Two poems by Dorothy Pope

Published in The Spectator May 2020.

a great achievement

       Coronavirus Street

Only the early morning thief

quietly shovelling sand,

a midnight cheat

home from long drive,

med student and nurse

not volunteering

in the otherwise street

but the self-risked gifts

of food in the porch,

the faithful deliveries

of newspapers and fish

sustaining numbers

of phone calls, emails and post –

different play, same characters.

                 How Old

I am six and seventeen,

twenty-five and thirty-four,

and we all have to live

in this ugly, inconvenient house

but from upstairs,

you can see clear across

to Dartmoor

and the beaches beyond,

past the bomb damage

and the four old-fashioned schools.

In the foreground is the man

seated at his table in the window

reading the spread out

broadsheet version of The Times.

Intimations
     (at Finzi Window, Gloucester Cathedral)

Within that inner jewelled heart,
where all the colours gather back
into a whiteness of the soul,
I can reside complete and still –
between the words, inside the song –
at the essence of such beauty
and an inward sense of answer




© Anthony Pinching

& ante

What just denoted walking pace,
the leisured middle movement stroll, becomes –
with an exquisite error of transcription – the question:
“And before?” Nothing so simple as: “And then?”

To find a way into this mystery,
we could walk awhile, and then look back,
triangulate future and present
towards a not yet remembered past.

The sonata encompasses familiar patterns,
flowing and developing in its path –
but is this really “And before?”,
or just the prelude to a question?

& ante asks about the preconceptual moment
when the composer is imagined by the performer.


© Anthony Pinching

Published in:
‘Soundscapes – A Musician’s Journey through Life and Death,
by Paul Robertson. Faber & Faber, London 2016. pp. 221-2.

Dorothy Pope’s third book will be out in November 2016. 

Called 'A Mile of Kite String', 

it will cost £6 or £6 + £1.20 postage.

Get Yours Now!

A SPECIAL DAY

Imagine a city under siege:
it may be any such city
at any time
as long as old women
dressed in black
scuttle amid rubble.

Think how the miracle of relief might come:
soldiers advancing in a column;
raids from the air;
even pretended discovery
0f the fake relic of a saint.

Do they all see
how a slanting band of sunlight
pours from between two masses of slate dark cloud
to illuminate a distant tree up on the hill?

Any tree will do,
but shining out in that special way.


Peter Keeble

Restructuring

It was obvious he’d gone.

Twenty minutes later he emerged;

a year older (and an inch shorter),

for every minute he’d been before the boss.

Never seen a man so reduced.

He stood for an hour and stared at the car park.

Something had left him,

none of us knew what words to offer his shell.

Then Shivali asked if he’d still sort the Lottery

and Dave wondered if an office would be free.

The following week

hushed conversations stopped

whenever he came into the tea-room.

Might as well have rung a bell.

He’d eat alone, untouchable.

Then his desk was empty,

though  his screensaver still showed

a picture from the Christmas do;

dressed as an elf with Leanne on his knee,

he always liked a laugh.

Emails arrived with words like rationalise,

downturn and downsize.

It was like a damp we couldn’t stop from spreading

and it seeped from his department into ours.

Just now HR Jenny smiled at me;

my appointment ‘s Thursday, half-past three.

Neil Elder

At Last

Fairly well remembered

that final game for Stanley.

Boys spread out like

ducks across a floating pitch,

and me, under new rules

trying out my spec-less eyes

for blind spots.

Before kick-off,

the thirties brick changing room

reeked sweetly of

White Horse embrocation

and Fiery Jack

(chilli seeds ground into

rubbing-cream for

the grossly insane).

Today's ref, clogged up in

a starched Polaroid

of football through the years

read FA directive, 8liND,

for specs, I was no

longer allowed to play in.

Lens-less, I launched

myself frailly

like a fight in a blindfold,

a centre forward for once,

with no regard, and ostrich-like morals

as I could see nowt.

Second half we trampled

the over-wide pitch,

I picked up a short cross, Jesus,

and hammered toward goal,

forty yards out I blasted it,

under shock, it smashed the bar,

and jumped over.

almost my best ever goal.

But that final match

all seems a blur now.

Jerry Pike

Hear Harrow's Herga Poets Read Their Own Work.

https://soundcloud.com/tags/herga%20poets

October 9th 2014 WW1 Poetry Special by Herga Poets, at Harrow Arts Centre

Speak Your Mind

THURSDAY 9 OCTOBER 2014 7:30 PM - 10:30 PM 
THE STUDIO
£3.00
BUY TICKETS£1 BOOKING FEE PER TRANSACTION APPLIES

Words of War: Poetry of the First World War and Today

Featuring playwrights, novelists, storytellers, poets and more, HAC’s scratch night showcases the best of local writers and performers. All types of writing and spoken word are welcome, from poetry to rap and novels to plays. This evening is a special edition presented by Herga Poets to commemorate the First World War.

Herga Poets, Harrow's poetry group affiliated with the Poetry Society, has been running since 1992. Members critique each others work, which covers a broad range of styles and subject matter. Our programme on 9 October will combine our own work on the subject of war and peace with famous and not so famous poetry from the period of the First World War.

If you would like to perform at this or future events, contact Cate on 020 8416 8963 orcate.gordon@harrow.gov.uk

Find out more about Herga Poets on their website.