The Leper Stone

In a cleft in the scarp slope of the Cleveland Hills, surrounded on three sides by steep tree-clad hills, now part of the North Yorkshire Moors National Park, lie a small number of houses. Now highly desirable properties, two miles from the nearby market town where I grew up. It is said that this secluded spot was, in medieval times, inhabited by a small community of lepers. In past times leprosy was thought to be both highly infectious and incurable. Lepers were required to remain within the confines of their village and never to come into direct contact with other human beings. Well meaning townsfolk would, from time to time, leave food beside a stone set up to mark the limit beyond which all lepers were never to venture. Such a ‘Leper Stone’ still stands at this spot as do several similar stones in other parts of the British Isles.  Whilst there is some dispute over the truth of this story, there does appear to have been a leper colony here in medieval times and certainly such places and such stones can be found in other parts of the country.  My verse below attempts to convey something of the desolate, bleak, despairing nature of existence for those who in past times were afflicted with this dreaded

The LEPER STONE

I live
a lazar
isolated
shut off from life
from the world’s reality
in that ancient Chernobyl
as a hermit monk
an eremite

my path
not of my choosing
but chosen for me
by disease
by circumstance
life’s throw of the dice
or perhaps it was death’s
for my existence is
a living death
my isolation
whilst I wither
unknown
untouchable
confined
in this cleft in the hills
one carucate of land
one oxgang
to roam
to till
to survive

let no one in
lest I corrupt all
contamination’s child
my daily burden
to see what morsels
of discarded waste
have been left for me
on the leper stone
pig swill yesterday
nothing today
tomorrow
I may not be here tomorrow

my family
similarly afflicted
now passed on
released from
their sentence
myself
inheriting
their misfortune
their bleak history
their misbegotten future

VINEGAR

‘Fish & Chip Shop’ … Pen and Wash – WHB 2017

VINEGAR

 Sometimes  

I feel like a priest

In a fish and chip queue

Quietly thinking

As the vinegar runs through

How nice it would beTo buy supper for two

By Roger McGough

 [ From:  Penguin Modern Poets 10 – Henri; McGough; Patten ]

This gentle compact verse catches, in just a few phrases, some of the emotion of a humdrum everyday activity and wistfully points to the suppressed yearnings of both a personal and a monastic life.

Roger McGough  (1937 – ) is an English poet, broadcaster, playwright, and children’s author . He presents the BBC Radio 4 programme ‘Poetry Please’.   He is one of the leading members of the group which have become known as The Liverpool Poets’.

THE BLACK HOUSE

‘The Black House’ … This house still stands in a North Yorkshire country town – tarred in black still, as it has been for at least the past 100 years. Photo – WHB 2016

THE BLACK HOUSE

The house stood alone
beside the beck
its walls pitched in black
ebony
against the skyline
tarred
against the weather
cold and dark
somehow so sinister
but housing
a family of seven

Fortunes told
fortunes lost
life’s foragers
five kids
one my age
runny nosed urchins
unwashed
unabashed
‘Throwers of words
As they did stones’

Banned from playing with
such snot- noses
yet,
from time to time
I did
their home a dark place
a cluttered life
midst the family debris
best left undisturbed

Mused
amused
and yet afraid
in such alien space
I shrivelled
and fretted

Only outdoors
in the wood-burn
tarred
air of their yard
there was a happiness
I could recognise
participate in
hiding in the woodpile
humping logs
to build a den
sticks
goading the dog
encouraging
the excitement of his barks
teasing the tangled
knotted
sheepdog blackness
of  his coat
loving the illicit thrills
on offer at
The Black House

Before running
the beck-side wall
to return to
my own good fortune
warm and bright
fire
forge
and furnace –
Red
Not Black.

A Sign Too Far . . . Again

I have, on two previous occasions, dealt with the modern day scourge caused by the multitude of signs and advertisements which so often deface our side-walks and pavements. Below, I use my own photographs again to illustrate my views on this subject . .

A SIGN TOO FAR   . . .  TAKE 3

So often have I been
attacked by signs
Throughout the day
Plethora
Of signals
Face me as I walk
Innocuous one by one
But fearsome in phalanx
Threatening my advance
Discouraging my progress
Terrorising travel
Note to myself –
Beware
Be wary

A sign
Is a sign
Is a sign
I need to tell you that
I need to let you know
To say it loud and clear
Please notice me
Notice my notice
If I say it often enough
You are bound to notice
Allow me to grab
Your attention
And your money
Let me
tell you about myself
I’m not shy
Passer by
I’ll tell you why
Just shout it out
And cry
To the sky
Saying by the by
Please notice me
Please don’t go
You need to know
I’ve much to say
In every way
All through the day

Too much
Too far
I say
Just clear the way
And let me pass
Your sinister intent
Not heaven sent
You need me more
Than I need you
So please take notice
I refuse
To take notice
Of your notice.

Photographs … WHB – 2017

MONEY – Thoughts for a Chancellor

The UK Chancellor of the Exchequer has just pronounced on the future of the country in times when the majority of the population find themselves in considerably strained financial circumstances . Perhaps a few thoughts occasioned by a reading which I quote from from: ‘The Funny Side – 101 Humorous Poems’ – edited with an introduction by Wendy Cope, will strike a chord with many of us . . .

It is from the American poet, Richard Willard Armour (July 15, 1906 – February 28, 1989)

That money talks

I won’t deny.

I heard it once,

It said, “Goodbye”.

Richard Armour also once wrote: . . . “Politics, it seems to me, for years, or all too long, has been concerned with right or left instead of right or wrong.“

Love Autumn – Hate Novenmer

I Love the Autumn but hate November

I Love the Autumn but hate November.

Remember, remember the 11^th November –

Gunfire. no reason, no Plot.

The waste of young lives sent forward and shot.

The fireworks and bonfires just serve to remind me

Of bombs and incendiaries, of the carnage to see,

Of the fear and the doubts, but the knowledge of duty

To do what they must to perpetuate beauty.

The beauty of freedom, of lives without limits,

Not theirs for the taking, nor lasting but minutes,

But those back at home who are counting on honour

To see the boys through, until they’re a goner.

Some came home broken, wounded and battered,

Wondering if everything was worth it or mattered.

Too quickly their country forgot what they did,

No support for de-briefing, no reward, God forbid!

They did it for duty, for love of their country,

For the King (or the Queen) to put it quite bluntly,

For a future of peace, tranquillity and love,

But the future of them was in heaven above.

Their light was snuffed out on the earth down below

But their  life we shall honour as the stars above glow

They shall live in our hearts and our minds here on earth

As November comes round to provide a new birth.

I don’t hate November; I hate that it hurts me.

They gave up their lives for our freedom you see,

But my hurt is as nothing compared to their war.

My heart’s full of love, for the young men, who gave all.

This poem was composed by, and published with the permission of, Caroline Miller-Tate, whilst contemplating the significance of our memories engendered during this year’s Remembrance weekend period . . . “At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them”

Bombs Away

Retro Advert seen in a charity shop in Devon, UK … Photo – WHB 2016

Bombs Away . . . Keeping our boys Regular

A provocative
narrative
Re a sanative
laxative.

As an ex-airman I can say

Advertising ‘Bombs Away’

Should not be a cause of laughter

I have heard of nothing dafter.

I consider it a waste,

Certainly leaves a nasty taste.

This advert I would call a fail,

In fact it is beyond the pale.

So airmen of the world unite,

Stop them talking utter tripe.

Dropping Bombs is not a joke,

Save it for that Hitler bloke.

He’s the one deserves derision,

Not our brave boys on a mission.

Nothing regular about a war,

Always ends with blood and gore.

So don’t make fun of our boys in blue,

Or the next one missing could be you.

ZEUGMAS

Burnt out Car, Burnt out Life’  A303 – 2016 … Photo-WHB

ZEUGMAS

(And even ‘Zeugmata’!)

Zeugmas are fun, so don’t be averse,
Use them to colour your prose and your verse.

#   #   #

Burnt out your car and your life,
Leave a fierce scar and your beautiful wife.

Start a new page and a movement;
Room for one more and for improvement.

Hold your breath and the front door;
Cry for lost love and for more.

Lend me a fiver and your ears;
Dry your washing and your tears.

Break your wrist watch and your heart;
Blow a kiss and blow apart.

Take your time and my advice,
Think positive, but do it twice.

Cover with dirt as well as glory;
Read a mind and a bedtime story.

His licence expired, then he did;
Give him a kiss and fifty quid.

Make breakfast and the bed,
And leave a tip or the room instead.

Sold a basket and a pup;
Grow angry then and do grow up.

Catch a cold and a thief,
Hold a baby and a belief.

Fish for compliments and for shark;
Play in the band and in the park.

Take your leave and take your hat;
Kick the bucket and the cat.

#  #  #

How rewarding that such malfunctions
Create in language such fun conjunctions.

General Waste Comes To Town

‘General Waste’ … Photos – WHB – Surrey, UK, 2017

.

GENERAL WASTE COMES TO TOW

When General Waste first came to town
He brought a squad of others;
They came to clean us up and were
His military brothers.

They stand on corners, pavements edge,
In regimental fashion;
They’re smart and very business-like
And do their job with passion.

Intent on clearing up the streets
Of this, our unkempt town,
These sentinels of conscience stand
And scold us with their frown.

Receptacles of all our litter,
Thriving on our waste;
And if we dare to ignore them
They treat us with distaste.

They’ll tell the world of our disgrace
They’ll make sure we are booked,
And when the final reckoning comes
That won’t be overlooked.

‘General Waste’ … Photos – WHB – Surrey, UK, 2017

A Swarm of Bees Worth Hiving

I have a book, passed down to my wife from her father and his father before him, with the title of ‘ILLUSTRATED ANECDOTES and PITHY PIECES’.  It was published in 1874 and which, of course, contains just what the title describes – well, the Victorian idea of such things!

I am reproducing a scanned image of one of the entries which plays with words in rhyming couplets, as I often like to do in my own verses.  (Not sure about the attempt to rhyme ‘faith’ with ‘death’ though!). Amusing and educational aphorisms, life-enhancing even, and very PITHY !!!