Biography

Ron Scowcroft's prize winning poetry has been published in national poetry magazines and on the Guardian Books website. He reads at venues throughout the North West and is a regular guest at The Spotlight, Lancaster. For more information, go to: www.ronscowcroft.co.uk www.myspace.com/ronscowcroft

Samples

The Man Who Could Hear Hiroshima

‘There was a mulberry tree,’
We had gone round the pleasantries of strangers:
The oppressive weather, his Labrador,
And the usual outrages: the waste of Iraq, the moves on Iran.
And what for?
An arthritic finger pointed down as if Bowland Fell
Would release a slick plume.
‘And the Kempei Tai let their batons fall and looked west,
Towards the ridge.’
I watched a plane track north from Manchester,
A mercury speck, overscoring our afternoon.
‘The birds left and the guard-dog stiffened.’
I saw it later: a sky like migraine, the bright
Edge on pagodas and people,
The rush of dark leaves.
‘This wind, from nowhere, this wind.’
He summoned again his Pentecost,
His history and coincidence,
From the first whispers to the wail and the howl.
Slowly, ragged bits of news broke.
The sullen guards spoke, ‘Fire Storm. Fire Storm.’
No one had the words yet for what had been done,
But he had heard it, felt it on the skin.
Then they starved him and beat him.

He stepped back into a stifled August
With the willows beginning to yield
And his black companion closing the distance.

Ron Scowcroft



Age Concern

I expected cabbage tweeds,
bad luck pyjamas, cardigans in dribbled egg,
not a Saint Lauren suit, hardly used,
snug at the shoulder,
right in the arm, the length of the leg.
I imagined a lifetime’s cruise,
his retirement celebration,
something Masonic,
a black tie do.

‘His box is in the back, love,’ she said,
‘just your size, almost new, and some music
and stuff, take a look, go on through.’
And there it was, under sheets and velveteen curtains:
the duty of daughters, the custom of sons,
the sorting and folding, the getting it over,
the getting it done.

I picked up his button down collars,
his danced in once shoes,
his not quite in fashion,
his dad-rock selection of singles in vinyl, assorted LPs.
Ah well, ‘one man’s loss . . .’ they say.

She bagged my clothes and my records,
wished me good-day at the door’s dull chime.
Anyway, I’m a convert now. Time was,
you got nothing but hand me downs,
Age Concern tat in faint hints of urine,
you got James Last, some crap compilation,
not ‘Who’s Next’, not ‘My Generation’.

Ron Scowcroft


All rights to these poems belong to the author. Please seek permission if you wish to perform, broadcast, publish or sample any work appearing here. 'The Man Who Could Hear Hiroshima' first appeared in 'Poetry Nottingham'.

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