Bard's life

Here on the island, winters tend to be mild. In Northern Ireland, where I grew up, they can be harsh and unforgiving.  From December till February in that grey n orthern province , frost, snow and ice may be expected and I recall, as a child, the thrill of venturing out to slip and slide on frozen lakes. In older age, of course, it's different. We feel the cold more acutely and are aware of the danger. Nevertheless, there's something magical about the transformation that winter brings to the landscape. WILD GEESE When we awoke the lake had turned to glass. We ventured out into the crystal glare, in rubber boots, through luminescent snow, and were amazed, for nothing could surpass the magic stillness of December air. On glinting ice, young lovers skated slow, their eyes, beneath their tousled hair, aglow. Our exhaled breaths were visible; we laughed to see those skaters gliding on the lake as in warm summer evenings wild geese do,  austere, white-breasted, splendid sailing craf...

As poetry collections go, my book Stone Witness has sold well and continues to do so.  Who knows, some discerning friend may buy it for you at Christmas, if you don't already have a well-thumbed copy on your bookshelf.  I'm currently working towards my next collection. Its working title is The Granite Ship and central to it will be the poem featured below. THE GRANITE SHIP Waves crash around the granite ship, unceasingly, unceasingly, and though the sturdy structure holds the vessel is increasingly at peril from the hungry whip of breakers while the ocean scolds as we, poor mariners, steadfast, stand resolute beneath the mast. Our shipmates, hardy island men,         crew of the granite ship, respect the awesome hunger of the sea, its rage, were it to go unchecked, might rise and inundate again the living land, our sanctuary. Our ship sails on, we pray that day may never come, wish it away. One day, not in our lifetime, no, ...

After a week of war poems, here's something lighthearted, fanciful and, perhaps, a little surreal from that airy realm where birds, not bullets, fly. BIRDS OF A FEATHER Like starlings in a close-knit flock, they swoop then gather in the pews before the vicar in his smock, a rook-like man of sombre hues. Then children cluster, sparrow-pert, up in the front row, noisily. The boys look bored while young girls flirt and fluff their feathers quietly. A magpie-person sits alone: his elegant, eye-catching suit draws comment from a starling clone. From lakeside comes a nervous coot and, hardly noticed, now a wren flits in, her costume copper-bright. She bows and chirps a soft amen, her small head cocked, her tail upright. A couple, blackbirds by their look, respectively in black and brown, receive a stern nod from the rook as they arrive and settle down then one plump robin, always late, red-cheeked and jaunty, hurries in. His redness serves to recreate the blood of Christ that conquers si...

On Remembrance Sunday we celebrate the fallen in two World Wars and the many conflicts that have followed.  Whist we remember t h ose who died , spare a thought, too, for those who survived and returned home, gravely injured, to something less than a hero's welcome.   REMEMBER US Remember us, the dead that live, who now resume our former lives. Disfigured, maimed, in mind and flesh, we living-dead do not forgive the lies we marched to, young and fresh; those orders, lost in dark archives, that sent us out to die like rats for what? Pro patria , they said. Pro patria, my arse, we thought, half-drowned in trenches, deaf as bats, half-starved, downhearted, feeling naught but resignation, fear and dread. We won no medals, no hurrahs were raised for us when we returned. War-ravaged men, afraid to sleep, our lungs destroyed by German gas, we envy comrades buried deep while we, who did not die, are spurned.

The Battle of the Somme , and particularly the bloody first day with its appalling loss of nearly 60,000 British troops , stands out as one of the most infamous in the history of the British Army. The 36th (Ulster) Division alone lost more than 2,000 men that day and commemoration of th eir blood sacrifice has been an intrinsic part of Ulster loyalist tradition ever since.  The Division's insignia was the R ed H and of Ulster.   THE SOMME   July 1, 1916. What mad, fierce courage, what death-knell drew them, against all common sense, into the Pit of No Man’s Land, the bloody butcher-shop of Hell, into the waiting German guns? What chinless imbecile’s command led them to mount a flawed offense on the entrenched, awaiting Huns?   We can but hope adrenaline, an end to fearful waiting and the shouts of comrades by their side,    benumbed them when their frail, pale skin       was shredded by machine-gun flak as ...

World War One quickly became the most brutal conflict in history and even the most seasoned servicemen were ill-prepared for the scale of carnage that unfolded before them. When the horror proved too much, some soldiers simply ran away. Desertion in the face of the enemy was regarded as a crime punishable by death. The British and Commonwealth military command executed 306 of its own men during World War One.  Many of those shot were classified as deserters.    DESERTER Morphine they gave him, whiskey too, so when they walked him out to die he was unsteady.                            It was dawn, the killing-ground was wet with dew, a six-man firing squad stood by, a chaplain, pale and woebegone, spoke words that made no sense to him. Hands firmly bound him, tightened knots, a hoarse voice whispered, Coward, cunt! Masked by a blindfold, uprigh...

After the outbreak of World War One, recruiting offices were besieged by volunteers and public buildings had to be co-opted as additional recruitment points. Administrative and medical staff were seconded to process the thousands eager to fight for King and Country.  Some areas experienced overwhelming numbers and many young men were turned away with an appointment to come back another day. Little did they know the horrors that would greet them on the Western Front.   TURQUOISE SKY    The child’s eyes are full of fear. He sees light subtly altered, fields pulsating red. Be a brave soldier , his mother soothes and tucks him back in bed. His father’s eyes are full of fear. He yells: Get ready Men . Men tremble in the pit then go over the top, following his shout. Soldiers in dirty khaki kit. No time for words or thoughts of home. Only a moment to glance upwards and spy something silver falling towards him out of a turquoise sky. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ntt3w...

It's one hundred years since the end of World War One and, prior to Armistice D ay on the 11th November, I'll be featuring f ive poems with a common theme, World War One. This one deals with the disillusionment that many serving soldiers felt as the conflict dragged on and on. TRENCH RAT A battered Woodbine is a precious thing.   If you can light the bugger, better still. Inhale the harsh, uplifting, acrid smoke    and, for a fleeting moment, you’re a King.     Dear old King George can keep his best cigars and damn Lloyd George, may that sly bastard choke.  It’s him and and not the Hun I’d choose to kill to end this bloody war to end all wars. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ntt3wy-L8Ok

Two inspirational Twentieth Century poets, John Betjeman and Charles Causley , lie buried in Cornwall and whilst visiting the area I made a pilgrimage to their graves. The poems of former Poet Laureate John Betjeman are well known but Causley’s poetry may be rather less so. Charles Causley was born in Launceston and spent most of his life there. He died on 4th November 2003, aged 86, and is buried in St Thomas Churchyard. Although known as an intensely private person, Causley was a friend of fellow poets, Siegfried Sassoon , Philip Larkin and Ted Hughes . Charles Causley’s poetry deals with issues of faith, friendship and family. His work is noted for its simplicity and directness and for its associations with folklore, especially when linked to his native Cornwall. His poems for children also proved very popular. He is quoted as saying that the royalties for his much- loved poem, Timothy Winters , were sufficient to retire on. Here's my favourite Causley poem, Eden Rock ....