Birdsong.html

BITTER SWEET

I must admit I'm not m'self, and especially of late,
I've noticed a strange, unusual change in my normal, vibrant state,
the mile now takes four minutes plus, and I'm ashamed to say
on hiking rambles with the wife, I've had to put her down halfway.

'You've got yourself unfit,' she said, 'which is quite against my wishes.
You can hardly push the Hoover now and you're slower with the dishes.
On wash days you'd a lovely touch, but now the clothes all tangle,
Your dolly tub's gone mouldy and you've cobwebs on your mangle.

You know I never do complain, I am not the one to knock,
but there's really no alternative, you will have to see the doc.
He'll have seen more movement in the morgue, it beggars all description,
the only thrill you've left in life, is to get a free prescription.'

The doctor's eyebrows raised on high, he said 'I must re-test,
I've seen some samples in my time but this is surely best,
I've got to give you credit, Jack, you do do things in style.
You've got more sugar in your blood than they have at Tate & Lyle.

It's got that royal, blue-ish tinge, quite rare in lower classes,
which proves a pure unsullied line, with a flow like slow molasses.
But thoroughbreds have a price to pay,' here he smiled all sympathetic,
'it could be that you're pregnant, either that, or diabetic.

With such readings astronomical I can't tell how bad exactly,
but there's a clinic up at Walton and another at F'zakly.
They'll be pleased to get a unique case and despite today's austerity,
you'll either be treated on the spot - or pickled for posterity.'

The specialist brusquely ordered, 'Strip!' then quite forgot to hustle
when he saw the tautened sinews and the slabs of hardened muscle.
And he traced the cost of empire in the scars of shot and shell,
which reduced his diagnosis to a cultured 'Bleddy hell!'

The staff nurse took me by the arm. 'Oh what a lovely vein,
no trouble taking blood from you, you'll be welcome here again.
A perfect patient, I can see, all calm and non-allergic.'
Then, still smiling, she attacked me with a twelve inch hypodermic.

She was versed in unarmed combat and superb in bayonet drill,
only poetry in motion could describe her speed and skill,
two pints were in the sample bowl before I could even flicker,
Count Dracula's famed incisors could not have done it quicker.

Then feeling quite anaemic and as white as any sheet,
I met a young chiropodist who said he'd do my feet;
which I'd really not considered, in fact thought it rather quaint;
they'd survived 'ammo boots and wellies, and never voiced complaint.

'Ahah!' he chortled, 'told you so, just as sure as you were born,
that little bit of callous there will grow to be a corn.
And you see that patch of redness,' he pointed, all a-knowing,
'Well that's a certain indication that a nail intends ingrowing.

We've discovered that the symptoms and the signs of diabetes,
can often be detected in the area where your feet is.
And we have to take the proper care to ensure good circulation,
though I shouldn't really worry as, there's always amputation.

You'll be on our list for good,' he smiled, 'it's a permanent condition,
but before you leave the clinic you must see our dietician.
She's our queen of carbohydrates, she will sort your future menu,
and to meet her is to wish she was included in the venue.'

She was charming and discussed the case in calm, persuasive fashion.
But from the start, she made it clear ... two ounces was me ration.
'Big eats' were simply not allowed with this particular malady,
though some licence was permitted with food skimmed or strained, or salady.

It's goodbye to cream and pastry, it's ta-ta to nuts and crisps,
I must turn me back, alas-alack, on me favourite steak and chips.
Farewell, adieu, to roasts and stew, oh I would give me utty,
for bacon eggs and sausage and a well-filled drippin' butty.

But fate has sternly made decree, and I must needs take heed,
to stay free from chocolates, sweets and buns, or any sugary feed.
Yet I hope and pray on judgement day, the call won't be too sudden,
to give me time for cakes and wine, and a chunk of Christmas pudd'n.

And Peter at the Golden Gate will make heaven more enticing,
with a plate of apple pie and cream, and a bowl of fondant icing.
And I'll stand renewed midst piles of food, yet trimly sleek, athletic,
as he waves 'Come in, you are free from sin, you have been a diabetic.'

PS. Anyone want to buy a frying pan?

J.M. Stocks

A HINT OF HEDGEROWS
by
Ernest Dewhurst.

"Inverted Kestrel stiff behind
the house. His claws disarmed
and curled in gesture of despair.
No blood. Assassin met the wall
pursuing prey and broke his neck.
A blue-grey head cocked limply
to one side. His final target lives
to fly a safer sky and scuttling
creatures have one bully less."

£5.00

ISBN: 1-870556-78-X

Ernest Dewhurst was a journalist for 21 years with the Lancashire Evening Telegraph and for 12 with the Guardian. He developed a lifelong love of the countryside from his farm childhood in the Pennines.

DIGRESS

I'd like to do a degree

If it didn't take years

I will march in time incrementally

Let the crescendo surge

Twenty six steps forming one wordy world

Pace

Slope

And vanity

Soon to be heard

Amanda De Angeles

OLD? ME?ld

I go into shops, the girls call me "Pops".
I'm not old, I'm just very mature.
If they notice my bearing, the smart clothes I'm wearing,
they'd know I'm a man of stat-ure.

I peep in the glass as I slowly walk past,
as diffidently as I can.
But instead of the me I'm expecting to see,
there's a grey-haired, wrinkly old man.

Oh where did he go, that Lothario.
Where now the Adonis we used to know.
Deep in afternoon nap with my cat on my lap,
dreaming dreams of the Ladies I used to know.

Vincent McTigue

ODE

TO THE INKLINGS

(try reading this to the tune of Greensleeves)

There is a place in Liverpool
In a street called William Brown,
Where a group of hopeful writers meet
To let their hair hang down.
They have a skinflint treasurer
And Nogrod is his name,
And if anyone forgets to pay
Well Nogrod's not to blame.
These writers come from far and near
By car and bus and train,
To read the words that they have writ -
Then read them once again.
They criticize each other's work
And point out little flaws,
But if someone writes a masterpiece
There's spontaneous applause.
They mustn't get political
Until the session's done,
And religion too, is quite taboo,
At least till Ted has gone.
Some writers dare to bare their souls,
Some write of doom and gloom,
And some are even trying to
Produce a Milton Boon.
They have been taught to raise their sights
And elevate their goals,
By David Evans, Kev McCann,
And Gladys Mary Coles.
At three o'clock they make their way
To the Walker Gallery,
To feed their creativity
With carrot cake and tea.
There is a place in Liverpool
In a street called William Brown,
Where groups of hopeful writers meet,
But the Inklings bear the crown.
by
Bessie Hall

PARENTS NIGHT

I'm glad you've come, I wondered if you would,
We rarely see those who think we should.
Yes I agree you never make a fuss.
It's well to know you approve of us.

About your son, you've read the last report,
in application terms, his marks brook little thought.
The standard's high, his homework's always done,
and yet ... and yet, somehow he's lost not won.

Can you explain his sad and haunted state?
He has no friends, no smile is on his face.
You've never seen? ... Well, please do take a look.
He shuts out life, nose ever in a book.

He works too hard, yes there I do agree.
He stays up late! He sometimes works till three!
Do you feel that's right? Do you really think he should?
You say that's why his marks are always good.

We have a ski-ing trip abroad this year.
The list's not full, perhaps the cost's too dear?
There is a fund, discreet of course, you know...
I see, you think he shouldn't go.
His work will slide? Well there I can't agree.
His lowest mark is ninety-three.

You hope he'll be a doctor or a vet,
perhaps a scientist or architect.
What are his hopes? How does he view his future?
You look at one another ... you don't know!
You've never asked what path he wants to go?

Oh, time is up. There's someone at the door.
Come back next term ... and we will talk some more.

by

Antoinette Loftus

QUEEN OF THE YOUNG MAIZE

Now Xipe Totec, god of spring, requires
protection for young maize, whose tender shoots
are breaking through the soil beside the lake.
The misted green is his Centéotl,
the goddess-sister of his heart. The grubs
and insects may attack and drought dry out
her roots.

The priests are searching shanties at the edge
of old Tenochtitlán. Each little girl
is stopped and made to strip, her chest and back
and arms examined for the faintest mole
or scar: the girl who's found imperfect sighs
heart-felt relief; her mother grimaces,
let down.

At last one priest has seen an eight-year-old
whose skin's immaculate as royal cloth.
She is renamed Centéotl and led
to Xipe's temple where she's scrubbed, perfumed
and clothed in a tight tunic dyed a green
as subtle, delicate as any shoots.
She's queen.

For three short days she's queen of the young maize
and fed upon imperial foods, cacoa
and honey, puppy meat and fruits. At night
you hear the sobs of young Centéotl:
she misses friends and family; she fears
her awful honour and obsidian
through flesh.

Third day at last; Centéotl's wept dry
and wants to get it over with; between
the crowded houses pipes and cymbals play
and people shout her praise. Her head now waits
upon the stone; she briefly hears the axe
beheading air above her naked neck,
then falls.

A priest-dwarf severs wrists and abdomen;
with skill he skins the arms and torso off
without a break, then pulls the dripping shirt
upon himself; once more he stands before
the baying crowd. 'The maize is safe! It's safe!'
And they applaud the little man who wears
her skin.

Nicholas Hancock

          SONG
                           OF
                                SILENCE
I remember silence.

           A school of pupils hushed
           to hear the dark intoning
           of the names of Old Boys
           sacrificed in war. Talents
           squandered on a homage roll
           and bullies, jokers, bores
           and chalk consumers for a bet
           all muzzled for a twinkling
           in assembly hall respect.

                            Shades of war. Then shadows
                            on a field of hay. Last load
                            indoors and day birds changing
                            shifts with owls and bats.
                            Ungathered hay in heaps,
                            an igloo avenue, tight sealed
                            against a shower. At dusk
                            the tiptoeing of rain.

I remember silence.

                                            A summer walking tour.
                                            Bed and breakfast cottage
                                            draped in woodbine scents
                                            each whispering goodnight
                                            through open bedroom panes.
                                            Aroused into a drowsy dawn
                                            by scissor crunch of cattle
                                            mouthing green, strident
                                            as a morning clock alarm.

                                                        Blizzard contrast. Birds
                                                        like birdmen comic on slow
                                                        clockwork wings. Pennine
                                                        villages disguised, anonymous
                                                        as white-faced clowns. Then
                                                        drumming stillness until
                                                        home-from-school boys,
                                                        carillons of joy, explored
                                                        the soft new foothills
                                                        of the night. Each wing already
                                                        folded in the quilts of white.

                                                                                Remembered silences.
                                                                                Are these all we have?
                                                                                Stillness from subconscious
                                                                                archives of the soul,
                                                                                like shouts inside a hushed
                                                                                cathedral gorge, echoes
                                                                                ricocheting round the mind,
                                                                                echoes of the quieter times
                                                                                now going beyond recall.

Ernest Dewhurst

STARLIGHT OVER SEMPY
(for Elizabeth) No torch -
but we decline a lift
decide to walk the hill path home
glad of teasing headlamps, car engine
ticking over till we pass the church
one last wave - stranding two would-be loners
in the wake of sound. No moon
blonding the blackout of low-lying hills
only a long looming swirl of the Rue de l'eglise.

We feel our way.
A scuttle! Screech
bitten back by laughing whispers
we clutch hands. No great torches
burning on April day to early dusk, lighting
for us fresh tractor ruts or worm-soft dung
leaving us sure footed, less alarmed.

Nothing so luminous as the night sky over Sempy
seemingly running parallel to the road.
No blue-point pen
or brush, wells of radiant oil
        will ever render starlight.
Keats' 'Bright Star'
            Van Gogh's powerful daub
dimensions formed by deepening thought
leave unmoved an immense Glory. Futility
        and its terrible anguish
                              rooted in the raw.

On Sempy roofs
truth haunts the dark
indescribable as the starriness
at the root of a star.

Someone has left the porch light on
car hazard lamps flood across the fields
the last half-mile - we see the path
lose our sense of drama, with relief.
Laugh off dark thoughts ... and run.

by
Gina Riley