A man looks down to the water's flow
from an iron bridge
the river below.
Something stirs
his mind goes back
to a North Atlantic flotilla attack.
"Hard a starboard!" he shouts aloud
drawing a disbelieving crowd
then draws his duffle coat tight around
hearing the peremptory sound.
Momentarily startled
he sees the swans
in some apparent disarray;
his illusions scuppered
the crowd looks back
his hair blows free,
he thinks it might be time for tea.
Likewise, I can't add any further constructive thoughts than that I too liked this, Ray.
I'm very pleased to catch your comments in my poetic butterfly net folks, and examine them one by one.!
David : I will own up to having designed this as a dementia incident, going back as apparently happens to a former time made real . It's intriguing that it could be equally valid in the case of re-enactment. Made me think really how disconcerting anything out of the "normal" behaviour patterns can be and how real can be the drives and experiences of long ago. Thanks for thinking it English - I do agree with that. Can't escape humour and why should we?
Martin, I am glad you enjoyed the flavour of this and the voice which I am beginning to relax into and exploit (I hope)!
Cynthia, that's interesting about the nursery rhyme aspect. I hadn't thought of that, but it fits and brings it all to a sort of childlike head ! Many thanks.
Mark: You always give value for money thanks, so much to consider. I know what you mean about the meter; I wanted to include the "illusions scuppered" line in even though it didn't scan, I needed it where it is to give flavour to the idea of a boating reference ! I think your story should go in a poem of its own, don't you?
Suki, welcome on board friend. Thanks very much.
Love to all . Ray
Hi there Ray,
Really, I can't add too much to the previous commenters, but as always, I enjoyed your reading too.
Cheers,
Suki
The WW2 feel of flashback works well here. Not sure about the move
away from the rhythm of the first two stanzas but the final two lines
are just right, reflecting the sense
of what was "jerked back" to the peaceful reality of what is.
Towards the end of his life, I was
privileged to know the composer George Lloyd, a fellow Marylebone
resident. As a Royal Marine bandsman - along with his fellows - he performed gun-aiming duties in
the bowels of the Arctic Convoy cruiser HMS Trinidad.
He was the last of three to escape
through the hatch when his ship
was struck by a rogue torpedo...his
comrades drowning in the oil from
the ruptured tanks. His case was
given up and left with his wife who
nursed him back to health - to
pursue a cruelly interrupted career
as a pre-war classical music prodigy. Despite his wartime horrors. his music was never less than uplifting and optimistic, and
his personal personal stoicism in
the face of post-war suffering,
disappointment and neglect was
the stuff of heroics from my own
POV. He came to my mind when
reading this terse and tightly woven
poem about what never quite goes
away.
An excellent little poem, rich with far-reaching ideas, and well-crafted. The final stanza is outstanding, dropping all the historical inference into nursery rhyme format. Which is, after all, exactly what nursery rhymes are.
I agree with David this has poem definitely has something which is quintessentially English about it. It also all the better for hearing you read it.
Nice one
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raypool
Wed 12th Jul 2017 17:28
Hi John. Thanks a lot , i'm pleased you had a liking for this. A welcome visitor and vive la difference in content I say! Also thanks folks for all the likes, appreciated.
Ray