by
Rg Gregory
(roundel: variation of the rondeau
consisting of three stanzas of three
lines each, linked together with but
two rhymes and a refrain at the end
of the first and third group)
1.
the blind rose
today's fullness is tomorrow's gone
(the next day after no one knows)
last year's dream now feeds upon
what blindly grows
imagine if you like a rose
on which no likely sun has shone
a darkness chokes it (just suppose)
the die though's cast - a marathon
of hopes endeavours then bestows
dawn's right to spill its colours on
what blindly grows
2.
squeaking
there are so few words left now to grow
green on - my vocabulary's stumped
for a hard-edged phrase to let you know
my truth's not been gazumped
love itself of course is blandly thumped
each time it suits you to imagine no
fruits are guilty for their being scrumped
if you can't be honest with me - better go
if dumped is what you wish then i'll be dumped
excuse me if i go on squeaking though
my truth's not been gazumped
3.
ease of mind
the world spins - today i have migraine
the peace i seek is never less than ill
striving's no answer to the bumptious pain
that is love's overspill
wanting warmth encourages the chill
relaxation breeds its bitter strain
the worst of all crimes is - i love you still
hope itself by nature is inane
i squat in a box dismembered from such will
to let me find the ease of mind again
that is love's overspill
4.
a roundel for ptolemy
the earth is not the system's centre- so ok
heliocentric - well our sun's a midget
spawning galaxies blow our minds away
space then equal to a digit
the mightiest telescope's a widget
science at best hard guessing gone astray
no genius stretch beyond a second's fidget
ptolemy discarded yet may have his say
infinity takes a hologram to bridge it
each shard of us contains the cosmos -
space then equal to a digit
5.
reflection
everything you do is my reflection
the hurts you cause are my pain inside out
blame's no matter for a close inspection
your guilt turns mine about
love itself is many hands of doubt
it cannot be without it breeds rejection
its silences result in one big shout
i am left with nothing but dejection
what's gold in me has nowhere to get out
love's pride is fatal to correction
my guilt turns yours about
6.
the round
the round understands the fluidity of order
how the thing lit up and the shadow can't compete
how the centre is that version of the border
the moment makes complete
notice each face around a space at times replete
with insights given to no one else as warder
but not condemned when those insights retreat
impermanence is eternity's recorder -
with an intricate sense of pattern power can't delete
the round honours those cracks in the divine disorder
the moment makes complete
7.
the actor
acting is not the true self's dissipation
but not its preening either - outside the role
it honours it best fights shy of reputation -
being what prometheus stole
it is a distant spark of that first live coal
a conscious glimpse of human desperation
rekindled as a longing to console
the waning spirit or the shattered dedication
actors are allies of the delphic hole
for good or ill they echo human expectation
being what prometheus stole
8.
roundels in honour of the round
(i)
when energy was born it asked this question
which way dear parents do i go from here
mum fluttered indifferently (i blame exhaustion)
dad pointed with his sexual gear
so energy thrust straight ahead and fostered fear
at once its dreaded source became a bastion
too holy to be doubted - mum flipped a gear
she sought revenge on dad for his lewd suggestion
taking too long of course - things went nuclear
the scale of the damage was too much to ingest when
dad pointed with his sexual gear
(ii)
she sat with her flowing skirt spread out on the earth
and tore the garment into strips from toe to waist
laying them to point around the wide world's girth
my way the truth flows best
dad laughed his head off at the pointless waste
and energy itself was seized by powerful mirth
perhaps mum's petalled skirt was not well placed
in time mishandled plenty breeds its dearth
dad's roisterous one-way-ism was disgraced
energy began to sense what mum was worth
her way the truth flows best
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by
Rg Gregory
it began as a secret desire (an itch
in the marrow too vague to get through
to the bone) an idea that never could
make it as flesh - there wasn't a part of me
sane i could tell that would have spared
it a breath to get started
so i slept
one midday i woke up with a bang - light
was bashing in through the windows
and suddenly out of my pores
sprang this fully-fledged practical paeon
this triumphant brass-note of praise
for a why-hadn't-i-yelled-it-before
sort of answer to my life's rubbing-out
of my dreams
i’ll jump from the window
(i sang to myself)
and i'll fly
and be damned to daft icarus
i crowed
and i flew - or i fled (which is
very much the same grain of word
and it graciously covers the gap
between the experience i had in my head
and the one i met rushing up
from the ground where the glasshouse
splashed around to reflect me
as i passed on my way down to earth
and the squirt of my dad's best tomatoes
and my mum's angry mask of a face
that just wasn't brought up to be fruitful)
so i fled - or i flew - out the gate
up the street till i melted
just like that daft icarus before me
and i thought
well why the sod not
so i jumped in a pond till i cooled
and the blood from a scratch on my hand
turned the green water red but not a
thick peasant came to be in on the wonder
and i had to go home soaking wet
to a tongue that had blisters and a belt
round the head from my dad - but i lived
which is more than daft icarus did
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by
Tony Harrison
I thought it made me look more 'working class'
(as if a bit of chequered cloth could bridge that gap!)
I did a turn in it before the glass.
My mother said: It suits you, your dad's cap.
(She preferred me to wear suits and part my hair:
You're every bit as good as that lot are!)
All the pension queue came out to stare.
Dad was sprawled beside the postbox (still VR) ,
his cap turned inside up beside his head,
smudged H A H in purple Indian ink
and Brylcreem slicks displayed so folks migh think
he wanted charity for dropping dead.
He never begged. For nowt! Death's reticence
crowns his life, and me, I'm opening my trap
to busk the class that broke him for the pence
that splash like brackish tears into our cap.
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by
Rg Gregory
so here we are at last at the ten-boy
never to be the single-figure-aged-again boy
and all the trailing clouds that cling to the not-big child
can be blown away - you're up in your own sky now
clear-blue on some days (if on others windy and wild)
now you'll have to see yourself as the tall-boy
the take-it-on-the-chin and care-for-all boy
and looking at what's to be done and getting down
to doing it without boring parents laying down the law
it's your walk from hereon to your own new town
then you'll be able to grow into that free-boy
not hankering to be that sit-on-your-mother's-knee boy
and you'll find yourself with keys to fit in every door
you've been denied or dreamed of (keys towards the man)
and a richer jack will sprout from the jack you were before
so aquarian and water-dog and feb-the-fourth-boy
the i've-got-to-figure-out-my-south-from-north-boy
now you've double-jumped may your life bloom well
be kind to sweet matthew and let that deep sun shine
that's been nuzzling inside you in its young-boy shell
and we wish a happy birthday to the ten-boy
to the video-games and freaky-foresters'-den-boy
to the boy who takes pity on his dad's bald head
whose laziness is legion - seasoned with sharp wit
a boy who's perfect when he's fast asleep in bed
and awake not quite an angel but at least well-fed
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by
Alec Derwent (A D) Hope
Crossing the frontier they were stopped in time,
Told, quite politely, they would have to wait:
Passports in order, nothing to declare
And surely holding hands was not a crime
Until they saw how, ranged across the gate,
All their most formidable friends were there.
Wearing his conscience like a crucifix,
Her father, rampant, nursed the Family Shame;
And, armed wlth their old-fashioned dinner-gong,
His aunt, who even when they both were six,
Had just to glance towards a childish game
To make them feel that they were doing wrong.
And both their mothers, simply weeping floods,
Her head-mistress, his boss, the parish priest,
And the bank manager who cashed their cheques;
The man who sold him his first rubber-goods;
Dog Fido, from whose love-life, shameless beast,
She first observed the basic facts of sex.
They looked as though they had stood there for hours;
For years - perhaps for ever. In the trees
Two furtive birds stopped courting and flew off;
While in the grass beside the road the flowers
Kept up their guilty traffic with the bees.
Nobody stirred. Nobody risked a cough.
Nobody spoke. The minutes ticked away;
The dog scratched idly. Then, as parson bent
And whispered to a guard who hurried in,
The customs-house loudspeakers with a bray
Of raucous and triumphant argument
Broke out the wedding march from Lohengrin.
He switched the engine off: "We must turn back."
She heard his voice break, though he had to shout
Against a din that made their senses reel,
And felt his hand, so tense in hers, go slack.
But suddenly she laughed and said: "Get out!
Change seatsl Be quickl" and slid behind the wheel.
And drove the car straight at them with a harsh,
Dry crunch that showered both with scraps and chips,
Drove through them; barriers rising let them pass
Drove through and on and on, with Dad's moustache
Beside her twitching still round waxen lips
And Mother's tears still streaming down the glass.
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by
Marriott Edgar
The reign of King William the Second
Were an uninteresting affair
There's only two things that's remembered of him
That's his sudden death and his red hair.
He got his red hair from his Mother,
The crown that he wore were his Dad's,
And the arrow that came at the end of his reign
Were a well-deserved gift from the lads.
For William were cunning and cruel,
Addicted to every vice
He'd bluster and perjure and ravage and murder,
Apart from all that... he weren t nice.
He'd two brothers called Robert and Henry,
One older, one younger than he,
And by terms of the Will of old Conqueror Bill
The estate had been split into three.
Thus William became King of England;
And Normandy... that went to Bob;
Young Hal got no throne, but received a cash bonus
Instead of a regular job.
But Bob weren't content with his Dukedom,
And Will weren't content with his throne
Both wanted the lot and each started to plot
How to add t'other share to his own.
Young Hal went from one to the other,
Telling each as be thought he were right,
And mixing the pudding he roused the bad blood in
Them both till they reckoned they'd fight.
So Will got his army together
And planned an invasion of France,
But HaI chanced to find out what Will had in mind
And sent Robert a line in advance.
The result were when Bill crossed the Channel,
Instead of t'surprise that were meant,
He was met on the shore by Duke Bob and his Normans.
And came back as fast as he went.
And later when Bob crossed to England,
Intending to ravage and sack,
It were Henry again who upset the campaign
And t'were Robert this time that went back
After one or two sim'lar debacles
They tumbled to Henry's tricks,
And joined with each other to find their young brother
And take him and knock him for six.
But Henry got wind of their coming,
And made off without more ado
To his fortified pitch on the Isle of St. Michel,
From which he cocked snooks at the two.
When they found things had come to a deadlock
They shook hands and called it a day,
But though Henry pretended that quarrels was ended
He still had a card he could play.
He came back to England with William
And started a whispering campaign
To spoil his prestige with his vassals and lieges
Which whispering wasn't in vain.
For one day when William were hunting
An arrow from somewhere took wing,
And William were shot, falling dead on the spot,
And Henry proclaimed himself King.
So young Henry, who started with nothing,
At the finish held England in thrall,
And as Bob were away with a party Crusading,
He pinched his possessions and all.
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by
Marriott Edgar
One day, little Albert Ramsbottom
To see 'ow much money 'e'd got
Stuck a knife in 'is money-box slot 'ole
And fiddled and fished out the lot.
It amounted to fifteen and fourpence
Which 'e found by a few simple sums
Were ninety two tuppenny ices
Or twice that in penn'orths of gums.
The sound of the chinkin' of money
Soon brought father's 'ead round the door
He said, "Whats that there, on the table?"
Albert said it were, "Fifteen and four."
"You're not going to spend all that money..."
Said Pa, in an admonitory tone
"On toffee an' things for your stomach."
Said Mother, "Why not?... it's his own."
Said Pa, "Nay, with that fifteen shillings,
We'll buy National Savings and then...
In five years we'll have seventeen and six
And one pound and sixpence, in ten!"
Young Albert weren't what you'd call eager
He saw his sweet dreams fade away,
Ma said, "Let 'im 'ave the odd fourpence."
Pa lovingly answered, "Nay... nay!"
"It's our duty in crisis... what's 'appened
For every child, woman and man
To strain every muscle and sinew
To raise every penny we can!"
He said, "Even this little fourpence...
Might help us, the Germans to drub!"
Then 'e dropped the four coins in 'is pocket
And made for the neighbouring pub.
These words stirred the 'eart of young Albert
He made up 'is mind then and there
To take up 'is part in the straining
And sell everything 'e could spare.
So off 'e went down to the junk shop
With some toys and a flashlamp, he'd got.
And the stick with the 'orses 'ead 'andle
He received half a crown for the lot.
He went off to the Post Office counter
Where National Savings was bought
But found that they cost fifteen shillings
Which meant he were twelve and six short.
The little lad wasn't down 'earted
He went off without wastin' words
And sold 'is dad's smoking companion
And 'is Mother's glass case of stuffed birds.
At the Post Office counter they gave 'im
A certificate all crisp and clean
Then back 'e went 'ome, to his parents
To say what a good boy he'd been.
They didn't 'alf shout, when he told 'em
By Gumm... but 'e were in the wars
But at finish, they 'ad to forgive 'im
It were all done in such a grand cause.
There's a moral, of course. to this story
That's pointing to you and to me...
Let's all be young Alberts and tend
To defend the right to be free.
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