Category: Poetry

“This train is for Cardiff Central.”

Blokes in ones and girls in twos.
Some in boots and some in shoes.

“All tickets please.”

Punk with nose ring. Ginger hair.
Babe in arms. Collapsed pushchair.

“The next station is Stockport.”

Kids with phones. Teachers with papers.
Both reflecting that day’s capers.

“He was like in capital letters SCREAMING at me.”

A wondrous landscape sliding by.
Look out the window: azure sky.

“Yes he’s been working hard that boy.”

Substituting sylvan March of green
With a silvery iPhone screen.

“Hang on I can’t hear you.”

3G. 4G. Two bars. One.
Battery dead. Or signal gone.

“We will shortly be arriving at Crewe.”

Lunch unpacked from ice cream carton.
Tattooed roses in white flesh garden.

“She’s been snapping at everyone.”

Shirts. And socks. Shorts. And blouses.
Trolley tea. Then terraced houses.

“I’ll have to check with Christine.”

Lives wide open. Windows closed.
Our hopes and fears and thoughts exposed.

“She was proper fit I can tell you.”

Too loud the sinner and the sinned.
All caution thrown into the wind.

“The next stop is Ludlow.”

The man looks up. Sees his reflection.
Shit he says there’s no connection.

---

This poem was inspired in general by a journey on the Arriva Wales train service from Manchester to Ludlow and in particular by the girl with the tattooed thighs. The words in quote marks are either overheard snatches of mobile phone conversations or announcements made over the tannoy. Both are reported verbatim.

His work hangs on the gallery wall.
We hear its buzz.
We’re in its thrall.

Each piece still humming with the thrum.
As strong as when the work was done.
That clay was soft and took the mould
Of artist’s hands and brush strokes bold
Laid down their layers one by one
Upon the canvas taut as drum.

And so lives on the artist tutor.
Who has a past as well a future.
Whose work transcends the passing years
Through others’ eyes and hands and ears.

We hear the echo loud and clear.
The artist lives! Ne’er shed a tear.

---

These words came to me after attending a preview of the Man and Light exhibition running at Gallery 131 on Corve Street in Ludlow until March 19th.  The exhibition celebrates the work of the Midlands artist Arthur Berridge (1902 – 1957). Opening it the sculptor Stephen Cox RA explained how Berridge was underrated – both as an artist and as a teacher. It struck me then that echoes of the creative compulsion that drives artists like Berridge and Cox reverberate indefinitely: directly through their work (and more loudly when many works are brought together in one place); and indirectly through the work of others they’ve taught.

I heard these echoes and wrote them down.

Richard Uridge

Now as the dusk is drawing in
Around these weathered cottage walls
The birds sing out an evening hymn
Their last before the darkness falls
And carried on a gentle breeze
Which shimmers through the grass and trees
A haunting curlew calls.

Farmland and hills soon disappear
Shrouded beneath the cloak of night
And Springtime flowers held so dear
Are safely hidden from our sight
By day the golden tulip blooms
Reflect the warmth within these rooms
Now bathed in candlelight.

Comforting chair by fireside glow
When daylight struggles once more cease
Thoughts that surround us ebb and flow
More mellow as the flames increase
The fiery dance directs our gaze
Enveloped in the tender blaze
We find refreshing peace.

This Shropshire home is sleeping now
Beneath a starry, jewelled sky
While somewhere on a moonlit bough
A lone owl hoots his lullaby
And lying still we long to hear
Piercing the darkness plain and clear
Another bird’s reply.

Joanne Emery

---

I’ve only just rediscovered these wonderful lines. They were composed after the poet stayed at Crosshands with her family a few years ago. Written in a neat hand on a scrap of A4 they’d been tucked inside a book for safe keeping. And that’s where they might have stayed if I hadn’t been leafing through the book (by Clive James) for some inspiration. I hope you’ll agree it’s a cracking poem. And I like to think the Aussie wordsmith wouldn’t have minded keeping it safe all this time. But then I’m biased. The poet is my sister. Proving that our father, Brian’s, love of words rubbed off on both of us. Thank you Joanne, thank you Clive and thank you, most of all, dad.

Richard Uridge

ISIL

I whisper je t’aime.
You shout hate.

I hold hands.
You hack them off.

The stain on my tablecloth is wine.
Yours is blood.

I bare my throat for a kiss.
Not a knife.

Strap children to my chest.
Not explosives.

Shoot pictures.
Not guns.

France

Once we were at war.
At Agincourt.

We cut off your fingers.
Saluted you with ours

Paris

Where I’ve loved.
And been loved.

Walked along your river.
Climbed your tower.

Sipped your Champagne.
Dipped in your river

Ogled your cancan girls.
Haggled for your Impressionists

Winter may be bitter.
But Spring will return.

He’d forgotten how to listen. To still his knotted mind until the sounds untangled. Untied one by one from the thrum.

Listened.

Registered. Identified. Appreciated.

More, much more than mechanical.

No eardrum beat alone. But notes in a symphony. The orchestra all around. Violin, horn, oboe. Dunlin, dawn, crow.

As he listened each sound got louder. Or rather expanded. Until it filled the concert hall of his mind. All other thoughts displaced. The frantic rhythm paced.

He started to cry. Or it started to rain. Perhaps it was both. Tambourine drops rattling the leaf litter at his feet.

Slowly, quietly. Adagio, pianissimo.

Louder, faster, Più forte, accelerando.

Dampened, dying. Smorzando.

Is a sound unheard a sound at all, he wondered?

And in that moment remembered how to listen.

Butterfly wing tip
Kaleidoscope fragment of
A summer now past

He wore the words like a necklace.
Each silent syllable a bead.
Pearl by pearl, a string of unspoken sentences.
His favourite book steepled on a sunken chest.
Treasure without end.
I wonder now what page my mother chose.
What verse she hears that he cannot.
Echoing for eternity.

While you were sleeping
The Plough cut a furrow across the field of night.
Owls hooted and screeched in it’s wake
Feasting on the shiny seeds of light that Orion cast from the pouch hitched to his rhinestone belt.

The owls were sated. Full of moles
and torn up scraps of suede-skinned voles.
Plucked from the ground in the dead of night
by the white-winged warrior with the gift of flight.

They didn’t hear the approach of death
for the owl can murder with barely a breath.
That they died in pain is dead cert sure
judging from the splash of crimson gore.

Evidence was plain for all too see:
a furry pellet at the foot of the tree.
If the police were called to solve this crime
they’d have it cracked in double quick time

‘cos all wrapped up in the ball of fluff
inedible bone and incriminating stuff.
The hooded crow would be judge and jury
and vent his spleen with his usual fury.

The surviving mole would give his version
with unassailable assertion.
The verdict was not when it came a surprise
because owl is a creature that others despise.

“I find you guilty and you must hang,”
said crow without an avian pang.
The case made the front of the woodland clarion.
Headline: owl makes tasty carrion.

So remove the pellet from the base of the tree
then the owlets will live to themselves fly free.