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.

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

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

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

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.

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?

'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.