Balaclava
1 watch her from the sofa, holding my coffee,
the fire ablaze, an empty bottle of wine.
With nimble fingers she looks across to copy
from a pattern, slowly leads the first soft line
along to its ordained and foretold end
connected back to the needle's metal spine.
The next row follows on like a close friend,
hooked back to the start on pre-arranged hoops,
each curled stitch a little fisherman's bend:
the rest march out one by one like woollen troops.
She goes on like this for an hour while 1 sleep,
but a fault appears dashing her early hopes
and she picks it apart into an unravelled heap
dismissed as a first flawed attempt, a snake
scribbled up beside her, a cartoon sheep.
So she starts again while I get more cake
using exactly the same length of yarn
but with new resolve to make no mistakes
Clicking along, her needles follow the plan,
or should we call it a hidden design?
It's unseen in any single row's narTow span
but will be clear to all when, after we dine,
I'll unwrap it and in mock surprise proclaim it grand
knowing that out in the night, frosty but fine,
my head will stay warm and it will finally be mine.
Peter Keeble
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
Sunday, 22 November 2009
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
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
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
Tuesday, 17 November 2009
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
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
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
Saturday, 24 October 2009
Dinking
Summer seventy-two’s racking
had nursery blue uprights, block board shelves,
and prayed to the far wall,
waiting to swallow its daily snacks.
Back door bell, a screech of wood to floor
and lunch stepped in.
Three hundred Vincent singles,
a hundred Popcorn, and two hundred
Whiter shades of pale, almost Dulux,
all for London’s jukeboxes, June was good.
Shame we hadn’t ordered them dinked.
So the hand stamp, bang, bang, banged
six hundred times, making their holes fit
Seeburg, Rock-Ola, Rota-Rolla
even that superb, rare AMI Deauville!
As we fed each shelf, split each order
we grooved to the latest hits on our Garard 301
jammed in a one-phone office,
behind Shepherds Bush shopping centre.
Python Lee Jackson, In a broken dream, led the way
Metal guru, Lady Eleanor, Rocket man,
we just didn’t care.
And on special days,
after thousands of vinyl dinks
we’d celebrate in our Wimpy bar,
before a brisk, diving browse
through the first Argos.
Jerry Pike
had nursery blue uprights, block board shelves,
and prayed to the far wall,
waiting to swallow its daily snacks.
Back door bell, a screech of wood to floor
and lunch stepped in.
Three hundred Vincent singles,
a hundred Popcorn, and two hundred
Whiter shades of pale, almost Dulux,
all for London’s jukeboxes, June was good.
Shame we hadn’t ordered them dinked.
So the hand stamp, bang, bang, banged
six hundred times, making their holes fit
Seeburg, Rock-Ola, Rota-Rolla
even that superb, rare AMI Deauville!
As we fed each shelf, split each order
we grooved to the latest hits on our Garard 301
jammed in a one-phone office,
behind Shepherds Bush shopping centre.
Python Lee Jackson, In a broken dream, led the way
Metal guru, Lady Eleanor, Rocket man,
we just didn’t care.
And on special days,
after thousands of vinyl dinks
we’d celebrate in our Wimpy bar,
before a brisk, diving browse
through the first Argos.
Jerry Pike
August
Another week of summer gone
The days are slipping past
The autumn rains come marching on
Time runs so fast.
Hardly seems a week or two
Since snow was on the hills
And all the gardens shining new
With daffodils.
The phlox, the lillies, they attend
the summer's grand parade
now linger to their tattered end,
and roses fade:
And while I bask in summer’s rays
There’s gnawing in my mind
And through the bleak and bitter days
Creep close behind.
Old father time hold on a tick!
Slow down for pity’s sake!
Why do you need to run so quick?
Put on the brake!
John Waddell
The days are slipping past
The autumn rains come marching on
Time runs so fast.
Hardly seems a week or two
Since snow was on the hills
And all the gardens shining new
With daffodils.
The phlox, the lillies, they attend
the summer's grand parade
now linger to their tattered end,
and roses fade:
And while I bask in summer’s rays
There’s gnawing in my mind
And through the bleak and bitter days
Creep close behind.
Old father time hold on a tick!
Slow down for pity’s sake!
Why do you need to run so quick?
Put on the brake!
John Waddell
Housewife
With busy needle, thimble, treadle,
she turned bed sheets sides to middle,
let down hems, inserted lengtheners.
Pockets made patch elbow strengtheners.
Every inch of her back garden
grew successions of abundant
vegetables, fruit ? delicious,
picked to eat with Same?day freshness.
Plums Preserved in lines of bottles,
jams in jars and onions pickled,
serried rows on shelves in pantry
testament to her. No entry.
In a book ever recorded
how she worked.Quite unrewarded,
just the striving for perfection
gave her ail her motivation.
Surely there's nobility
a true, though quiet celebrity,
when such a woman daily tries
with little means to reach the skies.
Dorothy Pope
she turned bed sheets sides to middle,
let down hems, inserted lengtheners.
Pockets made patch elbow strengtheners.
Every inch of her back garden
grew successions of abundant
vegetables, fruit ? delicious,
picked to eat with Same?day freshness.
Plums Preserved in lines of bottles,
jams in jars and onions pickled,
serried rows on shelves in pantry
testament to her. No entry.
In a book ever recorded
how she worked.Quite unrewarded,
just the striving for perfection
gave her ail her motivation.
Surely there's nobility
a true, though quiet celebrity,
when such a woman daily tries
with little means to reach the skies.
Dorothy Pope
Sita in the Modern World
Sita in the Modern World
Many years after, several thousand in fact,
after Ravana was reborn in the hierarchies
of capital and its politics of jealousy,
once more she finds herself isolated by his power.
Knowing Rama to be busy and Lakshmana useless,
she fends off snorts and dismissive shrugs
not by tapping unseen powers
nor by retaliation with an icy gaze
nor some verbal rejoinder,
though all these are at her disposal.
No, she greets attacks of this sort
and the ritual of the gang’s hostile chorus,
with the quiet understanding
that is her steady and unflinching purpose.
Maybe somewhere there is a vault
hidden beneath dark arctic wastes
where busy clerks record each snide snub
for posterity in careful, cautious ledgers.
If so, she knows nothing of these
fault finders and would care less;
future reckonings of right and wrong
before crestfallen villains in the dock
are no concern of hers at all.
So, sitting patiently in her neat suit,
she lets the insults flow on as they will,
comes through their buffeting like a statue,
unchanging and resolute.
Perhaps from time to time she permits
brief inner visions of herself as superhero
winking to an imagined camera
as she speeds on through the air.
But these are small aberrations
in her unswerving mission to bring care
to the tormented butterflies hidden all about her.
Peter Keeble
Many years after, several thousand in fact,
after Ravana was reborn in the hierarchies
of capital and its politics of jealousy,
once more she finds herself isolated by his power.
Knowing Rama to be busy and Lakshmana useless,
she fends off snorts and dismissive shrugs
not by tapping unseen powers
nor by retaliation with an icy gaze
nor some verbal rejoinder,
though all these are at her disposal.
No, she greets attacks of this sort
and the ritual of the gang’s hostile chorus,
with the quiet understanding
that is her steady and unflinching purpose.
Maybe somewhere there is a vault
hidden beneath dark arctic wastes
where busy clerks record each snide snub
for posterity in careful, cautious ledgers.
If so, she knows nothing of these
fault finders and would care less;
future reckonings of right and wrong
before crestfallen villains in the dock
are no concern of hers at all.
So, sitting patiently in her neat suit,
she lets the insults flow on as they will,
comes through their buffeting like a statue,
unchanging and resolute.
Perhaps from time to time she permits
brief inner visions of herself as superhero
winking to an imagined camera
as she speeds on through the air.
But these are small aberrations
in her unswerving mission to bring care
to the tormented butterflies hidden all about her.
Peter Keeble
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