Poetry

[Chulla 4,946]

A Ride on the Number 7 Bus

 

Bus route seven, NCT, in Bulwell it was found,

Leen on left, Olympia right, down town it was bound.

On side of bus plainly, the adverts were exhibited,

Smoking upstairs but not down, and spitting is prohibited.

 

Painted green with city's crest, awaiting Jill and Joe,

Destination blind says Hanley Street, so that's where it will go.

Ding, ding, owd yer tight, our conductress she's,

In livery green, edged in red, shouts to us 'fares please'.

 

Past Hempshill Lane, 'neath rail bridge, and prefabs on the bend,

Through rail brick arch, past Sun Coal ruin, and onward we do wend.

Bells Lane crossroad, here we turn, left at Fowler's pond,

Share the route with tracklesses, past pubs of which we're fond.

 

Stockhill crossroad we pass by, then on towards the Aspley,

Stop at Pinkett's, more prefabs, then Breffitt's we pass quickly.

Newcastle wharf, on the right, lorries fill with coal,

Brought there by a puffer train, a sight to cheer the soul.

 

O'er boulevard, on and on, then Bobbers Mill in view,

Capitol, on the right, Gregory Boul' on cue.

Past Chick Zamick's, Players, on crossroad right is Hartley,

Wait for time check at the school, off again so smartly.

 

Alfreton, busy road, J Kapwood chimney tall,

Mo'bike bits from Gaggy's, some pay Skills' a call.

Through Canning Circ', down Talbot, to Hanley Street full stop,

Park with one and twenty-two, we're here and off we hop.

[Chulla 4,946]

Spring

 

Spring is here, gone is the wait,

For buds to bloom and birds to mate.

For bees to suck and grass to grow,

For dig and plant, and trim and mow.

 

Days are getting lighter, and longer hip hooray,

Will we quicken up our step, yes, I think we may.

Tired of coughs and sneezes, tired of getting wet,

Put away the wellies, well, perhaps not yet.

 

Flowers awake in every hue,

The pinks, the whites, the gorgeous blue.

And scents abound upon the breeze,

Their subtle waft our senses tease.

 

Getting warmer, wear light cloth,

And switch that 'lectric blanket off.

Not be long for summer heat,

With fields of yellow, and golden wheat.

 

Time to think of holiday,

Where to go, how much to pay.

Somewhere that has lovely weather,

Free yourself from routine's tether.

 

So farewell Spring, until next year,

You've cheered us up, we now change gear.

You gave new life, and with it hope,

For next nine months, I think we'll cope.

[Chulla 4,946]

Looking back

 

Take me back to the'forties, at time when no TV,

The wireless was our medium, and pennies d not p.

Short trousers always grey, with snake-belt holding up,

Dandy, Beano we all read, and Corona we did sup.

 

Hop-scotch, dobbie, other games, all played by John and Jane,

Whip and top, hide and seek, did it never rain?

We played on street till darkness, then off to bed by nine,

Wash you face, don't forget your neck, a tidemark was the sign.

 

Adventures were a plenty, in ponds, in streams and wood,

Lads they were the baddies, girls they were the good.

Trips to boring places, with joy that was so phoney,

Everywhere by bus or train, and often by Shank's pony.

 

Regularly on Saturday, to the pictures we did go,

Cartoon, western, serial, guaranteed as part of show.

No ball-games on Sunday, it just wasn't done,

Shops all shut, keep it quiet, so not a lot of fun.

 

Not that we were angels, as pure as driven snow,

Our backsides often tingled, from parental blow.

Same at school, we misbehave, the strap it did forth come,

No use pleading child abuse, with fingers oh so numb.

 

Christmas time was special, if only for one reason,

The only time of the year, when presents were in season.

Stickjaw chewing was a treat, but not done every day,

Where spending money was concerned, parents had the say.

 

Kids today want for naught, its handed on a plate,

Back then we felt lucky, but always had to wait.

Never mind, we survived, and lived to tell the tale,

Grew up knowing right from wrong, were hearty and were hale.

[Chulla 4,946]

Do Penguins mate, mate?

 

Talking to my friend one day, 'bout TV's nature shows,

Discussed Origin of Species, and lots more, heaven knows.

We spoke about the wildlife, of species large and lean,

Fur and feather, snake and fish, and of the kinds we'd seen.

 

Plain and forest dwellers, I've seen quite a few,

Mainly behind railings, when I was at the zoo.

I told him that for certain, what 'ere befalls my fate,

Something I have never seen, is a penguin mate.

 

You've never seen a penguin, my friend said with surprise,

He'd seen them in their thousands, under southern skies.

I didn't say I'd never seen, the waddling little bird,

You heard 'mate' as pal but, I meant it as a verb.

 

I see your point my friend did say; now I think of it,

To mate it might be awkward, he'll have to have the wit.

But if he wasn't welcome, and got a cold reception,

For her there's one alternative - immaculate conception.

[Chulla 4,946]

At the Hop (Any resemblance to actual people is purely accidental - yeah, right)

 

It's Satdy night, all dolled up, soon to rock and roll,

They'll smooch and jive together, a good night out their goal.

They will meet in village hall; it's got a bar, that's handy,

Will it be Babycham, or maybe bitter shandy?

 

There's Christine, spick and spam, and looking rather fab,

Dressed for the occasion, Park Drive behind her tab.

She's hoping she will meet, her Mister Twinkletoes,

Will they dance divinely, only heaven knows.

 

Up stepped a youth with spotty face, trousers without crease,

Tony Curtis hairdo, his chat-up did not cease.

But Christine she was wary, and read him like a book,

'You try summat funny, Jeff, I'll make you sling your 'ook'.

 

Much the same with Susan, her bloke not from heaven,

Said his mam had told him, 'be in by half past seven'.

Determined to ignore her, was on a sticky wicket,

Scratching spot upon his face, Sue told him not to pick it.

 

Then Mar-ga-ret in leather, black, arrived on back of scooter,

Changed into her dancing gear, my god it sure did suit her.

And with that all three fixed up, on the floor they step,

Encouraged by the music, and also rum and pep?

 

You could almost place a bet on it, that some show no respect,

There always is some bother, when drink do take effect.

And then it happened, who knows how? Margaret's bloke pushed Jeff,

Pretty soon, threatening looks, and words began with F.

 

Susan's chap intervened; a punch just missed his jaw,

Then up rushed the bouncers, and threw them out the door.

It quietened down, the dancers danced, others kept on drinking,

Before long 'twas back to norm, and pints they were a sinking.

 

The entrance door swung open, in draft the skirts did flutter,

'It's 'er from Mapply park, I think', someone was heard to mutter.

'Where is he' she shouted loud, 'where is that sod named Ron?'

Eyes did scan around the hall; an answer there was none.

 

Seems that boyfriend stood her up, was left in Market Square,

Someone came and sat her down; there's always those who care.

So there the three, stood and stared, now without their men,

Would they get new partners, and take the floor again?

 

Of course they did, and before long, 'er from Mapply Park,

Joined in the fun, forgot 'bout Ron, and teamed up with a Mark.

A night of great excitement, its fun they didn't shirk,

What a tale they had to tell, the gels when back at work.

[ValuerJim 277]

John Betjeman was an Honorary Member at St Enodoc golf club, just across from Padstow, and is buried in the Churchyard by the course. He died in 1984, and at the centenary of the club in 1990, a fellow member penned this parody of Seaside Golf:

How low it flew, how left it flew

It hit the dry stone wall

And plunging, disappeared from view

A shining brand new ball

I'd hit the damn thing on the head

It made me wish that I were dead

And up the fairway, steep and long

I mourned my gloomy plight;

I played an iron sure and strong,

A fraction to the right

I knew that when I reached my ball

I'd find it underneath the wall.

And so I did. I chipped it low

And thinned it past the pin

And to and fro, and to and fro

I tried to get in in

Until, intoning oaths obscene

I holed it out in seventeen

Ah! Seaweed smells from sandy caves

They really get me down;

In-coming tides, Atlantic waves

I wish that I could drown

And Sloane Street voices in the air

And black retrievers everywhere

[carni 10,094]

#173, Chulla, That Jeff must have tried it on and it looks like he slung his ook!! Cos he aint around now!!!

[Chulla 4,946]

#175. How cruel - he only wanted a drag on your Parkie.

[Chulla 4,946]

On reflection

A mirror hangs on wall in room,

Sees all in daylight and in gloom.

Is witness to, hush and yells,

Sees it all but never tells.

 

How many times with glint and grace,

Has met its viewers face to face.

Studied them and never lied,

Showed them where the creases hide.

 

Made them worry, made them smile,

Made them stop and think a while.

Going grey? Well yes they might,

There again, trick of the light.

 

Fashion come and fashion go,

Fashion nice and fashion whoa!

The mirror takes it all in strides,

Whatever shown, loyally abides.

 

Tinged with smoke and sometimes steam,

A splotch of hair-spray, smudge of cream.

It tells a lady, she looks nice,

A second look, it tells her twice.

 

It's seen all illness that God sent,

Seen them come and seen them went.

It's viewed good times, and the bad,

Seen family grow from son to dad.

 

If only sometimes it could speak,

Think of the havoc it could wreak.

Telling those in sneaky fashion,

That so-and-so has secret passion.

 

Then one day was off the hook,

Out of style - old-fashioned look.

For many years had held it tongue,

Was loyal as the day is long.

 

It did its job, could never fail,

Revealed the truth from head to tail.

Where left is right, and in the main,

On reflection, can't complain.

[carni 10,094]

So very true of a mirror Chulla. Another brilliant poem.

[ValuerJim 277]

More Betjeman.

Oh little body, do not die.
The soul looks out through wide blue eyes
So questioningly into mine,
That my tormented soul replies
"Oh little body, do not die
You hold the soul that talks to me,
Although our conversation be
As wordless as the windy sky."

So looked my father at the last,
Right in my soul before he died,
Though words we spoke went heedless past
As London traffic-roar outside.
And now the same blue eyes I see
Look through me from a little son,
So questioningly, so searchingly
That youthfulness and age are one.

My father looked at me and died
Before my soul made full reply.
Lord, leave this other light alight
Oh little body, do not die.

[Chulla 4,946]

Alone now

 

Gone is the farewell, gone is the wake,

Gone are the people that mourners do make.

Gone is the bond that makes man and wife,

Gone now forever, the joy and the strife.

 

Gone are the times we laughed and we cried,

Gone are the times that we argued.

Gone are the times when emotions we'd hide,

Gone now the difficult mood.

 

Gone is the joy of sharing a song,

Gone is the sound of the singer.

Gone is the guilt of knowing you're wrong,

Gone but the conscience can linger.

 

Gone now the chance of sharing old age,

Gone now and living alone.

Gone is the hope, tomorrow's next page,

Gone now are Darby and Joan.

 

Here now the quiet, and rarely a knock,

Here the lone path that we wend.

Here the remindful tick of the clock,

Here now the wait for the end.

[carni 10,094]

Chulla, How true your words are. Such a talent, very moving. I am going to eat lots of cakes now.

[Blondie 1,392]

Never been one for poetry, could never understand the need for it, bit like Shakespere, thought that was a load of rubbish too.........Maybe I have no soul.....but then I love music..........odd really....

[MelissaJKelly 2,120]

I love music and poetry! Depends what mood I'm in to which one I prefer though!

[carni 10,094]

To be able to write Lyrics and Poetry, and it be meaningful is beyond me, once past the first couple of lines I find I am just adding anything if it rhymes, regardless of whether it is fitting. Music, Lyrics and Poetry can have an affect on my mood. Alone now, certainly brought a tear to our eyes. Hubbs is as soft as me. We love your poems Chulla and if you are still adding to the book of poetry for your daughter, I am sure she will cherish it.

[ValuerJim 277]

Yet more Betjeman, but in a lighter vein:

The Executive

I am a young executive. No cuffs than mine are cleaner;
I have a Slimline brief-case and I use the firm's Cortina.
In every roadside hostelry from here to Burgess Hill
The maîtres d'hôtel all know me well, and let me sign the bill.

You ask me what it is I do. Well, actually, you know,
I'm partly a liaison man, and partly P.R.O.
Essentially, I integrate the current export drive
And basically I'm viable from ten o'clock till five.

For vital off-the-record work - that's talking transport-wise -
I've a scarlet Aston-Martin - and does she go? She flies!
Pedestrians and dogs and cats, we mark them down for slaughter.
I also own a speedboat which has never touched the water.

She's built of fibre-glass, of course. I call her 'Mandy Jane'
After a bird I used to know - No soda, please, just plain -
And how did I acquire her? Well, to tell you about that
And to put you in the picture, I must wear my other hat.

I do some mild developing. The sort of place I need
Is a quiet country market town that's rather run to seed
A luncheon and a drink or two, a little savoir faire -
I fix the Planning Officer, the Town Clerk and the Mayor.

And if some Preservationist attempts to interfere
A 'dangerous structure' notice from the Borough Engineer
Will settle any buildings that are standing in our way -
The modern style, sir, with respect, has really come to stay.

[ValuerJim 277]

And how about W B Yeats?

An Irish airman foresees his death

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

[Chulla 4,946]

Delighted, slighted, unrequited

 

Billie, Mrs Morgan's lad, Jenny next door's gel,

   Two devoted playmates, always got on well.

Laughed together, cried together,  never were apart,

   Now they were teenagers, 'twas matter of the heart.

 

Both there mums were hopeful, it just seemed only right,

   That their son and daughter, marry each they might.

Both did share contentment, life without its woes,

   He her knight in shining armour, her his English rose.

 

They were always seen together, rarely were apart,

   With nothing obvious 'twixt them, to upset applecart.

Before long, saving up, plans of getting married,

Any notions otherwise, were very swiftly parried.

 

Then love's clear blue sky, began to fill with cloud,

   Both did sense the unease, but neither said aloud.

Things not the same, hard to put, a finger on the reason,

   Could it be the bloom of love, was now out of season?

 

Clearly something had caused, a change in attitudes,

   Gone was understanding, in came awkward moods.

Was it something either said, or did to rock the boat?

   That made them different people, and made them so remote.

 

Whispers reached him. if they true, would make his spirit low,

   She'd been seen, walking out, with another beau.

Obvious was his distraught, and deep was his vexation,

   How could she, treat him so, without explanation?

 

His thoughts gave rise to perplex, and envy uninvited,

   Never did his wildest dreams see love so unrequited.

How could his lifetime sweetheart, one who'd been so kind,

   Play loose with her affections; what caused the change of mind?

 

As time went by, the days the months, it looked game, set and match,

   Both the lovers in their cups, each made the perfect catch.

But then again, her doubts returned, was she being silly?

   Would not the better choice be, her first love next-door Billy.

 

Too late, too late, his door was closed, locked by mental strife,

  Never would affection play, a part in future life.

Poetically he loved and lost, was now resolved and sighed,

  And so it was that he remained, a bachelor till he died.

 

 

  

[carni 10,094]

I expect so true in many peoples lives Chulla.  The grass is not always greener? As usual, written brilliantly. Thank you.

[FLY2 10,108]

As you say Carni, so true unfortunately. 

[Chulla 4,946]

Hope

 

In hope we live from day to day, that fortune fair will bless us,

   To those who tread the well-worn paths, marked secular and pious.

May their dreams fulfil, cup overflow, and their skies be blue,

   And may those who strive to better, deserve to get their due.

 

Hope will always overcome, life's let-downs and knocks,

   'twas the only thing left, in Pandora's box.

For some it gives the frisson, of expectations high,

   For others it is forlorn, with accompanied sigh.

 

They hope for peace, do those that know, the bomb and bullet near,

   Where every day could be their last, does anybody hear?

We hope one day that common sense, will bring about wars' end,

   And hated foe gives up the gun, and become best friend.

 

Let's hope that those of lesser means, will find what they do seek,

   That opportune's warming rays, shine on the mild and meek.

That those who suffer daily, in partnership with pain,

   Will find relief; experience, a worthwhile life again.

 

Is it too much for us, to yearn, to pray, implore,

   That hope will give us all a chance, to knock on life's front door.

May we read of happy times, in pages of life's journal,

   It's hope that gives the spur to thrive, and hope that springs eternal.

[carni 10,094]

Wonderful word is "Hope" Chulla. Expressed so well in your poem. Thank you.

[Chulla 4,946]

La belle elegant

 

In a world that worships fashion, it's plain for all to see,

   Baseball cap and T-shirt, and jeans ripped at the knee.

Trainers are the footwear, piercings in the face,

   Less is seen the haut couture, epitome of grace.

 

Where is the well-designed, that looks so smart and chic,

   That radiates the elegance, discerning ladies seek.

Where are the Norman Hartnells, Beatons and Dior,

   Where indeed the ladies who, would knock upon their door.

 

What do we see on catwalks, rags to offend eye,

   Dreamt by likes of Westwood, that few would want to buy.

Style nowadays ephemeral, no more domain of toffs,

   Off one shoulder baggy top, and trousers, nay cut-offs.

 

The golden age of dress design, it seems has passed us by,

   And few are those that dress well, not so you might decry.

There are those who wear a gown, to one's delectation,

  They enter room with swirl of hem, and eyes in their direction.

 

A smile edged in pastel shade, a complementary tint,

   With diamond droplets from the ears, and perfume just a hint.

Hair crowned with bright tiara, to make her spirits soar,

  Her face expresses confidence, 'It's me, I'm mode du jour'.

 

Matching jewels to sparkle, in candelabra's light,

   Be they diamonds, be they paste, on wrist and neck so bright.

A slender neck surmounting, a nice décolletage,

   A white corsage at the breast, is elegance writ large.

 

Red-tipped fingers bound by ring, and just to add some class,

   Manicured divinely, to hold the champagne glass.

Sobranie cocktail cig' alight, in holder long and slender,

   What more you need example of, exquisiteness in gender.

 

She circulates among the guests, with poise to suit occasion,

   With wave of wrist so nonchalant, dismisses male attention.

Men admire the female grace, when paired with elegance,

   It has always been that way, that dream-inducing trance.

 

And when the party's over, at the door she'll stay,

   'til chauffeur draws beside her in, Lagonda cabriolet.

Off into night, she will speed, her shoulders warmed by fur,

   And then within her bedroom, a smile and gentle purr.

  

[philmayfield 6,115]

You've been spending too much time in Bulwell!