.

Confessions of an Artist

Alone in the Underground
Waiting for a train,
Surrounded by images
Driving me insane.

Breasts, buttocks
Clear white skin,
Sensual mouth
With a Cadbury’s flake in.

Happy, healthy mother
Cooking the family tea,
And the ‘dumb blonde’ stereotype
Smiling over at me.

Long, long legs
With shoes high heeled,
A beautiful tanned body
With all revealed.

But where do I fit in
With these images on the wall?
I know that I am neither
Slim, blond or tall;

I feel I should ignore them
Pretend they don’t exist,
But as I see them daily
The thing I can’t resist;

Is to spray them with graffiti
And have my own say,
To reclaim the free spaces
That these adverts took away.

Alone in the underground,
Still waiting for a train
Images of female parts
Just swimming in my brain….

A Royal Wedding Day

The feeling of terror
As he hit me with his shoe,
My tears unacknowledged
And my expected and delivered denial
Of what had happened.
Yes, I stayed until morning,
Crying silently through the night
And crept out
Not daring to wake him.
I wondered through the streets of Bayswater,
Distraught and unable to understand
What I had done to deserve this.

I arrived back to the Stanhope Hotel,
Confused and unable to tell
Anyone.
Embarrassed, ashamed, humiliated;
My work shift began at 7.30 am.
I put on my uniform
Leaving behind my acknowledgement
And adopted the pretence of being
‘Normal’.

I never saw him again,
Although he did phone.
I don’t think he even thought
About what he had done,
How much he had hurt me
Outside and in.

Many years later
I don’t often think
About our chance meeting
During an after hours drink,
In a pub in South Kensington
On the very day that
Charles and Diana said,
“I do”.

A Homage to Stevie Smith ?

I walked to the sea,
And got my feet wet,
I’d gone too far,
To come back just yet.
I had to go deeper,
I knew I was winning,
Right under the water,
Not drowning,
But Swimming.

Carol Brown

White Bloom

As I walk through the shady woodland, I am aware of the
deep roots beneath.
Roots of life, so embedded in the rich soil.
A home not to be taken away.
Not to be hammered down by stone, but grow rich in life, as
the vine entwines upwards over the green body.
With green leaves and warm sun a bloom appears.
Heady in perfume, Virgin white in colour.
The giant leaves protect this innocent Virgin.
Like a Mother and her child.
But in all walks of life the young age.
The delicate petals time will fade, become brown on the
outside.
Inside the perfume is not so enchanting.
Sadly the bloom shrivels.
Your tears cannot save this life.
As it turns to dust in your hands.
But look onwards and you will see a green shoot, peeping
out of the soil.
Next year a white bloom will be on the vine.
Life is never ending.

The Child

The joy, the happiness that bubbles when you are having a
child; wanting the whole world to know but the
impatience of waiting for that very large bump to arrive.
The eagerness of the year of firsts;
The first white tooth.
The first word.
The first tumbling step.
Laughter, fun and tears, that child brings into your life.
Fun times at bath times, the warmth and love you share
from a goodnight kiss.
Hopes and expectations you have. Not the dream of having a
holiday by the seaside, but the joy of
having that holiday.
As the child grows, you try to make that child understand
all walks of life, to find it in himself not to judge
others hastily.
Try to teach that not always money makes you happy, to
enjoy the simple things that can be plain yet
beautiful.
The child grows, wants to leave you.
History repeats itself.
Child leaves Mother.
Child becomes Mother.
Child leaves Mother.
Tears flow.

Thomas Clark

Run, quickly
down those hills
thick with grass
and adventure.

Jump those fences,
highest first,
climb those bastard trees
don’t let ’em beat ya!

Get your clothes dirty,
don’t let Mum forget ya!

Soon, it will stop.
And Sunsets and trees
will somehow never be
quite the same.

Fun will change
and so will the adventures.

Most people live on the world, not in it.

I look at this day
and what it holds
in its hands.

For me, for us,
there are endless
possibilities.

To learn, to teach.
To watch, to show
and learn
that this is life.

This now,
this very breath I take.

This very moment,
today.

Don’t waste time living lies.
Find your truth and cut the ties.

Remember this,
Life is infinite,
we are here forever,
though our face may change
and memories will too,
we will meet,
in another future.

When someone throws
your soul up high
like a ball
through the trees
above the clouds
into the blue…

…Trust them enough
to catch it.

These are the days,
that never mattered,
until they were gone.

Weightlessness.
I feel, today,
like an angel…

On golden wings
I fly above
lost souls.

With my bow
and arrows,
I shoot away sorrows.

I kiss the toes
make light of fears
that have held them
to the ground.

Gravity
is meaningless today.

Beryl Fenton

Train of Thought

‘then she said … so then she said …’
snatches of gossip
behind me on the train
and something about Tuesday
often repeated.

‘Incorporate, how d’you
spell it?’, asks a colleague
solving a crossword.
How can these few phrases
link with my thoughts devising
a poem about
sixteenth century
oriental porcelain?

Painting peonies
on plates, did Japanese
artists prattle and gossip
to lessen tension,
or, silently solemn,
meditate on puzzles while
intricate dragons
crawled out from their brushwork?

‘Is there a word in English
beginning with X?’
My mind takes flight with eight
orange ho-ho birds in gold —
feathered circles … lands
with ‘Is a bistro an
Italian cafe or French?’

Funny how you get
it eventually —
CAFETERIA ! There’s a
link — a plate in a
cafeteria; but
this one’s sixteenth century
hand-painted porcelain
from Japan … ‘It works the
brain, these crosswords’.

Night Window View

Above dark blue, which in day-time is hedge,
a light-streaked ledge supports pearl sky
where, leafless and high, a webbed bell-shape
seems to escape from one slender trunk.
Gold studs a punk might wear are lights
speckling the heights far away to the left.
Below’s bereft. Window bar shadows
cut small meadows in the lit sleeping lane.
The window-pane mists with my breath
and every path is softened.

‘Jackson Pollock’ speech

Her speech, like muddled rubber bands
was riddles, after her stroke. Her wrath,
gabbled torrents of gutter sounds,
her mirth, chuckles chained to coughs.
For years she yearned to be understood —
goo on — goo on — she’d urge us to pursue
our guessing of her jumbled words.

In her bedroom, still as in a tableau,
the holland blinds half drawn,
she finally managed an unmistakable goodbye.

Holding a Hen

Holding a hen
in a chicken run
at the age of two
isn’t much fun
when you’re used to
pet cats — glossy and plumpy
whereas the hen you hold
is light and lumpy
so you let it go
with its flutter and squawk
and you recall,
decades on,
that your sense of touch
at the age of two
found something new.

‘What’s the Title?’

I take my poems
around workshops
in order to make them
better. They get
decapitated or resuscitated
according to
critics’ whims.

‘Use everyday language …
Cut out personification —’
or ‘Try syllable counting’
My head swims.

(Apologies for the rhyme,
it slipped in)

So why do we go
to workshops
to push words around
on paper, when
we could be at home
making curtains,
or with pals, sipping Pimms?

You could liken poems
to children.
Their first few years are ours
until out in the world
they go, to come
up against other limbs*

* Also means ‘Impish children’.

Louise Hume

Lake Te Anau

Water,
Air,
Spirit.
So the wind
Breathed gently
And I threw a pebble
To break the
Surface, smooth.
Just needed
To see movement,
Remind myself
Of
Things changing.
So the surface
Rippled, trembled,
Silver,
Black
And I saw
The beach,
Reflected,
Full of
Pebbles.

Twelve Shopping Days Before Christmas

Hands in sink,
I hear television’s chirpy
Commercial-break cheer,
Chocolates, toys and aftershave
— So another Christmas has come
To measure poverty.
Children, wide-eyed at
T.V. promises and a
Million mechanical marvels
Tease and taunt.
“Mum, can we …”
Mum plunges hands
In sink, scratches egg
From plates,
“Maybe next year, darling,”
Not this year, as
Mum’s disgraced
— The villain in a tale
Of unseasonal ill-will,
A two-line back-page
Newspaper column
Is all her gift
This year.
SHOPPER DRAGGED AWAY!
SHOPPER HANDCUFFED!
SHOPPER DRAGGED SCREAMING
INTO POLICE VAN!
Lies, of course,
I didn’t scream
When there was
The smashing of glass,
bright, burning lights,
And sudden sirens,
Only felt
Cold emptyness in my hand
Where the brick
Had been.
Shopper couldn’t help
Feeling sudden rage
With shining, shimmering
Toy-trucks, trains and dolls,
Dressed better than she
Could ever be,
Flirting, flaunting
At little eyes,
How many sticky finger-marks
On gleaming
Window panes?
And how far does love go
When measured by money
And computer games?
Suppose I’ll plead
Battered insenseless
By consumerist, cruel, crass
Christmas coming…
…Still, the shattered slithers
In street-lamp hue
Were a most beautiful
Sight… Sigh,
…But it’s only the dream
Of one soured shopper, sick of
Sticky fingers and frustration,
Twelve shopping days
Before Christmas.
“Mu-u-um!” brings me back
To here and I feel only
Cold emptyness
Where the scourer
Had been.

Separation

Petals of the
Same
Flower
Scatter,
Touch the
Ground,
Make more
Flowers,
Even more
Beautiful.
Goodbye,
My
Love.

Geven Jones

My Friend Called ‘Hash’

Well hello my friend and how are you today
Three days since I last saw you I hope you’re
here to stay.
You make my life so much easier and you take
the weight off my back
Just having you around keeps me on an even
track.
You escape me from reality and keep me at an
even pace
When you’re around me you bring a smile upon
my face,
It’s such a pleasure to know you and you’re such
good company to keep
If I had my way I’d see you seven days a week.
You smell so rich and you smoke so pure
Any problems I have you are an instant cure.
And when I smoke you – you are gone in a flash
I hope to see you soon my friend – my friend
called hash.

‘A’ Wing

‘A’ Wing in all its splendour and glory
Condemned to be lived in and this is my story.
Cells with grime over the walls and cracked tiles
on the floor.
Handles missing on the windows and tales of
frustration written on the doors.
The recess with dirt and filth all over the floor.
Someone ran out of toilet paper – so decided to
use the door.
The smell of human shit wafts up my nose
Surely it’s time for this wing to be closed.
The bins overflowing with rubbish and full piss
pots on the side.
Has anyone here got any pride?
Half the wing has been closed because the cells
are in such a state
Why can’t the Governor close it all down and
call it a day.
I don’t think it’s fair to be treated this way
We are supposed to have certain rights
or so they say.
The mood of anger, frustration and depression is always in the air.
Prisoners have given up – they just don’t care.
Well I for one do.
And this is why I’m telling this story to you
If you come to ‘A’ Wing you would see what I
mean.
I promise you this, it is far from clean.

He told me last time we met

‘Hello Jones – how are you son
three years since we last met,
been having fun ?’

You know how it is boss – back for another spell
I didn’t learn the error of my ways, so here I am sitting in jail.
Thought I’d got it lucky with a bit of crime – same old story every time.
I’ve done four moons now, so that’s a touch.
Could be out soon with a bit of luck.

‘Don’t make me laugh Jones, you’re here to stay —
you broke the law and now you’ve got a price to pay’.

I’m on Judge’s remand boss, waiting for a date,
and when it comes, I’ll be walking out the gate.

‘You’re a dreamer, I told you before.
The only place you’re going is behind your door’.

Yeh, yeh whatever you say —
I’ve got some things to do so I’ll be on my way.

‘Jones, just one thing before you go,
remember what I said last time we met —
I told you so’.

Imprisoned from reality

I was forced to escape reality and what did I find?
A semi-conscious existence and the slowly
ticking away of time.
Isolated from anything that makes any sense.
Living in a closed-in world of false pretence.
Stoned faces of sorrow I see as I look from my
door.
Soulless bods, intent on killing time by
entertaining some mundane chore.
The stale smell of regulations floating gently
through the air.
Fighting to survive in a world where no one
really knows how to care.

Elaine Kingett

Lipstick

Sticky lips
lipstick
tart stick
hear I am
look at me stick
cat’s willy pink stick
hidden stick
fragile stick
use up the last little
bit stick
smelly stick
mum’s stick
Max Factor case stick
round stick
cold stick
slippery slidey on stick
old stick
dead stick
five years ago stick
bought in New York stick
free gift last year stick
Pale stick
hell stick
glitter out of sight stick
red stick
dry stick
spread me on thick stick
save it stick
keep it stick
never know when
you might need it stick
life stick
dream stick
make me look younger stick
nick stick
whip stick
stick it in your pocket stick
touch me only with your lips
stick

In praise of Mr. Bright

My grandad was a ballroom dancer
he’d take me round the floor
his beefy hand spread out like sausages
across my back.
A golf champion,
he made a putting green on our lawn
and taught me so well
I nearly won competitions.
He took me to London
on a train
for mixed grill at the Corner House
and then a show,
the Crazy gang at the Victoria Palace.
With lips like liver in a plastic bag
he drank his tea out of a saucer,
covered his food with salt
and always had a slice of bread with his dinner.
He drove his old van as if the roads
were still empty
his labrador sitting beside him
leaning out.
My mother did his washing,
enormous underwear
and shirts as big as sheets.
He spent hours digging and planting
I sat beside him
and stole carrots & peas.
I climbed on his lap
and styled his hair,
Thick with Brylcreem
as he watched Billy Cotton
and sang along to the Tunes.
He told me about everything
and stood up for me at home.
I took my son to his funeral
and we marvelled at the smallness of the box.

Audrey’s Frock

Once I could have held your body in my arms
and you would have wrapped yourself around me
my face nuzzling your mouse scented neck
your dress would ride up exposing
my hands on your white cotton
knickers flat across your tough little bottom
and I would smooth it over to protect
you from chill winds and men’s tremendous glances

Fay Layton

“I got the message”

I was walking in the street
When suddenly from way up high
A pigeon released its droppings
With a plop from out the sky
Of all the thousands of people
Why did it seek me out
The pigeon couldn’t give a toss
Of that I have no doubt.

“Writing Poems is my Obsession”

Writing poems is my obsession
I can’t stop or use discretion
Off my tongue the words are running
And twisted round with such cunning.
“I’m having a ball, it’s great fun
To let my imagination run”
In fantasy I live in a world of my own
I’m no Thackeray, I’m not well known
But I derive the greatest pleasure
A joy for me beyond all measure.

“Cor Love a Duck”

I bought a super duckling
All strung up nice and neat,
I cooked it to a turn,
And did it look a treat.

The table was inviting
My guests sat down to dine,
I said “I’ll do the carving,
Will someone pour the wine”.

I cut into the duckling
And to my horror and surprise,
The giblets in their plastic bag
Were still safely tucked inside.

The odour was unpleasant,
It looked an utter mess,
I’ve never felt so embarrassed
I apologised to my guests.

We settled for a pizza,
I gave some to the cat,
The duck I threw in the dustbin,
What do you think of that?

I owe my friends a dinner,
When next we went out to dine,
The waiter said “There’s duck on the menu”,
We replied “No thanks, fish will be fine”.

Nick Osmond

Autobiography

Well, 33
Gave birth to me
I saw
The sun
Became
A son

And lived through

Fearful thirties
Funtime forties
Faltering fifties
And psychedelic sixties

In 66
At 33
I had
A lad
Became
A dad

And lived on through

Socialist seventies
And agitated eighties

In 83
(Half-century)
“I” looked
At “me”
Began
To see

Into

The new-born nineties.

Baby (1)

fuzzy white shape overhead
rasping rush of breath
hottish tobacco smell
looming down
darkens his sight

wet slobber with bristles
stifles,
heart-stopping

no!

stop everything!

hold breath
hold on
hold out
and

ROAR!

Baby (2)

up

wheee!

flying, floating
cool air brushes past his skin

world upside down

down

falling, fearing

free fall
far fall
delicious terror recurs

underneath
are
the everlasting arms

landing
landed
held

safe

delighted laughter recurs.

Sam Royce

“Family Traits”

I am writing a tale recalled of my youth
Of a time I remember and telling the truth
It goes back to childhood before even school
While growing and learning and acting the fool

The barrow was rigid and wood was its shell
It belonged in the garden I recall it so well
I bounced it along in the pathway each day
In my youthful adventures, allowed out to play

I sat and I rode and I hit hard the gate
In this tank of my dreams with it’s armoury plate
Then I climbed out and cried at the hurt I had done
While pretending to others it was my kind of fun

With my arm in a sling I marched to and fro
A soldier at heart I had routed the foe
I ordered the troops to advance up the bank
To imaginary fire from my wheel-barrowed tank

Many years had to pass before it was seen
My Grandad had served as a ‘full-blown’ Marine
No wonder I marched up and down with my pride,
I was part of that person long before he had died.

“Those Purposeful Pills!!!”

I’m puzzled to learn of the knowing
How tablets we take for our ills
Disperse in the bloodstream and travel,
Are there ‘maps’ on those colourful pills?

The Nurse tells me sickness is treated
With a Suppository entered below,
But how does it find out its purpose
And which way to follow the flow?

If my knee starts to ache and it stiffens
A pill is prescribed as a cure,
Just how does it know where to function
And which one to work on for sure?

Do they know they are very important
Destined for nerves and our heart?
Thank heaven for miracle tablets
But how do they play out their part?

I am tied to these mystery ‘talismen’
That travel along in the veins,
But still there is left out unanswered,
Do they feed right into our brains?

Are there left-sided tablets and right ones
And long distance ones meant for our head?
I’m longing to hear all the answers
As I rest in my Hospital bed!!!

“Holiday Snap”

She was fifty and way past her bed-time
But rounded and warm to the touch
Her chat and behaviour excited
I fancied her eversomuch

She looked at me closely when talking
Pretended me only a friend
But knew in her heart we were falling
Not sure as to where it would end

We strolled then we stopped and we cuddled
The world was a wonderful place
We kissed and caressed in the twilight
As I held her quite close to my face

The sound of two people so happy
Was drawing us ever so near
We laughed and we loved ’til the daybreak
Then parted, until Summer, next year.

“Gone at my Convenience!”

The lighting had dimmed in the bathroom
I was alone with my Duck in the dark,
My clothes were adrift airing nicely
It was getting to be quite a lark.

I grappled to cover my ‘tackle’
Reaching out to get hold of a towel,
Then the Duck quacked and emptied its water
To a sound that was really quite foul.

The drying was quick and decisive
As I started on top of my head
Forgetting just where I was standing
And the length where the towel had spread

I tripped and fell onto the toilet
“How convenient for me” thinketh I,
Then my head banged hard on the cistern
I was flushed and beginning to die

It was all nice and clean at the finish
As I lay there a person at rest,
So I remained and never recovered
With a smile and a new woollen vest!

Tim Shelton-Jones

When Nothing Moves

When nothing moves
Beneath the apple tree;
No insect hums
In the lead-scented grass:
And all clouds flee
The blue, low-pressing sky
Then let the sun drip its golden dew
Through the lily leaves of your hair;
Let your lips curl, red in the grass,
Soft as earthworms
That wriggle, and wriggle,
But not away.
Then I will laugh at the light
That splits a thousand ways in the trees above
To paint your body gold and grey.
— For it is no light
To the welcome
In your eyes.

Happy on a Friday

Don’t Worry.
We won’t print anything
Too Dangerous.
We won’t explain the meaning of
The Word.
Or the theory
Of Cosmic Radiance.
We won’t discuss
It.

Don’t write in, please,
The deaths were all
Accidental.
We had no responsibility.
And remember,
Our elections are always
Fair,
Of course.

So watch the trend,
It’s always Good.
The statistics always
Prove it.
You like your work, the hours,
The being told what to do,
The management initiatives.

You like
The New Thinking.

This is the new reality,
It’s here to stay,
Don’t worry,
It won’t go away.
Nor will we,
Nor you.

So be happy
Switch on the telly.
Turn on the tap,
It’s Friday.

By Train to Hassocks

I love the tunnels,
The compression of sound and space
The drowning of common talking
By this one unbreathing roar.
The journey is vertical, downward
To a place I know, the earth-belly.
I am a sort of king there,
This is my music that you hear.

Nobody moves in the tunnels,
But I can feel their blood running
Waiting for it, waiting for the end.
One day soon I’ll turn the points, and out we’ll shoot
Out into the purest white cloud
Silent, Amazed.

John Tatum

Low Tide

Those distant figures seem arranged,
as by some god-like typographer,
like punctuation marks
along the shining sands.

Some are curved like question marks,
some straight like exclamations;
others — much smaller than the rest —
scuttle about like commas.

A few — colons, semi-colons —
are set apart,
huddled together in a little group,
as if they are unsure
of their positions in the scale of things.

A lone figure walks slowly
down by the water’s edge.
He alone seems sure of what to do
and suddenly he stops.

Evening Music

Behind a bay window a harpsichord is playing
in a darkened room. Pigeons rise,
flapping and wheeling, and dead leaves fall
in the eddy of their wings…

And old man whistles thorugh the park. The
bells clang over the rooftops, buffeting
the sky, and children’s voices echo
down the fading afternoon…

There is a sudden crash of laughter and
the slamming of a door. The world has
shuttered into silence and I wait to hear
her footfall on the stair…

Fat Sunday

Hand in hand we ran down to the sea.
You squealed at the shock of the first wave;
we swam, our laughter muffled under the damp sky,
the green water around us stippled by rain.
Far-off, on the promenade, a solitary preacher
harangued an audience of three old men.

About the poets…

JOE BENJAMIN

Joe Benjamin has long had an ambition to be recognised as one of the new wave of young poets. With people now living longer he feels, at 73 and with the help of QueenSpark Books, he might yet make it.

He has appeared in the TES and The Independent, but hopes to conquer higher peaks.

DANNY BIRCHALL

Danny Birchall lives on the dole in Brighton, and gets up as late as commitments and conscience will allow. He smokes too much and doesn’t drink enough. He loves making books, poetry that comes from the heart, alternative cultural prac¬tices and explosions that destroy buildings but not people.

JACKIE BLACKWELL

Jackie Blackwell left school at age 16, did some bum jobs, travelled about, then went to a women’s college at age 25. Sussex University beckoned, where she eventually gained a baby daughter and a degree in 1993. She now fills her time with QueenSpark Books, nightschool courses, job applica¬tions, babysitting rotas, charity shops and chocolate bars.

CAROL BROWN

Born in the East End of London in 1956, now living in Newhaven, she is married and has two children.

In 1992 she discovered that she had been deaf from birth. Going to A.B.E. classes developed her writing skills. Her inspiration is the love of people and places.

THOMAS CLARK

The way I see it, my poems are little time capsules. There are moments in our lives so precious, we swear never to forget them. But time passes, the dust settles, and we do forget. This is how I remember. I write to remember things I might otherwise leave behind…

BERYL FENTON

is in her sixties and has lived in Brighton or Hove for most of her life. Is married, with one daughter. Likes to write short poems and paint small pictures — very intermittently!

LOUISE HUME

I am from Yorkshire but have lived in Brighton for three years. My writing draws much on experiences while travelling and working abroad, particularly in France, Australia and Asia. My current job, working closely with passengers at Gatwick Airport, gives me plenty of ideas and characters for the short stories I enjoy writing!

GEVEN WAYNE JONES

Born 26/5/71 Brighton. I personally feel that poetry has a very strong impact in the way the writer comes across to the reader. My aim is to write about issues and situations and hope that the reader can relate and understand through my perception of life.

ELAINE KINGETT

Elaine Kingett has lived in Brighton for nine years despite many attempts to leave.

FAY LAYTON

I began writing poems about 15 years ago before I became a senior citizen.

‘Writing Poems is my Obsession” says it all.

It’s great to put pen to paper and write, I’m sure many others reel the same.

SIMON MUMFORD

I have been writing since I joined QueenSpark Books over a year ago. I write stories for amusement and poems to express myself in a more serious way. Being more comfortable with written than spoken words, poetry has enabled me to find a ‘voice’.

NICK OSMOND

When I was an academic I wrote about writing. I felt I knew all about it. But I didn’t write for myself; I was a writer who didn’t write.

At QueenSpark I’ve worked mainly as facilitator and editor of other people’s writing. Now, gradually, the writer in me is creeping, peeping out of his shell.

SAM ROYCE

A ‘Driver-Refresher-Course’ with the Sussex Police Authority triggered Sam Royce’s talent for Poetry writing. Having published four books he now travels the County reading and sharing his love of verse. This enables him to raise money for the Royal Sussex County Hospital. Humour dominates much of his work and provides great therapy for listeners and readers alike.

TIM SHELTON-JONES

We moved to Brighton in 1984, in search of fresh air and culture. Then I joined QSB Nightwriters, and found both. I’ve been writing since boyhood, though poetry today comes usu¬ally at times of intense experience.

I’m 44, married with 2 children, and work in Haywards Heath with computers.

JOHN TATUM

Born Edinburgh 1933 of English/German/Danish parentage. Written poetry and stories since age 16. Inspirations: jazz, trees, cricket, real ale, the ‘Titfield Thunderbolt’, English countryside, Church of England. Also paints watercolours and plays trumpet. Dislikes: cars (except for doctors and drummers), crooked politicians, logging companies, arms manufac¬turers.