Nice to have a bit of life enhancement to go to bed on Sandy.

UK place-names

Instead of modern Sat Nav
I read maps quaint and old,
From mine here's places that have
Strange titles to behold.

Where UK breezes billow
Round signposts north and south
Some guide you to Prickwillow,
Some lead to Cockermouth.

I've never really got 'em,
Each one is quite unique,
Why call somewhere Pratt's Bottom
Or Frisby on the Wreake?

Now Funtington's no rumour
And Upham is imbued
Like Cruckmeole with humour,
While Effingham sounds rude.

Who dubbed a village Swinton,
Their commonsense was seen
But what of Piddlehinton
And what if Acock's Green?

The presence of strong liquor
Could answer for the bodge
That conjured Upper Dicker
As well as Knockie Lodge.

Perhaps they dreamt of trollops
Creating Fockerby
But nothing tops The Wallops
And Wetwang by the sea.

These names should never alter,
We'd dearly feel their loss,
Though some make my eyes water -
Especially Ball's Cross.


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I know Biz - I've posted a funny poem to lighten the mood

I remember that one. I bet you've researched the origins of some of those.

What a good idea Biz - later on I'll have a look in my Dictionary of English Place-Names for the ones on this side of the border

I love polishing these old poems up, there are several improvements and corrections I made. I was also able to slip in another place-name not in the original, the incredible Cruckmeole It sounds vaguely like an obscene request

The Designer

Who designed the apple tree
Abundant with ripe fruit?
Who designed the busy bee,
The polar bear's white suit?

Who knew that a leaf of green
Alone is frail and small
Yet if autumn woods are seen
Their shade surpasses all.

Who produced the swan that glides,
A sparrow prone to dart,
Who commanded rolling tides
To break the poet's heart?

Who arrayed a billion stars,
The mountains and the glades?
Who gave every rainbow bars
Of seven different shades?

Who ensured all foxes wore
A gorgeous coated hue?
Who encoded evenings for
The most romantic view?

When I watch the final swell
Of sun absorb the west
Then I ask who cast the spell
For us to live so blessed.


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Well Musty, I've settled for the fact that I don't know the answer to your question and never will, but I'm for sure going to enjoy it all - and that includes your poetry (and all the other poets' too or course).

I heartily agree Biz - I think it's one of the main reasons we're here. The poem doesn't put creation firmly down to god as every verse asks questions. Whoever or whatever the designer was must have been brilliant though

My Schooldays

The new school at twelve erased my sunny smile,
A burnt sienna-toned vast Victorian pile,
I sensed something wrong on the very first day
And knew that things now would be done in their way.

As soon as I entered a bully attacked,
Cold panic surged up, like a sharp knife it hacked,
Alone in an ocean of faces so strange
With all I loved dearly far out of my range.

Immersed in the Empire's proud red, white and blue
By jingo they tried hard to make it seem true,
Their meaningless song toasted Britannia's phase,
The school, its old boys and the halcyon days.

Through morning assemblies describing God's love
I heard of forgiveness and heaven above,
While their actual coinage had much dearer rate;
The currency chosen was meaningless hate.

Still damaged by wounds from a desperate war
A section of masters had seen blood and gore,
The perfect revenge needed weak untrained foes
And here they sat meekly in uniformed rows.

The sadist taught English with hard words of stone,
He killed poems' souls and he crippled their tone,
One eye and one leg, how he glowered with spite
While running that classroom with conquering might.

In Physics a lad whispered to me, how quick
The teacher rushed over to give me some stick,
A blow he delivered, his features grotesque,
My head filled with pain as it glanced on the desk.

Their methods appeared to affect eager minds,
School cliques and societies found time to bind,
I listened ashamed to the mocking of peers
Enchained by my loneliness, holding back tears.

At night walking home two of them stood in place,
Determined I was to hide fear from my face
But one searched his pocket, revealing hard steel,
The blade that he brandished was frightening and real.

I gave them the money and went on my path
And then from behind me I heard them both laugh,
School blazer, school tie were a burdensome thing,
Each parting the soul from its deep need to sing.

Enlightenment came in the last few brief terms
With tutors who didn't treat children like worms,
Too late, the main lesson I learnt at your school
Was how people could be so callously cruel.

For years those grey corridors haunted my dreams,
Though I wandered through them in desolate streams
Now poetry teaches me all that is good
And gives me the love that your walls never could.


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Accurately portrayed, no doubt Musty. Sure to resonate with all who endured post war schooling. On reflection, so many years since, I think my 'masters' did their best to prepare us for similar horrors to those they had witnessed so recently. Discipline, and undoubted faith was part of how they got through those terrible years and they thought we should have that too. Similarly (to My Schooldays), my teachers seemed less hard in later years, but by that time I did everything I could to not attend...

"School blazer, school tie were a burdensome thing,
Each parting the soul from its deep need to sing."

110% spot on with that one.

(sowwy for my stupid little outburst the other day )

What outburst?

Thanks for the feedback on My Schooldays Archiver Discipline's essential in every school but this was often a massive overreaction involving random violence. The worst excesses of those teachers who'd been through the war created classes charged up with tension and fear. I for one couldn't learn anything in that atmosphere, I was far too tense to relax and enjoy the subjects.

It's sad and obvious that the war damaged these individuals. Just as sadly, as a result they damaged their own teaching methods too. Of course now the situation's completely reversed. Today's schools are best summed up in Morrissey's excellent song The Teachers Are Afraid Of The Pupils.

Samuel Palmer and the Ancients

In youth he rarely joined the fray,
To fun books were preferred,
Engravings made this dreamer stay
Indoors free from the herd.

The time that he met William Blake
Made up his mind at last,
An artist young and due to take
A step into the past.

To Shoreham with his friends he went,
The Ancients they were called,
A village nestled deep in Kent
With skill they would record.

The locals deemed them odd or quaint,
Outsiders just arrived
Yet boosted by the need to paint
This group of colleagues thrived.

When Samuel worked he spoke sincere
To god and saw the light,
What visions he created here,
Sweet gardens of delight.

A sleeping shepherd and a maze
Of fruit trees, others showed
Poor cornfield workers under rays
Of harvest moons that glowed.

Each canvas holds an aura which
Has magic to unfurl,
Where watercolour shades are rich
And pastel glories swirl.

By critics from the art regime
The Ancients were dismissed,
They passed away and then their dream
Fled like the morning mist.

But fans of Kentish fields and lanes
Discover on the way
That Samuel's vision still remains
In Shoreham to this day.


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My, poetry and painters. If those teachers could only see you now. Mind they'd probably take credit for the way you turned out.

Ta Biz Sadly, many of my heroes weren't even touched on at school. I had to discover John Betjeman and William Blake for myself after leaving. I guess if those giants of culture could be ignored there was no chance of the more obscure Samuel Palmer getting mentioned.

madrigal

Come meet me on the island
Where ancients have now gone,
Though autumn's fires
And golden spires
Shall always linger on.

We'll rest in marble halls there
While gentle music plays,
Each different key
Speaks of the sea
And endless coral days.

Through evening we'll watch sunset
Cloak everything in red;
The last few beams
Will sink like dreams
Into God's crimson bed.


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Ancient Avebury

Centuries of rain and snow
Battered you,
Yet you survived them.

Thousands of years of turmoil
Passed, but you remained,
Proud and immoveable.

Built by people long-vanished people
Who worshipped
Something unknown to us.

Then, in modern times
Puritanism tried to destroy you
Out of fear.

They smashed your stones
And buried others,
Blaming the Devil.

Later others came
To plunder you for profit;
Look, parts of you are encased in cottage walls.

Two great avenues, one vast circle,
Over six hundred megaliths stood
Near Silbury Hill.

Now there are less than eighty:
Monument to Man's ignorance.

When I visit you
I feel humbled, lost in awe.

Giant blocks of mystic sandstone
Like wounded forgotten men

But still proud

Still watching the skies


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Remembering the Busby Babes

One cold sixth of February nineteen fifty-eight
At Munich a plane didn't rise,
I picture the passengers and the long wait,
The runway and freezing dark skies.

Of twenty-three people who passed on that day
Eight team members stressed the sad truth;
For old Man United those eight used to play,
The Busby Babes who died in youth.

Perhaps they share laughter on some distant turf,
Perhaps they hear faraway cheers
And angels inform them of us back on Earth
Who still can't recall without tears.


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Something must have sparked off your interest in poetry, ancient sites, nature etc. etc. etc.


I suppose all crashes are tragic, but that one seemed especially so.

For me ancient sites are a wonder and a voyage of discovery too Biz Nothing beats getting that first glimpse of something 5000 years old that previously you've only read about and seen in photos.

The Siren's song

The storm had been so violent
Yet now the sun lay deep,
The air sighed, almost silent
As daytime fell asleep.

I watched a seagull winging
At liberty and free
Then heard a distant singing;
A siren called to me.

She lured me with her soft voice,
That song became a guide
Allowing only one choice,
To leave my home, the tide.

With breezes gently sweeping
The beach her face looked fair,
A golden clasp was keeping
A seashell in her hair.

Though I saw each of her maids
Wore dresses bright in hue
The princess of the mermaids
Owned eyes of deepest blue.

Soon where the waves were breaking
On rocks of night sublime
My heart was filled with aching,
So peaceful was the time.

It seemed a million light years
Since last I did belong,
She smiled and wiped my sad tears
Then healed them with a song.

And if somehow they'd seen us
While glowing from above
The stars would say that Venus
Had found her earthly love.


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My mother writes superb poetry - well I think so. It's not this long winded, verbose stuff with words and expressions that know one knows or ever uses anymore. It is really funny and has some real truth to it.

(it's Sunday time for that old time religion)

A ghost or ghoul may seem unreal to some
Who don masks in fantasy fun
To prick the horror of death so real.
Not to me, who never sees the sun
Or we, the undead, in a crypt of souls forgotten
Down where here I wear the crown ethereal
Am a prince in a world of darkness;
Entombed with my lady enchanted,
A voluptuous succubus, half siren half bitch,
Will hold cold courtship by flicker of girt black candles,
She clad in lace, I in silk,
In this domain death does have dominion,
Blood not tears mists from sallow pitted eyes
Pecked in desultory fashion by an always hungry raven,
Dare I say Poe-etically, "forevermore."
Blood for we denizens to wallow in,
Death's blood to swallow;
Thereby to go on, but never grow
Even a crow cannot live by flesh alone.

Feel free to post some Stegan


Great write Frank and unusually dark for you. I was just starting to feel the influence of Edgar Allan, then I noticed you'd slotted him into the poem nicely

I recently bought the complete works of Poe, which includes stories and poetry. Can't wait to dip into that

The Violet and the Fairy

Once a violet in a clearing
Prayed for water, dry and pink
It could feel stagnation nearing,
Longing for a summer drink.

Then a fairy landed on it
In a costume emerald-bright
And she told a simple sonnet
To relieve the flower's plight.

This kind fairy lived forever
Full of empathy and care
So her rhyme produced the weather
That the violet needed there.

Soon those weary hanging petals
Matched the very finest jewels,
Shimmering like precious metals
While rain filled the empty pools.

When the fairy started going
With another plant to save
She observed the violet glowing
And could hear the thanks it gave.


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End of the rainbow

A million philosophers wondered why
Mr Wonderful never touched the sky
The old grey man with faraway dreams
Was left at the side after all his schemes
But still he waited for another day
His strength in faith they would pay
For all the times they put him down
While he tried to please,shades of a clown
Then the almighty hand reveals the dawn
And sunlight filters through the clouds of scorn.

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