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Poetry

THE HAPPY HANGMAN

 

‘Death’s dredger delayed,’ cries the Skull and the Cloak,

I wait to be hung by the ball of the throat.

 

My friends are the rats, the rope and the rocks,

The Ferryman drunk by the gate of the docks.

 

The dungeons of my soul racked with my guilt,

To pay for my sins my blood will be spilt,

 

Too fallen to feel my life has been robbed

My offences to Heaven rise with the smog.

 

Betwixt Heav’n and Hell my name fit for curse

No appeal judge me granted, my case unrehearsed.                  

 

Help never coming, no saviour, no cheer,

Life my tormentor, my enemy clear.   [2007]  

                                                           

 

 

PEARL FISHERS

 

Fishermen off the island of Tamarind

Wear stone blocks

Around their necks and ankles

Which keep them underwater

Till their deaths.

 

Unless a pearl-minded friend

Bewitched by a spout of mercy

Notices the flute of bubbles

And offers a hand of relief

To prolong the Torture of Life.   [2007]  

 

 

 

RIOT BRIGADE

 

Flashed all their truncheons bare —

Flashed as they turned in air

Cracking hell’s-grannies there

Dare not a liberal spared

All the world wondered.

Plunged in the tear-gas smoke

Right through the gates they broke

Press-hounds and puppies

Admiring the backhand stroke 

Thrashing and thundered.

Points make prizes, praise

First rozzer to six hundred!

 

Hippies to the right of them

Hippies to the left of them

Horses behind them

Volleyed and thundered.

Rubber-bullets, shot and shell

Not a horse or hero fell

They that had fought so well.

Each rozzer tots the points

Of broken skulls, legs and joints 

Top shot will scoop the prize

Of points to six hundred.

 

 

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Treble overtime paid

To each of the Riot Brigade

A wedge of six hundred!   [2018]

                   

[From the play The Wrong ’Un] 

 

[cf. Charge of the Light Brigade, Alfred Tennyson]

 

 

 

HOUSE

 

I leant upon a high stoned ledge

Smoked summer hangs prison-grey,

Breaking bars of house music

I knew t’was here to stay.   [1988]  

                                        

 

[cf. Hardy’s A Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate

When Frost was spectre-grey,

And Winter's dregs made desolate

The weakening eye of day.]

                                              

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