the place that inspired a poem…..
Photographs taken August 2020 (copyright ashyvicar)
This is Bollihope……
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Bollihope
re-claimed by nature
slag heaps carpeted in green
standing at the rock face
did they see magnificence?
with hammers, picks and crowbars
a future of lung disease
could they imagine
children splashing in the water
picnics near the burn
dare-devil races to the top?
it looks beautiful
she said
this lime kiln landscape of testimony
to hard lived lives past
navigated by a stream of liquor
like some resurrected Christ
wounds for all to see
brutal in their reminder
of a price paid
for this tranquillity
copyright ashyvicar September 2020
Nick Cave
to be
minimalist
is best
no words
I write
could capture
a desolation
that brings consolation
in a truly Ignatian sense
but if I had to
refer to
just one lyric
on pain of death
it would be
forevermore
“I don’t believe in an interventionist God”
my heart feels
strangely warmed
within
each and every time
copyright a shyvicar 2020
Robert Runcie
I played guitar
in a band that bore his name
but did not recognise him
when he spoke to me
through a car window
like a blues brothers’ rawhide
we replayed our repertoire
joined each time by Giles
for his song of entertainment
that a man named Paul inspired
I felt embarrassed
a make-shift car park attendant
the special college day
who blank-faced the arriving
VIP
that was my experience
of Robert Runcie
tank commander and archbishop
so much taller
in real life
did I channel that into the band?
did my rhythm guitar
signal loss of face?
awkwardness came
naturally.
I allude to it sporadically
the band that is
for effect
“The Rob Runcie Experience?!!?” Really!??!
my momentary encounter I try to forget
copyright a shyvicar April 2020
The Screaming Melons
you could say
I was a die-hard fan
at both of their gigs
they banged out the blues
in a feelgood style
I loved them for their name
dreamed of being a part
jealous of their fashion
I bought a blues harp
I could not make it wail
I could not make it moan
like Pete
like Sonny Boy
in my mouth
all tuneless and useless
all teeth and gums
so I salute
those Screaming Melons
the joy their blues bought
in all too few moments
and yes
in flights of fancy
still dream
of making harmonicas
talk
copyright a shyvicar April 2020
my gig going years
I will list them
the bands that I’ve seen
as I nursed a pint
for as long as I could
in venues
where in spite of the crowds
I was always on my own
I did my best to blend in
sought to give
an impression
that
I was waiting for others
who
stuck in queues at the bar
couldn’t get back
or had lost me in the dark
were you fooled?
were you there?
in Gloucester,
Cheltenham
Sheffield
Leicester
I will be specific
or did the drink
the chewing of the fat
let me go undetected
like the thief Garrett?
as I yearned to hear Harvey
sing about her dress
lingering behind you
a respectful distance.
copyright ashyvicar april 2020
The Holy Grail
the holy grail
that cup of old
is this it before us now?
Who dares to touch?
Who dares to hold?
Who dares the story to retell?
of how red wine
fresh full-bodied wine
was passed
hand to mouth
mouth to hand
as a sign of a hope
that had only ever been dreamed of
a hope battered by the storms of time
a hope shattered by ages long gone
and yet still hanging there
waiting to be grasped
waiting to be held
close to the heart
copyright ashyvicar 1992 re-discoverd and mildly amended 2019
Valentines
i once sent you a valentine
the kind only shy boys send
where even anonymous
reveals too much
and
– I love you –
is never penned
i could have slipped it
under your door
furtively placed it
in a bag
dropped it
by a pigeon-hole
but I took the bus to Gloucester
the trip
I don’t remember now
or how I found the courage
to let the card
slip
from my hand
into the darkness
of unknown consequences
valentines night
together –
with a band of SCA volunteers
walking wintry February lanes
torchlight
streetlight
starlight
breath hanging in chilly air
visiting those marginalised
just for their learning disabilities –
I felt you knew
sensed it in the atmosphere
conceivably my face
just cried out
Gloucester!
you said
– did you send any cards? –
i said
looking at traces
i couldn’t read
– no –
You smiled
lightly brushed my back
with mitten hands
carrying on with lives
never to be knit
copyright ashyvicar2019
Bill
you played guitar
a child’s toy
plucked
strummed
singing silently away
music inside your head
in turn I
played halting chords
Morrisey and Marr’s
catalogue
stretching and waiting
but sat on the floor
you couldn’t hear
dissonance
a weight of shyness
mis-placed sevenths
strung to a tune
I couldn’t hear
your melodies
spirit of inspiration
take on the world
lost to silence
hearing and all speech
impaired
copyright ashyvicar 2019
I want to be……
the poet of mediocrity
for the mediocre age
using mediocre language
to vent my mediocre rage
I’ll plagiarise and sanitise
anything good that comes to hand
I’ll be
a bootleg Byron
a paper thin Plath
a Heaney hologram
I’ll take endless selfies
highlighting my golden pen
I’ll sit crane-like
but just right
to hide my paunch
and then….
I’ll declare war
in mediocrity
an expert I will be
sit on sofas
strictly dance in loafers
ice-skate with gophers
a rhyming book
open on my knee
from the east to the west
I’ll be on all the shows
divide opinion
boost the ratings
punching Piers on the nose
whilst in a hand cart
the world goes to hell
fanned by
climate change
brexit bitterness
all my complicity
as well
copyright ashyvicar 2019
ashyvicar 