Casualties

By night the bombs rained down from dreadful skies;
by day his blows assailed her frightened eyes.
By night it was allowed to utter cries;
by day she stifled them for otherwise

their infant and the neighbours would have guessed
and so she hid her bruises, unconfessed.
She knew his rages mainly stemmed from stress.
from weeks of nightly fear and sleeplessness

but he had lost control, continued wild
long after enemies were reconciled.
Now brutalised, he would not be beguiled
and left her penniless to rear their child.

Dorothy Pope

In Your Shoes

In Your Shoes

In your shoes, I'd have wondered what I'm like,
as woman now, and how I was at school.
Did you not ever ask yourself, awake
at night perhaps, it I was beautiful
or clever, happy, mother now to boys
who looked like you, as handsome, tall and blond,
or if, for want of funds and fathering. all joys
had come to nothing, not survived beyond
the day you left us, broke? Life was deprived,
of course, but you gave me a legacy
I prize. You left me hypersensitised
to cruelty and worth ? rare gift. I see
right through facades. Not,spared a second thought,
I'm fine - though I'm the daughter you forgot.


Dorothy Pope

The Harder They Come

Into the city for big time spoils,
five three with a ‘bop’ walk,
occasional high heels, to boost,
and that feminine voice.
He walked, talked, jumped fast,
learned to sing mento down town,
Vincent Ivanhoe Martin, fourteen and bad.
He robbed and ran so fast, no one caught him.

1938, Jam Down, Kingston resident’s court
dished him twelve tamarind strokes,
for a vicious attack.
Early 40s, burglary, shop break-ins, wounding.
Then 1945 his war began,
underworld gang monikers pinned tight,
Captain Midnight, Alan Ladd, but mainly
Two-Gun Rhygin.
Every job, he photographed himself,
a showman with two guns, to send the press.
He robbed rich, gave to poor,
Robbin’ da Hood, and the ghetto thanked.

1946, with his gang, got seven years,
that final straw pulled, he escaped in two,
and there on ratchet in his waist,
Johnny Too Bad,
gunned and gunned,
promising twenty nine un-wasted bullets.

1948, holed up in the Carib Hotel,
wearing just underpants,
shot his way free,
killing, wounding, making headlines
Jamaica would never forget.
He wrote regular letters to papers and police,
telling his next move,
how they must improve, and who was
the next nail under his gun’s hammer.
A fugitive in hiding
up Ferry Reef Swamp,
he didn’t have long for fame,
£200 bounty, rode on his head,
povertied people started spilling addresses.
While mum and dad were arrested for fish dynamiting,
his own net closing, he escaped.
Two Greenwich Town fishermen
took him to Lime Cay, but tipped off,
police and army arrived, surrounded,
and, as he always said,
never take me alive,
they shot him to bits.

Thousands went to the morgue,
to see Jamaica’s biggest criminal,
wrapped in blood and sack, but still, their hero
and future star of
The Harder They Come

I'm sorry

I'm Sorry!

I'm sorry! 1 can't write a poem today,
the signs are not really auspicious.
Life's burdens and bothers will get in the way,
so I'm sorry. 1 can't write a poem today.
It's no use complaining, for try as 1 may
the verse turns foul and factitious.
I'm sorry. 1 can't write a poem today,
the augurs are far from auspicious.

I'm sorry 1 can't write a poem today.
It's no use your being suspicious.
1 know that you think you have only to say,
but I'm sorry! 1 can't write a poem today.
1 long for a lyric, like flowers in May,
but my powers are entirely fictitious,
so sadly 1 can't write a poem today,
although you may well be suspicious.

I'm sorry! 1 can't write a poem today.
My mood is too surly and vicious?
The sun is too dim and the clouds are too grey,
so I'm sorry! 1 can't write a poem today,
Please leave me in peace, then, and just go away!
I'm giving up being ambitious.
1 really can't write you a poem today.
I'm lazy ? and surly and vicious.

John Waddell