'A' LEVEL

A subject not on the official syllabus perhaps but studied by many students?

                       'A' LEVEL

My ambition as a youth was to serve the human race
Though through modesty I'd remain quite anonymous,
I'd find a cure for cancer and conquer outer space,
With Superman my name would be synonymous.

But my studies were neglected, my pure maths a pure disgrace
My science and my French marks less than minimus,
My English teacher said that my poems had a place
But to tell me where it was would be quite blasphemous.

Frustrated in my ambition to serve all human kind
I searched for intelectual stimulus,
Something of compelling interest which would excercise my mind
So I made a lifelong study of the female Gluteus Maximus.

The endless fascination of that double global symmetry
Rejuvenates my libido and animus,
The contrapuntal motion and sweet celestial geometry
With Marlowe's 'restless spheres' appear synonymous.

In some quarters my studies are considered 'not quite nice'
And some lady friends have kicked up quite a fuss,
But to achieve fame one must make some sacrifice
And I'll endure all the jeers
And offer to my peers
My thesis on the subject of
The female Gluteus Maximus

A RANT

It must have been on a tour of a stately home, being directed by pointing cardboard fingers on stands to the next 'must see' that triggered this piece. Re-reading it I realised that it is a rhyming piece of apparent prose.
If that sounds a bit puddled blame it on the Shiraz.
           
                                                      A RANT
Forefinger, first finger, long finger points to the Gents to the caff to the walk by the lake, the finger that tells you where you should go, this way that way, don't deviate and the finger of the teacher who drags you out,  to the front of the class as she calls you a lout, and the finger of the bully in your chest as he sneers and asks you what you're looking at as you hold back tears and the finger of the sneak as he says it was you and you wonder what you'd done as the feeling grew that no matter what you did it wouldn't be enough 'cause the world is not for weaklings and you've got to be tough and the girls took no notice of you 'cause of your name and when you got home it was more of the same and no wonder you were weak 'cause you never got fed and your Dad was always pissed and your Mother stayed in bed so I thought is was time to 'off' in the blue when the finger in the poster said 'The Army Wants You' and I thought why not, it couldn't be worse so I signed and left to my father's curse, now I'm fit and I'm tough and it feels real good and I don't give a shit if I draw some blood and the best thing of all was they gave me a gun and they're teaching me to shoot though I've just begun to learn not to pull but to squeeze like a tit and then I'll be sure of making a hit and that stiff pointing finger is better when it's curled round a trigger as that's what rules the world.

Last line --cynical? true? depressing?  what do you think?

LIBRARY

Our local library was moved from the original building to a newly built complex 5 years ago and for the bit of a do that is planned I was asked for a comment on what the library meant to me. Libraries have always been my 'comfort zone' and for goodness sake they are always full of BOOKS! so I couldn't resist stirring my poetic muse with this result;-


THE LIBRARY

Here,
 in this quiet place
I hear a thousand voices,
Telling their tales
The rights and the wrongs
Dreaming their dreams
Singing their songs

Telling  me
Of triumphs and failures
Loves lost and won
Regrets and deceits
Promises undone

And they say to me
Remember
The tales that we tell belong to you all
The stories you hear are also your own
And so, in this peaceful quiet place
I know I am never alone.

IN THE PRECINCT

and;-

IN THE PRECINCT

On the smooth cold tiles (non-slip, simulated marble)

Between Dixon's and Smith's

A child lies screaming,

His red face creased, wet with misery,

Legs kicking out, back arched,

His fists beat the earth

Beneath the smooth cold tiles.

Oblivious of censure and his mother's embarrassment

He screams his frustration at the world's deceit

No one understands him

Or his need to beat the ground and scream 

NO!!

I wish I could do that.

ASSEMBLY

A couple of poems about lost childhood firstly;-

ASSEMBLY

Politicians and princes, forever they come,

The corporal, the general, the man with the drum,

The strong man, the weakling, the clever, the numb,

The artist, the poet, the fluent, the dumb,

The lawyer, the felon, the kid from the slum,

The down and out drifter stinking of rum,

We're all in the playground, crying for Mum,

PERSPECTIVE

Another prose poem;

PERSPECTIVE

We went back after the funeral to sort out his things.

Mam couldn't face the fact of his death. His clothes went into

binbags for the charity shop but those that he wore on the day

were taken down to the tip.We packed away the tools 

he'd been using, the chisels, saws and planes he once taught me

to use.They were his living, but his life was music, Italian tenors

his passion, now at last mine too.I found the dictionary of music 

I'd bought for his birthday, pleased that I'd got it right for once and

behind it another copy that he already had and never mentioned.

In a paperback copy of 'Candide' a box Brownie snap of his 

younger self proudly holding his first born, showing me off for 

the first time. He'd saved newspaper cuttings of my minor 

achievments, prizes won, (never firsts), school reports, photos

from child to soldier. In a torn envelope held with an

elastic band were my letters from abroad written unaware of

his fears for my safety. We took everything home to sort out later

but it's all still in the loft with the other once precious debris.

Our lives moved in parallel, sometimes converging but

never quite touching until we reached the vanishing point.

LUCKY

 I heard the following phrase on the radio during one of our recent overseas projects;-

                                      "He's lucky in a way, his prosthetic arm is state of the art."

LUCKY 

The mine that they hit was a P38,

long out of date and no longer

'state of the art'.

Our X52 being virtually new

is much more efficient

With an infinitely higher 

negative coefficient 

being 'state of the art'

it has world wide sales

important in maintainig

our balance of payments

His driver too

was lucky in a way

not to become

another survivor,

there being no progress

(at this moment in time)

in the advanced technological research

into the 'state of the art' prosthetic parts

that would have met his reqirements

DAY OF RECKONING

I heard this story from a friend of a friend of my wife and thought it should be, if not immortalised at least put on some sort of record. It may even be true
A performance piece for a mature lady.

DAY OF RECKONING

Yes --I'm OK thank you young man-- too kind-- no I didn't fall-- though I suppose I looked a bit awkward trying to get comfortable on the sand. Anyway I'm quite settled now---- this is where I used to come when I was a girl--- I'd sit for hours watching the sea. I loved it but I haven't been here for years--- my husband wouldn't bring me-- he said Blackpool was dirty. noisy. smelly and common and he wouldn't be seen dead here.He used to take me to Southport, he said it was more refined---- I thought it was dull--you were lucky if you caught a glimpse of the sea which always seemed to be flar and boring--- a bit like him--- not like here where there's plenty life.He was a bit la-di-da was Tom-- his mother's fault--when he passed for Grammar School she treated him as God's gift--always called him Thomas- it was bound to affect him I suppose.We got on OK most of the time---just ignored each other's faults like most 'happily marrieds'. It was an accident us getting wed in the first place, well the usual kind of accident that used to end up in marriage.Surprise you does it? Thought your generation invented sex did you?---everybody thinks so. He used to get on my nerves always wanting something better, something he couldn't have, it made him a right misery at times.I suppose his job didn't help--- called himself a manager but all he did was organise deliveries from the carpet store upstairs.They say we shouldn't speak ill of the dead-- why not? I say-- it can't hurt them can it? I suppose that amongst all the niggles and arguments of married life the one thing that really upset me was that he wouldn't bring me here. Seems silly doesn't it but sometimes it's the little things that nag at you , like having a stone in your shoe or well, lots of things--- Have you got a knife?---You youngsters always seem to carry knives these days--- thank you-- I can't seem to get this damned plastic super-seal bag open--- Ah--- that's done it--- thank you---better put that away..
There we are---no it's not sand---paler isn't it? I was surprised at the colour myself though I didn't know what to expect.---If I make a hole next to this post and empty the bag into it, mix it up and put this little dead crab on top that should do it--- there we are---there we are---really I should say,--- here we are at last.
What?---
The bag?
Oh didn't I say---they're Tom's ashes, he was cremated just last week.

FUNERAL MUSIC

It's easy to defer things which have a limited time available for action and this thought prompted me to write the following as a phone call to my nearest and dearest survivor;-

FUNERAL MUSIC

Hi,
I've just come from the hospital, not good news I'm afraid, so I thought I'd give you a ring to remind you of the arrangements we discussed and I just remembered that we didn't mention music and I thought I'd better give you some idea of what I'd like, not that I'll hear it of course. You know I'm not one for church music or churches for that matter but for a start perhaps the first piece on that CD 'Officium' by the Hilliard
ensemble which sounds suitably solemn and religious and earthbound until Jan Garbarek's soprano sax soars above them like a soul's release into the heavens which I hope may be the case and it could be a moment for everyone to meditate on life and death and all that stuff.You can borrow it from the library if you you don't have a copy, I seem to have lost mine, did I lend it to you? Then for a bit of nostalgia the most aching yearning piece of music that I know, the fourth movement of Mahler's fifth which he wrote for his wife Alma.(We won't say any more about her will we?) Then there's Sibelius one and two not forgetting the fifth and I couldn't leave out Beethoven could I? the Eroica, the Emperor not forgetting the violin concerto and perhaps some Bruch. Then for a bit of variety that recording of 'Baillero' from 'Songs of the Auvergne' sung by Victoria de los Angeles it should be in the bureau, second shelf  I think if I didn't lend it to you and what could be more perfect than 'E Lucevan le Stelle' where Cavaradossi is waiting to be executed and sings of his life and love of Tosca, there's a tape of the Callas recording in the rack with di Stefano singing the aria or the other with Carreras and---what? -- they only allow 5 minutes between cremations!!!!! Are you sure??
In that case we'd better have Peggy Lee singing 'After You've Gone'.

NURSERY RHYMES

I came across these early excercises recently and thought someone might be
 interested in having a go at summat similar. They're hardly 'high art'
(none of my blogs could be mistaken for that), but a bit of fun, Have a go why don't you?
Let me see them?

FIDDLE-DE DEE

Hey diddle diddle

MP's on the fiddle

Their accountants are

over the moon

With questions for cash

No wonder they're flash

I hope I'm elected soon

DAFT MARY

Mary Mary quite contrary

D'you know why your garden won't grow?

Silver bells and cockle shells

Are just for the Chelsea Show

HUMP

ETT

Y

Humpty dumpty saton a wall

Should have checked with

Health and Safety first

Silly sod.

MARY who 

had a little lamb

With mint sauce for her tea

And then she watched the telly

With a tray upon her knee

I know, it was a long time ago, will try to do better next time

TONGUE TIED

Perhaps a love-sick accountant with speech difficulties would try to
express his feelings thus;-

        TONGUE TIED


If           I                    save       
all                     the      words
            that       leave              me
when                I see              you
           and       add    them   
to        those              that I   
shout                to                  the wind
I could  put      them              together
            and                make    a
kind                 of                  poem
which   may be          a way    to tell
you                  that               I care

IfallwhentoshoutIcouldkindwhichyou
Ithatandthoseputandmaybe
theleaveIseeaddtothemofthat
savewordsthemthatImakeaway
meyouthewindtogetherapoemtotellIcare                   

LOVE IN MANCHESTER

Have been having a bit of a rough time recently therefore no blogg-time but here's one I made earlier.
It's in strict French Rondel form writing which is a bit like doing a Xword puzzle but I'm not SO
ashamed of LOVE IN MANCHESTER, (perhaps you think I ought to be)

There should have been a rainbow when we met
and not just shitty rain that soaked our feet
and left us wondering why we said we'd meet
as the rain ran down our necks, ice cold, so wet

We didn't know then that we'd found love and yet
we stayed like fools in sodden Market Street
There should have been a rainbow when we met
and not just shitty rain that soaked our feet

The days we've had I know I'll not forget
and though our friendship had to be discreet
I still remember the times we used to meet
how good it was, but, parting now without regret
there must have been a rainbow when we met.

BLACKBIRD

Watching a blackbird strutting on the lawn as
he filled his beak I thought how striking
he looked and the idea for the poem was born. 
I wrote it using a combination of
alliteration and Dylan Thomas,
from whom I beg abject forgiveness..

BLACKBIRD
When I was young and handsome as a blackbird
Life was for loving and love was for living
And my merry monarching butterfly mind
Went rollicking bollicking over the town.
I took all the girls, undid them with words
Most of them borrowed, a few of them mine,
Wandering, and willing the world to surrender
I danced and I sang oblivious of time.
But time couldn't wait, wouldn't wait, couldn't wait
To swat down my arrogant flying by night,
And now near the end of my merrysweet song
I know  that all loving and living is right
But treacherous time has tricked me somehow
And worms will feast on the blackbird now.

WHEN? LOST. SESTINA

POETIC FORMS
After the blogless break, three in one, taking different poetic forms for starters, see what you think
and have a go why not?



An  exercise often used for teaching beginners at writing poetry
is to imitate the Japanese Haiku at least in syllabic form
(5 syllables first line, 7 syllables second line and 5 in the last)
although ignoring any prescribed content.
I found it an enjoyable exercise and one of my
more successful efforts was;-

I hope to become
A mature human being
But time’s running out

sure is



Following on from the Haiku I tried a Burmese form, the Than Bauk 
which specifies the position of the rhyme in a three line poem, ie at the
end of first line, second from end in second  and third from end in the last
 I used it to make a longer poem;-

LOST

I heard your song
sung among sighs
and longed for you

I saw your face
smiling, graceful
no trace of guile

and it was you
with words truly
said, who will know?

Then we were one
all doubts gone, with
no-one between

But passion dies
and soft sighs fade
when lies invade

Poems can burn
that I learn when
you turn away.

Well at least the rhymes are in the right place and the last verse isn’t so bad




Lastly in this formal sequence is the SESTINA which is so complicated
that I have forgotten the rules but wrote this when I could still remember them.
I used it in tribute to the fallen of the war to end all wars which included my
mother’s father the granddad I never knew who was a miner and joined up
at the age of 34. I imagine him as one of the soldiers described in ‘Birdsong’
by Sebastian Faulks mining beneath the German trenches.

25830 Private Samuel Worthington
who survived Mons and died of his wounds
on the Somme 15th July 1916
buried in St. Sever Cemetery, Rouen

The lines are all purloined from songs sung by the soldiers at that time
frowned upon by some of the higher ranking officers.

SESTINA

The bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a ling                    SOMME
Whiter than the whitewash on the wall                 YPRES
If you want the old battallion                               NEUVE CHAPELLE
Do your balls hang low?                                     VERDUN
When this bloody war is over                              MONS
Hush! Here comes a whizz-bang                         CAMBRAI

Hush! Here comes a whizz-bang                       CAMBRAI
For you but not for me                                      SOMME
O how happy I shall be                                    MONS
Whiter than the whitewash on the wall              YPRES
Can you swing them to and fro?                       VERDUN
I know where they are                                     NEUVE CHAPELLE

I know where they are                                     NEUVE CHAPELLE
Can you tie them in a knot?                             VERDUN
Now then soldier get down the stairs               CAMBRAI
For me the angels sing-a-ling-a-ling                  SOMME
Wash me in the water                                      YPRES
No more going in the trenches                         MONS

No more asking for a pass                              MONS
If you want the old battalion                            NEUVE CHAPELLE
Where you washed the colonel’s daughter       YPRES
Into your dugout and say your prayers            CAMBRAI
For me but not for you                                    SOMME
Can you tie them in a bow?                            VERDUN

Can you sling them on your shoulder?            VERDUN
You can tell the Sergeant Major                     MONS
Oh! Death where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling      SOMME
I know where they are                                  NEUVE CHAPELLE
Hush here comes a whizz-bang                     CAMBRAI
And I shall be whiter than                             YPRES

The whitewash on the wall                                               YPRES
Like a lousy fucking soldier, do your balls hang low?         VERDUN
And it’s making straight for you                                        CAMBRAI
To stick his passes up his arse                                          MONS
They’re hanging on the old barbed wire                            NEUVE CHAPELLE
Or grave thy victory?                                                       SOMME


I read that a General objected to the language in some of the songs!
as he sent them to Hell

THE PARAMOUR'S REPLY TO THE POET

I was delighted to see how popular my first blog
THE PASSIONATE POET  TO HIS PARAMOUR
has been and decided to write  a possible reply
by the lady concerned. It needs to be read in
conjunction with the original poem of course.

THE PARAMOUR'S REPLY

Come with you? D'you think I'm daft?
When I told my friends they laughed and laughed

Carol Ann said that you're off your head
Writing poems that no-one's read
(Not that you're the only one
To suffer such oblivion)

And as for walking on Windermere
And riding the Western wind, no fear!

I would like a weekend trip to Mars
To do a Banksy on the stars

But flying by kite is not my style
I prefer to travel by crocodile

I can harmonise in any key
And know all the words to 'Sailor's Three'

But my dietician Mavis Flute
Warned me not to eat a raw square root

What may persuade me is the chance
Of joining in with the unicorn's dance

So--------
providing we bypass the university
I may decide that possibly
perhaps, perchance, conceivably,
maybe on condition that it's free
I may just let you come with me.

THE GOLDEN MEAN

Had a few days bleeding the NHS dry but back to usual decrepitude now. Indulging in the drug of old age
Nostalgia and remembering another class at school, not Latin this time but maths. My interest in the Golden Mean came later of course and gave me the idea for;-

THE GOLDEN MEAN

Miss Hall, Deputy Head

Looming in blue and bifocal specs

Speaking of God and mathematics.

Taught us Pythagorus and his hypotenuse

but not his theory of creation and

the formula  for

the shape of a face

the petals of flowers

the spirals of shells

our fingers and limbs,

who we will love and

who we will hate.

A formula whose ratio

was figured precisely

by Leonardo Fibonacci

who

after much thought

came up with the answer

one point six, one, eight, nought

When you think of a number remember Miss Hall

who knew that mathematics and God were the same

but didn't want to believe it.

HOLIDAYS

When we were active we enjoyed exploring Europe or at least some of it, often by car
without pre-booking accommodation and sometimes on a package holiday. When our travels were done I made a list of some of the places we'd visited and was rather surprised to find how much we'd managed to see. Hence;-

HOLIDAYS
(taken by me and mi missiz Joyce)

We've seen the Tower of Pisa
Got a glimpse of the Mona Lisa
And struggled to the summit of Vesuvius,
We've trolled the Rijksmuseum
Strolled through the Coliseum
And marvelled at the ruins of Vitruvius.

We sampled lots of vino
Got blotto in Bardolino
When we stayed on the shore of Lago Garda,
Heard the opera in Verona
Admired Gaudi’s Barcelona
And got sworn at on Italian autostrada.

We’ve seen paintings by Picasso
Even braved the Paris Metro
And visited the room where Vincent died,
Loved  the Still Lifes of Chardin
Mooched round Monet’s Jardin
And rode a vaporetto for the ride.

Hot and sweaty in Rome
We thought it time for home
And looked forward to the weary journey back,
We’d seen wonderful things
But the memory that clings is
the Black Forest isn’t really black.


So what did our travels do for us? Well we enjoyed them at the time but I sometimes wonder if the things we saw gave us any lasting  (apart from being able to brag about them of course).

BRUSH OFF

Sorry for the hiatus in blogs but we have both been taking advantage of the NHS
for a while. We should last ‘til Easter with a bit of luck. In the meantime here’s a bit
of nonsense to go with the rest--- a prose poem if you like;-

BRUSH OFF
    It was your hair that did it. I’m usually shy but seeing you under the beach shower rinsing the sea from that cascade of copper and gold made me bold and you didn’t seem to mind when I offered to dry it though you said it would dry soon enough in that heat but you let me buy you an ice cream and when I said that your hair was beautiful you said that you were thinking of having it cut as it could be a nuisance which made me sad and I quoted from Corinthians one chapter eleven verse fifteen “if a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her and you said that that sounds as if it was written by a man who didn’t have to look after it and worry about finding the right conditioner and stop it getting in his food and everywhere and I just wanted to weave it through my fingers and bury my face in it and luckily we sat next to each other on the plane coming back and a strand or two brushed my cheek and I told you about Baudelaire having a thing about hair and you asked if he was some kind of pervert and you couldn’t wait to get back and go to some decent shops and your nails needed doing again before you went to the disco awards but you agreed to see me when we got back which made me so excited or over the moon as you would say but I waited over an hour tonight and when you didn’t arrive I rang your number and your mother told me that you said that you were very sorry for not turning up but you were washing your hair.
     

                Frank B



                Frank B

RECYCLING

As a youth I spent many hours with my friends in a tiny coffee shop next to the
'Man and Scythe' pub in Church gate, Bolton. We put the world to rights and
philosophised (?) on the meaning of life, and we may have mentioned girls once
or twice. We, or at least I, came to the conclusion that the meaning of life was life itself and many years later after reading several wise men's opinions on the subject ' I  came out by the same door as in I went'. The only philosopher who makes sense to me is Schopenhauer though he calls the life-force The Will'. So giving me a theme for a light-hearted poem. (For a poem on the same theme but written by a proper poet see 'The Force That Through The Green Fuse Drives The Flower'
by Dylan Thomas.)
As for ’ Immortality ' I’m with Bart Kosko who wrote in ‘Fuzzy Thinking’ ;-
‘ Molecules assemble and disassemble an atom or two at a time’

RECYCLING
by
Frank Bryce

Kosko knew with Schopenhauer
That we’re all one with the cauliflower,
the crocodile, the mountain goat
and trees and grass and things that float
and things that sink and things that stink
(Unpleasant though the thought may be)
we’re supposed to live in harmony

And when our atoms start to disperse
to be assembled by that half-wit child
they say is in charge of the Universe
(unsupervised by a responsible nurse)
The free floating atoms drive him berserk
and as he’s fond of metalwork
he could turn our molecules and individual quarks
into Memorial busts in Royal Parks
Or maybe into an old fashioned pub
(The Duck and Trumpet to name the worst)
Just beware when you slake your thirst
you could be drinking Charles the First.

The world’s gone mad I think you’ll agree
When philosophers who seem at first sight rational
Re-formed could win next year’s Grand National.

And if you think this is all a joke
Just refer to this Kosko bloke
who gives examples by the score
that everything he says is true
and not so very long ago
You were him and he was you.

PROMISE OF IMMORTALITY

Some time ago on a visit to a Pharmacy (what I still from old habit call the Chemists) I noticed a shelf filled with 'natural remedies' which, on reading the bumf promised relief from all known ailments from baldness via impotence to in-growing toenails.
They had wonderful names which I noted and later arranged in a sort of poem which
is ideal for reading aloud. I usually put the main accent on the first syllable of each line which produces a nice rhythm and a sort of music. I called it;-

PROMISE OF IMMORTALITY (by Frank Bryce)

Borage and liquorice
couch grass and cornsilk
butcher's broom and
devil's claw

Chitosan complex
calendula
agnus castus and
star flower oil

Iron and calcium
zinc and magnesium
chromium, selenium and
golden seal

Elderflower and garlic
buckwheat and ginger
astrogalus and
chamomile

Dandelion and burdock
motherwort and garlick
cod liver oil and
white willow bark

Hyssop, jojoba
eucalyptus, yucca
chasteberry, lemon grass and
juniper oil

Milk thistle, mandarin
vetivert and sesame
black cohosh and
oil of bergamot

Nettle cleavers
uva ursi
royal jelly and
OMEGA 3