now you tell me
Being brought up in the thirties and forties the music of our leisure
was 'swing' and the big bands ( five sax, five brass, piano
bass drums rhythm section, and vocalist) our delight. Although we
enjoyed the songs we perhaps didn't value the quality of the
lyrics of Hart, Gershwin, Cole Porter et al. It is only now that I can
appreciate the skill of these writers, poets of their time. I was attracted
by one phrase enough to use it as the basis of a poem although in fact
it is in common use. 'It was just one of those things' a song which says
more than the plain phrase. I used it to attempt my own version in ;-
NOW YOU TELL ME
by
Frank Bryce
It was just one of those things,
Hiding the lie behind the song
Do you expect me to sing along?
To smile and say,
Well that's OK,
Hoping our friends will join in the chorus
and be happy for us.
Don't you remember?
We were Beethoven's fifth, Torvill and Dean
Satchmo and Ella, chocolate ice-cream,
Walks in wet woodlands, kicking leaves,
Rembrandt's self portraits, toasted cheese.
Lying on warm grass, staying in bed,
Watching rain, the smell of new bread,
Once I thought that we were a pair
Like Frankie and Johnny, Rogers, Astaire.
Now, from behind the words of the song
You tell me it's over, good-bye, so long.
When did our music lose that swing
And just become, one of those things
Sunday 15 December 2013
Sunday 1 December 2013
this is just to say W.C.WILLIAMS
Having been brought up in the thirties I find the Lancashire dialect
natural although I don't often use it. but of course I still have
the accent in spite of my travels. I thought it would be interesting
to 'translate' a poem into dialect and one easy target was a short poem
by William Carlos Williams, a renowned American poet as well as
being a practicing doctor. Here is the original;
THIS IS JUST TO SAY
by
William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
And as it may have been articulated by a Boltonian joiner (like mi dad) in 1936
Note that the word ‘the’ is often written as t’ and is pronounced as
such by those unfamiliar to the dialect which grates on my ear.
In practice it is hardly articulated at all and is more of an unpronounced hesitation.
FORBIDDEN FRUIT
by
Frank Bryce
Ah’d better tell thi
ah’ve etten them plums
that were in‘ fridge
You sed they were
fer temorrer
But ah’ve et um
They were aw reet
a bit sweet
Having been brought up in the thirties I find the Lancashire dialect
natural although I don't often use it. but of course I still have
the accent in spite of my travels. I thought it would be interesting
to 'translate' a poem into dialect and one easy target was a short poem
by William Carlos Williams, a renowned American poet as well as
being a practicing doctor. Here is the original;
THIS IS JUST TO SAY
by
William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
And as it may have been articulated by a Boltonian joiner (like mi dad) in 1936
Note that the word ‘the’ is often written as t’ and is pronounced as
such by those unfamiliar to the dialect which grates on my ear.
In practice it is hardly articulated at all and is more of an unpronounced hesitation.
FORBIDDEN FRUIT
by
Frank Bryce
Ah’d better tell thi
ah’ve etten them plums
that were in‘ fridge
You sed they were
fer temorrer
But ah’ve et um
They were aw reet
a bit sweet
natural although I don't often use it. but of course I still have
the accent in spite of my travels. I thought it would be interesting
to 'translate' a poem into dialect and one easy target was a short poem
by William Carlos Williams, a renowned American poet as well as
being a practicing doctor. Here is the original;
THIS IS JUST TO SAY
by
William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
And as it may have been articulated by a Boltonian joiner (like mi dad) in 1936
Note that the word ‘the’ is often written as t’ and is pronounced as
such by those unfamiliar to the dialect which grates on my ear.
In practice it is hardly articulated at all and is more of an unpronounced hesitation.
FORBIDDEN FRUIT
by
Frank Bryce
Ah’d better tell thi
ah’ve etten them plums
that were in‘ fridge
You sed they were
fer temorrer
But ah’ve et um
They were aw reet
a bit sweet
Having been brought up in the thirties I find the Lancashire dialect
natural although I don't often use it. but of course I still have
the accent in spite of my travels. I thought it would be interesting
to 'translate' a poem into dialect and one easy target was a short poem
by William Carlos Williams, a renowned American poet as well as
being a practicing doctor. Here is the original;
THIS IS JUST TO SAY
by
William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
And as it may have been articulated by a Boltonian joiner (like mi dad) in 1936
Note that the word ‘the’ is often written as t’ and is pronounced as
such by those unfamiliar to the dialect which grates on my ear.
In practice it is hardly articulated at all and is more of an unpronounced hesitation.
FORBIDDEN FRUIT
by
Frank Bryce
Ah’d better tell thi
ah’ve etten them plums
that were in‘ fridge
You sed they were
fer temorrer
But ah’ve et um
They were aw reet
a bit sweet
Sunday 24 November 2013
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.
'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.
Thursday 14 November 2013
FORBIDDEN FRUIT
Having been brought up in the thirties I find the Lancashire dialect
natural although I don't often use it. but of course I still have
the accent in spite of my travels. I thought it would be interesting
to 'translate' a poem into dialect and one easy target was a short poem
by William Carlos Williams, a renowned American poet as well as
being a practicing doctor. Here is the original;
THIS IS JUST TO SAY
by
William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
And as it may have been articulated by a Boltonian joiner (like mi dad) in 1936
Note that the word ‘the’ is often written as t’ and is pronounced as
such by those unfamiliar to the dialect which grates on my ear.
In practice it is hardly articulated at all and is more of an unpronounced hesitation.
FORBIDDEN FRUIT
by
Frank Bryce
Ah’d better tell thi
ah’ve etten them plums
that were in‘ fridge
You sed they were
fer temorrer
But ah’ve et um
They were aw reet
a bit sweet
natural although I don't often use it. but of course I still have
the accent in spite of my travels. I thought it would be interesting
to 'translate' a poem into dialect and one easy target was a short poem
by William Carlos Williams, a renowned American poet as well as
being a practicing doctor. Here is the original;
THIS IS JUST TO SAY
by
William Carlos Williams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
And as it may have been articulated by a Boltonian joiner (like mi dad) in 1936
Note that the word ‘the’ is often written as t’ and is pronounced as
such by those unfamiliar to the dialect which grates on my ear.
In practice it is hardly articulated at all and is more of an unpronounced hesitation.
FORBIDDEN FRUIT
by
Frank Bryce
Ah’d better tell thi
ah’ve etten them plums
that were in‘ fridge
You sed they were
fer temorrer
But ah’ve et um
They were aw reet
a bit sweet
Sunday 10 November 2013
LATIN LESSON
After having made ten poems available to anyone who needs them
I would be interested to know if any of them have;-
Saved a life
Raised a laugh
Seduced a lover
Inspired admiration/ scorn/ a new poem
Cured insomnia or
Ruined a good night's sleep
Caused a divorce or
Brought about a reconciliation
Cured a cough or an
In-growing toenail
?????????????
I really would like to know.
In the meantime here's another;-
Eleven tears old, first day of the first year at Grammar School
(yes they were called that then)
Instead of going into the Physics Lab I somehow, in my confusion
entered the Latin classroom where an extremely attractive teacher
(not all that common then) was teaching the conjugation of the verb
'amare' to love.
Maybe this accidental encounter initiated my preoccupation with
Classical Rome {and the opposite sex?)
I imagined a Further Education class for adults with an equally
attractive tutor in;-
LATIN LESSON
by
Frank Bryce
On Mondays at ten
she teaches us verbs
today it's 'amare'----to love.
amo---amas---amat
the way that her eyes wrinkle up when she smiles
unfolds me
amamus---amatis---amant
I dream of holing her in my arms
her head resting soft next to mine
amo--amas---amat
stroking her hair against my cheek
tasting her breath
amamus---amatis---amant
I watch her sweet lips form the ancient words
restoring the language and me
with the indicative, active, present tense
amo---amo---amo
Wednesday 30 October 2013
LOST
an interesting poetic form I found in Robin Skelton's book 'The Shapes of our Singing' was
the Burmese 'Than Bauk' form with its unusual rhyming scheme. Can you spot it? Too easy
the Burmese 'Than Bauk' form with its unusual rhyming scheme. Can you spot it? Too easy
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.
LOST
by
Frank Bryce
Readers of the poem 'The Petition' will have noticed an error in the use of
the word 'Marquette'. This is an invention of the computer and is a substitute
for the word 'maquette' which is as everyone knows, except this computer, a
model made prior to making a sculpture. Apologies for the confusion, the
computer is under sentence of re-education in the Bolton gulag.
Friday 25 October 2013
POETS
I find it interesting that in the past there was a multitude of suggested
structures for writing a poem, metre, rhyme and length were specified.
I imagine that, like the rules of musical harmony that I was taught as a
youth, the poetic rules came after the works were written in order to enable
us lesser writers to emulate the great.
There is a book by the Canadian poet Robin Skelton 'The Shapes of our Singing'
which contains over 300 formats collected from all over the world. The really remarkable thing is that Skelton has written a poem in every form, many of them
very good poems indeed.
One form that caught my attention long ago was the use of alliteration as
used in Chaucer's time. It's like having 'rhymes' at the beginning of words instead
of at the end.
I had a go.
POETS
by
FRANK BRYCE
Like scavengers scouring a scarified tip
Picking at left over leavings of lives
Scrabbling for scraps for hoarding and saving
Rummaging, rooting for rhythms and rhymes.
Death and destruction are special delights
Tragedies, traumas the tools of their trade
Loves lost or languishing gladden their hearts
From such sad subjects their poems are made.
Then weaving their ways with everyday words
Shaping their lines of sadness and sorrow
Restoring lost loves with longings fulfilled
Telling today the truths of tomorrow.
They say look and remember, life doesn't last
We write to help you to cope
with the rawness and rot and just to remind you
that here there is happiness, beauty and hope.
any comments?
structures for writing a poem, metre, rhyme and length were specified.
I imagine that, like the rules of musical harmony that I was taught as a
youth, the poetic rules came after the works were written in order to enable
us lesser writers to emulate the great.
There is a book by the Canadian poet Robin Skelton 'The Shapes of our Singing'
which contains over 300 formats collected from all over the world. The really remarkable thing is that Skelton has written a poem in every form, many of them
very good poems indeed.
One form that caught my attention long ago was the use of alliteration as
used in Chaucer's time. It's like having 'rhymes' at the beginning of words instead
of at the end.
I had a go.
POETS
by
FRANK BRYCE
Like scavengers scouring a scarified tip
Picking at left over leavings of lives
Scrabbling for scraps for hoarding and saving
Rummaging, rooting for rhythms and rhymes.
Death and destruction are special delights
Tragedies, traumas the tools of their trade
Loves lost or languishing gladden their hearts
From such sad subjects their poems are made.
Then weaving their ways with everyday words
Shaping their lines of sadness and sorrow
Restoring lost loves with longings fulfilled
Telling today the truths of tomorrow.
They say look and remember, life doesn't last
We write to help you to cope
with the rawness and rot and just to remind you
that here there is happiness, beauty and hope.
any comments?
Wednesday 23 October 2013
'PAPIER MACHE' was written as a response to the theme of
WASTE and RECYCLING. It was published along with 'THE WOOD'
in the magazine 'TEXTYLE' (www.textyle.wordpress.com)
whose founding editor is Lucy Burnett (once a fellow student).
After bleating earlier about chopped up prose I stand accused and
guilty but this poem has, I believe, shape and most importantly rhythm.
What do you think?
PAPIER MACHE
by
Frank Bryce
I watch her face as we tear strips of paper
from this morning's 'News' I haven't read yet.
She frowns and sticks out her tongue
as she concentrates
just like her mother.
"They should be two point five centimetres wide"
she says
consulting the notes she made last night
as she watched 'Blue Peter'.
She's proud of her writing, newly learned
and has begun to make stories
about princesses and robots
and being good.
The PVA glue is diluted
ready for the next stage of production,
defined by her notes,
it's a bunch of flowers in a plastic tub
which we'll paint when they're dry
with the bright poster paints
she got for her birthday last year.
She reminds me to take them
at visiting time and to be sure
to explain they're for her,
with all our love
to help her get better,
"I'm sure they will"
I tell her.
WASTE and RECYCLING. It was published along with 'THE WOOD'
in the magazine 'TEXTYLE' (www.textyle.wordpress.com)
whose founding editor is Lucy Burnett (once a fellow student).
After bleating earlier about chopped up prose I stand accused and
guilty but this poem has, I believe, shape and most importantly rhythm.
What do you think?
PAPIER MACHE
by
Frank Bryce
I watch her face as we tear strips of paper
from this morning's 'News' I haven't read yet.
She frowns and sticks out her tongue
as she concentrates
just like her mother.
"They should be two point five centimetres wide"
she says
consulting the notes she made last night
as she watched 'Blue Peter'.
She's proud of her writing, newly learned
and has begun to make stories
about princesses and robots
and being good.
The PVA glue is diluted
ready for the next stage of production,
defined by her notes,
it's a bunch of flowers in a plastic tub
which we'll paint when they're dry
with the bright poster paints
she got for her birthday last year.
She reminds me to take them
at visiting time and to be sure
to explain they're for her,
with all our love
to help her get better,
"I'm sure they will"
I tell her.
Monday 14 October 2013
TECTONIC
I wondered if a person's occupation would affect
his/her style when writing a love letter/poem
so I decided to write
1. as a geophysicist and
2. as an insurance salesman.
There could be more if I get round to it.
An 84 year old knackered pensioner?? (forget it)
1.
TECTONIC
by
Frank Bryce (BSc Geo, failed)
The restless earth stirs in its sleep
And testily shrugs a mountain aside,
Drowns an island,
Fractures a town,
Stretches and brings a mudslide down.
But not all movement is undesired,
And Nature's force won't be required
The earth will move
And worlds collide
When our epicentres coincide.
2.
UNDER GUARANTEE
by
Frank Bryce (Fidelity Insurance, fired)
I quite fancy you, though I'm not sure why,
But maybe together we could give it a try?*
Perhaps in time you'll get used to my ways
I'll give you my love if you promise to stay**
To make it easier to reach a decision
You can have the spare room and both televisions***
I really will try to be all that you need
I'll cherish you, follow wherever you lead,
Play with you, stay with you, as long as I may,
I'll always be there as night follows day,
Nothing will part us no matter how odd
*Notified terms and conditions apply
** It must be returned in twenty-eight days
*** Subject to the usual contractual provisions
**** Excluding terrorism and Acts of God
his/her style when writing a love letter/poem
so I decided to write
1. as a geophysicist and
2. as an insurance salesman.
There could be more if I get round to it.
An 84 year old knackered pensioner?? (forget it)
1.
TECTONIC
by
Frank Bryce (BSc Geo, failed)
The restless earth stirs in its sleep
And testily shrugs a mountain aside,
Drowns an island,
Fractures a town,
Stretches and brings a mudslide down.
But not all movement is undesired,
And Nature's force won't be required
The earth will move
And worlds collide
When our epicentres coincide.
2.
UNDER GUARANTEE
by
Frank Bryce (Fidelity Insurance, fired)
I quite fancy you, though I'm not sure why,
But maybe together we could give it a try?*
Perhaps in time you'll get used to my ways
I'll give you my love if you promise to stay**
To make it easier to reach a decision
You can have the spare room and both televisions***
I really will try to be all that you need
I'll cherish you, follow wherever you lead,
Play with you, stay with you, as long as I may,
I'll always be there as night follows day,
Nothing will part us no matter how odd
*Notified terms and conditions apply
** It must be returned in twenty-eight days
*** Subject to the usual contractual provisions
**** Excluding terrorism and Acts of God
Sunday 6 October 2013
THIS OLD MAN
Every so often magazines, Sunday supplements etc. ask us if we know
'The Real You' and provide a questionnaire to help us find ourselves. I always found this rather ridiculous, of course I knew who I was. Then one day I opened
my eyes whilst shaving, looked in the mirror and thought;-
Who's this old man who pretends to be me?
Drinking my whiskey eating my bread
Coughing and dribbling and needing a pee.
Where is the young man I used to be?
Who followed loves light wherever it led
Who’s this old man who pretends to be me?
He’s nearly stone deaf and can hardly see,
It takes him an hour to get out of bed
Coughing and dribbling and needing a pee.
My lively young mind, creative and free
Has somehow got trapped in this balding head,
Who’s this old man who pretends to be me?
Never goes out never watches TV
Staying at home he reads Plato instead,
Coughing and dribbling and needing a pee.
When did it happen? I thought I was free
from time’s malice, stalking with silent tread.
Coughing and dribbling and needing a pee,
Who’s this old man who pretends to be me?
THIS OLD MAN
(a sort of villanelle)
by
FRANK BRYCE
'The Real You' and provide a questionnaire to help us find ourselves. I always found this rather ridiculous, of course I knew who I was. Then one day I opened
my eyes whilst shaving, looked in the mirror and thought;-
Who's this old man who pretends to be me?
Drinking my whiskey eating my bread
Coughing and dribbling and needing a pee.
Where is the young man I used to be?
Who followed loves light wherever it led
Who’s this old man who pretends to be me?
He’s nearly stone deaf and can hardly see,
It takes him an hour to get out of bed
Coughing and dribbling and needing a pee.
My lively young mind, creative and free
Has somehow got trapped in this balding head,
Who’s this old man who pretends to be me?
Never goes out never watches TV
Staying at home he reads Plato instead,
Coughing and dribbling and needing a pee.
When did it happen? I thought I was free
from time’s malice, stalking with silent tread.
Coughing and dribbling and needing a pee,
Who’s this old man who pretends to be me?
THIS OLD MAN
(a sort of villanelle)
by
FRANK BRYCE
Wednesday 2 October 2013
LEAVE US ALONE
He thought it would last for ever, his first real love,
when the world was a love song
and life was purple,
then she left
and the world was grey again.
To vent his feelings he wrote,
not to the Times but to those, partly responsible
for his condition,
To the muses Erato and Polyhymnia
Dear Sirs,
You seem unaware of the disturbing influences
inherent in the practice of your vocations with your
BLOODY POETRY! and BLOODY MUSIC!
Making us think that what is, is not
and what is not could be.
We live our lives as shadows
cast on the wall of a caliginous cave
staring ahead
not wondering
not caring
not thinking until
BLOODY POETRY! BLOODY MUSIC!
come along and make us wonder
where the light is from
and what the words betray
as the music rips into our souls
leaving us uncontent
BLOODY POETRY! BLOODY MUSIC!
Why can't they leave us alone?
We were happy enough before we knew
there was another life
of truth and beauty and love,
BLOODY POETRY!
BLOODY MUSIC!
(LEAVE US ALONE
by
FRANK BRYCE)
when the world was a love song
and life was purple,
then she left
and the world was grey again.
To vent his feelings he wrote,
not to the Times but to those, partly responsible
for his condition,
To the muses Erato and Polyhymnia
Dear Sirs,
You seem unaware of the disturbing influences
inherent in the practice of your vocations with your
BLOODY POETRY! and BLOODY MUSIC!
Making us think that what is, is not
and what is not could be.
We live our lives as shadows
cast on the wall of a caliginous cave
staring ahead
not wondering
not caring
not thinking until
BLOODY POETRY! BLOODY MUSIC!
come along and make us wonder
where the light is from
and what the words betray
as the music rips into our souls
leaving us uncontent
BLOODY POETRY! BLOODY MUSIC!
Why can't they leave us alone?
We were happy enough before we knew
there was another life
of truth and beauty and love,
BLOODY POETRY!
BLOODY MUSIC!
(LEAVE US ALONE
by
FRANK BRYCE)
Tuesday 24 September 2013
THE PETITION
There is a church in Manchester known as ‘The Little Gem’. The exterior is unexceptional but the interior is elaborately decorated. Some years ago
we went to visit and whilst we were there a poem occurred;
The Te Deum ends and blends with the passed over prayers that hang in the air,
Waiting acknowledgment.
A shadow stirs, becomes a man, ponderous, slow
Hesitant.
His head a discarded maquette of rough clay,
Meant for a hero.
His clothes un-pressed, shiny with grease from solitary meals
Infrequent.
Shuffling forward on slippered feet, half blind,
Knees bent.
He fumbles with parsnip fingers for a coin from his plastic purse,
A present,
And sets a candle by the font to lighten the darkness
She left behind.
THE PETITION
by
Frank Bryce
we went to visit and whilst we were there a poem occurred;
The Te Deum ends and blends with the passed over prayers that hang in the air,
Waiting acknowledgment.
A shadow stirs, becomes a man, ponderous, slow
Hesitant.
His head a discarded maquette of rough clay,
Meant for a hero.
His clothes un-pressed, shiny with grease from solitary meals
Infrequent.
Shuffling forward on slippered feet, half blind,
Knees bent.
He fumbles with parsnip fingers for a coin from his plastic purse,
A present,
And sets a candle by the font to lighten the darkness
She left behind.
THE PETITION
by
Frank Bryce
Thursday 19 September 2013
THE WOOD
I don't often enter poetry competitions, I'm too retro I suppose and can't believe that tearing up prose into lines of various lengths without rhyme, OK or rhythm, less OK and without a memorable poetic phrase is what I thought of as 'poetry'. Yes I am an old, tight fisted,cynical sod so I don't waste mi money on entry fees.However, when the BBC Wild Life magazine ran a competition for a nature poem with free entry I decided to enter and submitted the following which began as a poem about nature but became something different. No it didn't win but it did get a special recommendation, how about that? (what did you say Bryce about torn up prose and no rhyme?)
THE WOOD
by
FRANK BRYCE
The first time we were here the rain had stopped
leaving that sweet earthy smell that woodlands have when wet
and we scuffed our shoes through the leaves
and the fresh green shoots that told of the coming Spring.
And later we came back to see the bluebells
and you told me that their other name was Endymion non-scriptus
and I said that didn't seem very suitable
as Endymion was the setting sun in Greek mythology
and I'd never seen a blue setting sun
and you said I was too picky and to stop showing off
and just to look and enjoy,
and I teased you saying that non-scriptus was apt considering
and you said considering what
and I said how many poets had gone round the bend
trying to describe a sunset
and you pushed me into a patch of wild garlic
and when you tried to help me up I pulled you down
and you said to be careful
and so we just held each other
and that was a good time.
And we came again in Summer as you recovered
and I tried not to envy the blackbirds and the doves with their young
and even the insects flaunting their abundance
and we stayed until late not wanting to return to the empty flat
and in the twilight our favourite silver birch looked like a moonlit ghost
and I remembered the bluebells
and tried to distract you by telling you that the birch tree was Selene
and the moon-goddess was searching for her love Endymion
and he was no longer here
and you started to cry and I wished I'd kept quiet.
And now in Autumn the sun shines
and the trees parade their stylish new colours
and I hear someone say how beautiful the wood looks
and I nod, but without you
the fallen leaves only foreshadow the winter.
THE WOOD
by
FRANK BRYCE
The first time we were here the rain had stopped
leaving that sweet earthy smell that woodlands have when wet
and we scuffed our shoes through the leaves
and the fresh green shoots that told of the coming Spring.
And later we came back to see the bluebells
and you told me that their other name was Endymion non-scriptus
and I said that didn't seem very suitable
as Endymion was the setting sun in Greek mythology
and I'd never seen a blue setting sun
and you said I was too picky and to stop showing off
and just to look and enjoy,
and I teased you saying that non-scriptus was apt considering
and you said considering what
and I said how many poets had gone round the bend
trying to describe a sunset
and you pushed me into a patch of wild garlic
and when you tried to help me up I pulled you down
and you said to be careful
and so we just held each other
and that was a good time.
And we came again in Summer as you recovered
and I tried not to envy the blackbirds and the doves with their young
and even the insects flaunting their abundance
and we stayed until late not wanting to return to the empty flat
and in the twilight our favourite silver birch looked like a moonlit ghost
and I remembered the bluebells
and tried to distract you by telling you that the birch tree was Selene
and the moon-goddess was searching for her love Endymion
and he was no longer here
and you started to cry and I wished I'd kept quiet.
And now in Autumn the sun shines
and the trees parade their stylish new colours
and I hear someone say how beautiful the wood looks
and I nod, but without you
the fallen leaves only foreshadow the winter.
Tuesday 20 August 2013
THE PASSIONATE POET TO HIS PARAMOUR
The Chilean poet Pablo Neruda said that a poem doesn't belong to the poet, it belongs to whoever needs it.
On that basis I thought it was time to offer some of my own efforts in case they are any use to anyone.
It will take me some time to write them all so for a start here is the latest of my work. It began as an exercise based on the three words 'come with me' and became a present day version of Christopher Marlowe's
'The Passionate Shepherd to his Love'
I offer you 'The Passionate Poet to his Paramour'
Come with me there's still a chance
To see the purple unicorns dance
We'll sail the Western wind one night
Until we meet the morning light
I'll show you were wild sonnets grow
We'll ride a dolphin at the rodeo
Then walk across Lake Windermere
And somersault from the chandelier
Dance the limbo, paint the stars
Hitch a weekend trip to Mars
Then fly by kite to Samarkand
Learn the sitar, join a band
And sing sad songs in harmony
Then busk the blues in C and G
We'll find the square root of minus one
And serve it up on a Chelsea bun.
Then at the university
We'll take a Joyfulness degree
So------should you happen to be free
Take a chance
and come with me.
On that basis I thought it was time to offer some of my own efforts in case they are any use to anyone.
It will take me some time to write them all so for a start here is the latest of my work. It began as an exercise based on the three words 'come with me' and became a present day version of Christopher Marlowe's
'The Passionate Shepherd to his Love'
I offer you 'The Passionate Poet to his Paramour'
Come with me there's still a chance
To see the purple unicorns dance
We'll sail the Western wind one night
Until we meet the morning light
I'll show you were wild sonnets grow
We'll ride a dolphin at the rodeo
Then walk across Lake Windermere
And somersault from the chandelier
Dance the limbo, paint the stars
Hitch a weekend trip to Mars
Then fly by kite to Samarkand
Learn the sitar, join a band
And sing sad songs in harmony
Then busk the blues in C and G
We'll find the square root of minus one
And serve it up on a Chelsea bun.
Then at the university
We'll take a Joyfulness degree
So------should you happen to be free
Take a chance
and come with me.
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