A Wife's Memorial

Sandhu's wife had been the best thing
about life, life being not a sinecure for
sure when you're untouchable in India.
He had lost that touch of one he loved
so much when she caught her disease
from bacteria and flies and sadly dies.
This industrial malaise, cause of all his
hurt's unease not recognised as such;
society would not touch untouchables'
distress or aleviate that mess of caste,
let alone a husband's plight as he eked
out a widower's mite to make a little last.
No benefit to him no more slim pickings
from the refuse dump, no sum of State
compensation not even a lump. Losing
Sanjana put Sandhu more on the skids,
no cook nor partner for four young kids.
A life more miserable still when she left
rending a heart disconsolate and bereft.
He missed her as passionately as Shah
Jahan did his Mumtaz Mahal, of course
no such elegant memorial was in his gift
yet that in his memory would never shift.
And as a peerless Taj, whose white walls
enshrined one husband's grief and tears
recalls a rich emperor's loss so famously
around the world poor Sandhu would on
their anniversary day go down to where
the Ganges swirled there was the private
place that he had kissed her ashes away.

the good earth

Know ye the good earth’s pliable
And fertile as a friend,
The good earth is reliable
And I have some to tend.

I love to clear away the spoil
Then fold the substance back,
Hands delving into virgin soil
With fingers turning black.

It yields the crop and when all’s right
Supplies us bread and wine,
By blessing it in prayers each night
You’ll make the good earth thine.

I saw how arid farmlands burned
As drought left acres slain,
Behold ye now the ground has churned,
Relieved by timely rain.

The good earth is a gift to till,
Our harvest comes from loam
That I shall dig and plough until
The good earth is my home.


©

I'm going to read your latest tomorrow Frank, my eyes are knackered now I've still got loads to catch up on and I haven't forgotten the backlog

Johnny Cash at Folsom

Johnny sings to a captive audience
who have paid expensively for their
entrance (loss of liberty) the State's
ticket to a "free" concert. California
filled seats with hard arses, donated
special passes and miked the crowd
for criminals' responses loud, proud
and unbowed in prison OK but lovin'
it. As Folsom Prison rocked the cell
blocks unlocked men cheer and yell
they dig the stories that Cash is here
to tell, all live sounds goes in the can
rolled on out to a vinyl recording van.
They enjoy his Folsom Prison Blues
the sort of dark sentiment they could
use being behind bars with no excuse.
Every wry and sombre word was fine
by them he amused, he'd walked that
line did not condemn. Cash drawled
the killer line how he had shot a man
just to see him die with the uproar of
clapping hear jailbirds get up and fly.

I found this incredibly sad Frank. The Taj Mahal, that most famous of tributes to a lost loved one, was used effectively here to highlight the untouchables and their plight. You movingly shone a torch on a much darker side of India, one where disease and poverty rule.


Brilliant What pictures you paint Frank - you've captured why hardened criminals would take to a singer like Johnny Cash. I love the bit where he sings of killing a man, I could almost hear the prisoners' roars echoing round the jail! Great imagery

Letter from HQ

Afraid of ancient Avebury
The Christians used to be,
That’s why chose to bury
Its megaliths with glee.

I don’t mind if old bones are
Left in a tomb of black
Yet knowing where the stones are,
Why don’t we put them back?

So I wrote off to HQ
On digging up each rock;
Their answer may well shake you,
Read on and then take stock:

'Thanks for your kind suggestion
But here's the final word -
There really is no question,
The slabs must stay interred.

We have the finest knowledge,
Our best scholars see far
And word is from each college
They should rest where they are.

Regardless of complaining
Those marvels won’t be raised,
A dig might crush remaining
Flint tools and pots kiln-glazed.

While we possess broad shoulders
And much donated cash
Retrieving sacred boulders
Would be a trifle rash.

Though true they could be ferried
To their ring without fail,
How megaliths were buried
Is part of Avebury’s tale.

Of course our ancient history
Is vital to the state
And lost stones make a mystery,
What’s absent can look great.

We recognise the pattern
Yet like the National Trust
We won’t pick up the baton,
Prevaricate we must.

We’d like to thank you dearly,
To query us was right,
From HQ yours sincerely,
Keep visiting the site.’


©

I'm in the strange position of having more than twelve new poems in the bag But they're all on Avebury and are being saved for the book. Letter from HQ is an oldie I've polished up and is the last book entry I'll be posting. Roll on July

I suspect you've spotted a market for your Avebury volume Musty.

Re: Letter From HQ Musty; should there be a "they" in the third line? Far be it from me etc... but it seems to work better like That’s why they chose to bury.

All great stuff as usual and I think I just might revisit Avebury later this year - post publication.

(I say 'revisit', but the last time was a barely remembered school trip, long long ago.)

Hello Archiver, I think you're right and that's what he thought he'd put. I tend to read what I think is there.

Hope you're feeling better.

Return

Something to hold
close, near and dear
Someone to remember
far, away and lost
Somewhere to return
whole, intact and complete.

Quite a bit better thanks Biz. Still got a pretty bad cough, but it'll go eventually I think...

I'm really not sure Biz. Despite its size Avebury remains unknown to many. But while it's nowhere near as famous as Stonehenge, it'll be nice to promote a little-known site. Whether there's an audience for it is another question.


Thanks Archiver I'm always grateful when mistakes are pointed out, I can amend that in the files now. I wish my school had taken us to Avebury! I'm going back soon before the book's photo session in the summer. The Red Lion's going to receive a poem - along with several cottages and a chapel, it's part of the village that remains within the great outer circle. I'm going to enjoy the research there Glad to hear you feel a bit better


Your poems are always beautiful Sandy This one reminds me of the thread, as well as love.

Thanks Musty

I enjoy your poems, tales of history, not forgotten and retold in a poem.

My first thought was the shop at Avebury, but other tourist places might be of interest.

Thanks.

I've just noticed that Google Earth StreetView takes you right up close to the stones in the great outer circle. Not quite the same as being there though.

Fading Away

In the night shelters of London
you will find many old soldiers,
there who did good service for
their country but not got back
a decent share. Mental illness,
homeless, men cities abandon,
worthies or not they don't care.
Hard in structure stone-centred
metropolises' hearts do not give.
A military flotsam, poor veterans
will wash up on concrete strand.
Unminded, left desolutely to live,
moved on, epitaph to fade away.

(my 30th & last US NPM poem) Frank

A Patch of Old Snow



There's a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.

It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I've forgotten --
If I ever read it.


Robert Frost

You made it Frank. Quite an achievement, congratulations.

And a sad tale to end on - it makes me wonder why those many millions are given away in aid, instead of looking after our own.

Ta Sandy - history is our own tale as a nation and I find it endlessly fascinating


The Henge Shop is great Biz and its poem is already written


Nothing is Archiver, but my books and a very good DVD called Standing With Stones keep me going in between prehistoric visits


And more British troops died in Afghanistan again today A nice tribute to the forgotten Frank.


A Robert Frost poem I didn't know, thanks for posting it Flower. I'm not sure if he's ancient enough to bypass the thread's copyright rules. I can't be arsed to find out really and I enjoyed the poem a lot, so sucks boo to the regulations.

Wow! Really? That is a surprise.

The Ship Sails

The ship sails , she waves goodbye
he on his travels, her a distant cry
one photo divide, each with it's part
his in his pocket, hers in a sigh.
travel wisely, awaiting your return
as cheers applaud, award a reply.

Oh yes, I've never been to Avebury without buying books or ornaments from the Henge Shop Biz and it deserves an ode It's independent too, neither English Heritage or National Trust, which gives the items stocked a unique feel My calendar for this year is one of theirs


Another great write Sandy What a lovely poem relating to the distance and separation involved in sea travel. I particularly love the line I quoted

Thanks Musty

My pleasure Sandy No new material from me for a while, as I'm up to my neck in the Avebury poems There isn't long to go before they're finished, but some research still remains. I'm using four books for facts and statistics. Most of the descriptions are from amazing personal memories and being awe-struck, but it'd be silly to colour every poem like that. Archeology is a good way of staying grounded when it's needed. Balance is all

I'm just eating a lemon sherbert, they're delicious