Biography

I was turned on to poetry after winning a plastic army lorry for reciting "I had a little pony" at the Coronation celebrations, held in our local pub, "Scrimmies", in 1953, aged 5. I have never looked back although the prizes never seemed to get bigger or better! "Write out Loud" is my third or fourth poetic reincarnation, with years of fallow in between. I have often thought of being a novelist. I'm sure you have too. While I think about it, I write poems as synopses of no-longer-voguish kitchen sink dramas, which went out with the kitchen sink. Now we've got a dishwasher I might become more forward-looking and "modern". I set up my first poetry group, "Morg Soc", at Uni abetted by a group of friends, who shared the fantasy of literary immortality and adulating women. "Write out Loud" is a little more sophisticated, a little more grounded, but the fantasies remain the same. Favourite poets Dylan Thomas (for his prose)Gary Snyder (for Han Shan and Rip Rap particularly)and Hovis Presley. In my days as a Chinese cookery demonstrator at Pontin's, people marvelled at my wok and chopper work.Hovis could have made that sound quite funny.Having hated my RC upbringing and "mis-education", I now find myself drawn back to the Irish diaspora, and drink a lot of Guinness as a political statement.Thank you to all the Write out Loud regulars and irregulars for providing a platform, a couch, and an audience for my ongoing therapy.

Samples

Entwistle

She points to a black cat,
In a disused greenhouse,
Sleeping on a shelf,
Surrounded by nettles.

But all the time,
I’m thinking of the girl,
With the generous mouth,
In the loose culottes,
Basking in the yard,
Of the Strawbury Duck,
Head back and gently,
Very gently,
Drawing back the fabric,
Towards her crotch
For maximum sun exposure.

The Taylor’s “Landlord”
Never tasted sweeter.

I am drinking a pint of “Landlord”
In the Howcroft Inn.
And find myself
Thinking of the black cat,
Surrounded by nettles,
Sleeping on a shelf,
In a battered greenhouse
In Entwistle,
And a girl in loose culottes.

Dec 2006



For the man who started this whole thing rolling.....

John Gilroy R.I.P.

So this is it Mr Jellyhead.
No more cat, no more hat.
No more Tom Waits reads Philip Larkin.
No more Tommy Cooper meets Spike Milligan.
Like a true performer
You left us wanting more.
As you often said
“Timing, Dave, it’s all about timing”.

Perhaps there’ll be a plaque in the Man and Scythe
“Here sat John Jellyhead,
Poet and Storyteller
Spinning his magic, weaving his dreams,
Charming the wary, inspiring the diffident,
He had no grandiose scheme,
His only rule, “there are no rules”
But he made a difference”.

So thank you Mr Jellyhead,
For all you’ve said and done,
The cat with the hat
With the gravelly laugh
And the rude boy demeanour,
Has said farewell to Bolton,
And hello to Nirvana
Which I understand is not far from Brixton.

Dave Morgan
16 September 2004

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

Last blog entry

as if by magic...

Posted on Sunday 21st June 2009 5:58 pm

as if by magic.....

 

One, easing the poetry bus down Radcliffe Road, approaching the bridge that spans the mighty Tonge.

Two, its last journey, all decisions made, Metro Salvage assure me they pay “top prices”.

Three, Joe, six, chunnering in the seat behind, goofing about school.

Four, BANG!

Five, brown blur slaps windscreen, disappears as brakes slam.

Six, simultaneous thoughts, (is that possible?) A child? A dog? No MOT.

Seven, bouncing across the bridge, on its back, an adult roe deer.

Eight, more thoughts, road kill, dying animal, handy length of cast iron pipe under seat, child on board.

Nine, Joe, “that was silly”, as animal comes to halt twenty yards away.

Ten, car sweeps round hairpin bend at far end of bridge.

Eleven, prepare for carnage, should I shield child from horror?

Twelve, observe deer struggle to feet (no broken legs then), pauses as if to leap bridge parapet.

Thirteen, think “don’t do it”, thirty foot drop into mighty Tonge.

Fourteen, deer looks at car, looks at van, canters towards us; “see Joe it’s a deer”.

Fifteen, scooting past, dives into the ginnel it came from, between river and  churchyard.

Sixteen, in the mirror, the crossing lady from St Stephen’s stares in disbelief.

Seventeen, pinch myself, count blessings for no road kill or need for kerbside butchery.

Eighteen, drive Joe to school, and the poetry bus to oblivion.

Nineteen, Monday morning, 8.45.  The week starts here.

Twenty, beat Metro up from £80 to £120. Good bye poetry bus.

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