The playwright Harold Pinter, who is against the war in Iraq, wrote this hard-hitting poem about the Bush-Blair relationship.

THE SPECIAL RELATIONSHIP

The bombs go off
The legs go off
The heads go off

The arms go off
The feet go off
The light goes out

The heads go off
The legs go off
The lust is up

The dead are dirt
The lights go out
The dead are dust

A man bows down
Before another man
And sucks his lust

Harold Pinter (2004)

P.S. See also my blog:

www.kendrive.blog.co.uk

Here is a rather sad poem that I have translated from the French.

BREAKFAST

He put the coffee
Into the cup
And added milk,
Then sugar -
And stirred
With a little spoon.

He drank the coffee
And replaced the cup
On the saucer.

Without speaking to me,
He lit a cigarette
And made smoke circles
In the air.

He placed the ash
Into the ashtray.

Without speaking,
Without looking at me,
He got up
And put his hat
On his head

And put on his raincoat,
Because it was raining.

He walked out
Into the rain
Without a word,
Without looking at me.

And I
Put my head in my hands . . .
And cried.


And here is the original French:

DEJEUNER DU MATIN

Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler
Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder
Il s'est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis
Son manteau de pluie
Parce qu'il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder
Et moi j'ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j'ai pleuré.

Jacques Prevert

Or does it?

In this poem by the contemporary Glaswegian poet, Tom Leonard, the schoolmaster seems to be experiencing unhealthy pleasure in the punishment he is handing out.

FOUR OF THE BELT

Jenkins, all too clearly it is time
for some ritual physical humiliation;
and if you cry, boy, you will prove
what I suspect - you are not a man.

As they say, Jenkins, this hurts me
more than it hurts you. But I show you
I am a man, by doing this, to you.

When you are a man, Jenkins, you may hear
that physical humiliation and ritual
are concerned with strange adult matters
- like rape, or masochistic fantasies.

You will not accept such stories.
Rather, you will recall with pride,
perhaps even affection, that day when I,
Mr Johnstone, summoned you before me,
and gave you four of the belt

like this. And this. And this. And this.

Tom Leonard

As I am short and melodramatic, this poem has a certain appeal for me.

Seriously, there is a message here; to do the things we want - to be ourselves.

GOD SAYS YES TO ME

I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don't paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes

Kaylin Haught

This poem was written by Peter Davison.

No, not the actor who played Doctor Who in the 1980s, but the American poet, essayist, teacher and lecturer, who was the poetry editor of "The Atlantic" magazine for thirty years.

"Peaches" is not liked by everyone, but it does illustrate the wonderful ways that English can be used.

PEACHES

A mouthful of language to swallow:
stretches of beach, sweet clinches,
breaches in walls, bleached branches;
britches hauled over haunches;
hunches leeches, wrenched teachers.

What English can do: ransack
the warmth that chuckles beneath
fuzzed surfaces, smooth velvet
richness, splashy juices.
I beseech you, peach,
clench me into the sweetness
of your reaches.

Peter Davison (1928-2004)

The Welsh poet, Sheenagh Pugh, writes:

This poem has a strong affinity with Robert Frost's "The Road Not Taken", as both explore the thought that sometimes we should strike out along a new path, ignoring the familiar.

WHAT IF THIS ROAD

What if this road, that has held no surprises
these many years, decided not to go
home after all; what if it could turn
left or right with no more ado
than a kite-tail? What if its tarry skin
were like a long, supple bolt of cloth,
that is shaken and rolled out, and takes
a new shape from the contours beneath?
And if it chose to lay itself down
in a new way; around a blind corner,
across hills you must climb without knowing
what's on the other side; who would not hanker
to be going, at all risks? Who wants to know
a story's end, or where a road will go?

Sheenagh Pugh

When friendship can be better than sex!

Apart from a brief return to New Zealand in 1975-1976, she has lived in Finchley, north London, teaching and working as a freelance writer.

HAPPY ENDING

After they had not made love
she pulled the sheet up over her eyes
until he was buttoning his shirt:
not shyness for their bodies - those
they had willingly displayed - but a frail
endeavour to apologise.

Later, though, drawn together by
a distaste for such 'untidy ends'
they agreed to meet again; whereupon
they giggled, reminisced, held hands
as though what they had made was love -
and not that happier outcome, friends.

Fleur Adcock

Yesterday I promised you a contrasting view to e e cummings' calm acceptance that a relationship had ended.

Today, in this poem by James Fenton, we see another attitude - "I want to hurt you more."

Some people are like that.
They split up and then they think:
Hey, maybe we haven't hurt each other to the uttermost.
Let's meet up and have a drink.

Let's go over it all again
Let's rake over the dirt.
Let me pick that scab of yours.
Does it hurt?

Let's go over what went wrong -
How and why and when.
Let's go over what went wrong
Again and again.

We hurt each other badly once.
We said a lot of nasty stuff.
But lately I've been thinking how
I didn't hurt you half enough.

Maybe there's more where that came from,
Something more malign.
Let me damage you again.
For the sake of old lang syne.

Yes, let me see you bleed again
For the sake of old lang syne.

James Fenton

P.S. Earlier this year I posted another poem by James Fenton about a relationship - "In Paris With You". You can find it in the January Archive.

If your relationship should end, would you seek out the new lover and extend your good wishes?

Well that is what E.E. Cummings suggests in this poem.

it may not always be so;and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another's,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not far away;
if on another's face your sweet hair lay
in such a silence as i know,or such
great writhing words as,uttering overmuch,
stand helplessly before the spirit at bay;

if this should be,i say if this should be-
you of my heart,send me a little word;
that i may go unto him,and take his hands,
saying,Accept all happiness from me.
Then shall i turn my face,and hear one bird
sing terribly afar in the lost lands.

e e cummings

Tomorrow I shall present a different point of view - the acrimonious, bitter break-up, seeking revenge.

Those of you who regularly read this blog will know that I have my favourite poets, to whom I return quite regularly.

It is really just a little word-picture, beautifully expressed.

SYMPHONY IN RED

Within the church
The solemn priests advance,
And the sunlight, stained by the heavy windows,
Dyes a yet richer red the scarlet banners
And the scarlet robes of the young boys that bear them,
And the thoughts of one of these are far away,
With carmined lips pouting an invitation,
Are with his love - his love, like a crimson poppy
Flaunting amid prim lupins;
And his ears hear nought of the words sung from the rubricked book,
And his heart is hot as the red sun.

A. S. J. Tessimond

Here is another writer who is new to me - Gavin Ewart (1916 - 1995).

However, today's poem is innocuous and amusing.

ENDING

The love we thought would never stop
now cools like a congealing chop.
The kisses that were hot as curry
are bird-pecks taken in a hurry.
The hands that held electric charges
now lie inert as four moored barges.
The feet that ran to meet a date
are running slow and running late.
The eyes that shone and seldom shut
are victims of a power cut.
The parts that then transmitted joy
are now reserved and cold and coy.
Romance, expected once to stay,
has left a note saying 'gone away'.

Gavin Ewart

No smoke without you, my fire.
After you left,
your cigarette glowed on in my ashtray
and sent up a long thread of such quiet grey
I smiled to wonder who would believe its signal
of so much love. One cigarette
in the non-smoker's tray.
As the last spire
trembles up, a sudden draught
blows it winding into my face.
Is it smell, is it taste?
You are here again, and I am drunk on your tobacco lips.
Out with the light.
Let the smoke lie back in the dark.
Till I hear the very ash
sigh down among the flowers of brass
I'll breathe, and long past midnight, your last kiss.

Edwin Morgan

"The Scottish Poet Laureate Edwin Morgan writes magnificent poems of requited love. In this poem the non-smoking narrator fondly contemplates the remains of his lover's post-coital ciagrette. The point he is making is that if you truly love someone, you love everything about them - even their most annoying and unhealthy habits. Morgan published this poem two years before 'coming out' at the age of 70."

(Note from Daisy Goodwin's anthology "Poems to last a Lifetime")

I am continuing the theme of unfaithfulness with this short poem by the contemporary Irish writer, Moyra Donaldson, who was born in Co Down in 1956.

She has published three collections of poetry, writes for stage and screen and, for two decades, has been involved in welfare and educational work with young people.

INFIDELITIES

After he'd gone
she found money in the sheets,
fallen when he pulled his trousers off.
Gathering the coins into a small pile
she set them on the window ledge.
They sat, gathering dust, guilt,
until one day her husband
scooped them into his pocket,
Small change for a call
he couldn't make from the house.

Mary Donaldson

I am staying with women with this poem by a mystery lady - Rosemary Tonks.

This, her best-known poem, is about Infidelity.

STORY OF A HOTEL ROOM

Thinking we were safe-insanity!
We went in to make love. All the same
Idiots to trust the little hotel bedroom.
Then in the gloom...
...And who does not know that pair of shutters
With all the awkward hook on them
All screeching whispers? Very well then, in the gloom
We set about acquiring one another
Urgently! But on a temporary basis

Only as guests-just guests of one another's senses.
But idiots to feel so safe you hold back nothing
Because the bed of cold, electric linen
Happens to be illicit...
To make love as well as that is ruinous.
Londoner, Parisian, someone should have warned us
That without permanent intentions
You have absolutely no protection
-If the act is clean, authentic, sumptuous,
The concurring deep love of the heart
Follows the naked work, profoundly moved by it.

Rosemary Tonks

Anna Wickham (1884 - 1947) is a writer who is new to me.

THE FIRED POT

In our town, people live in rows.
The only irregular thing in a street is the steeple;
And where that point to, God only knows,
And not the poor disciplined people!

And I have watched the women growing old,
Passionate about pins, and pence, and soap,
Till the heart within my wedded breast grew cold,
And lost all hope.

But a young soldier came to our town,
He spoke his mind most candidly.
He asked me quickly to lie down,
And that was very good for me.

For though I gave him no embrace-
Remembering my duty-
He altered the expression of my face,
And gave me back my beauty..

To anyone I met yesterday at the 'Poetry Cafe' in Walton - "Welcome!"

More from him perhaps on some future occasion.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

When I was lonely
Your fingers reached for mine, their touch
Natural as sunlight's.

When I was hardened
Your warmness thawed my rock as gently
As music thought.

When I was angry
You smiled: 'But this our day is short
For these long shadows.'

When I was solemn
You held out your laughter, casual as light
For a cigarette.

When I was troubled
Your understanding crossed the bounds of
Words to silence.

When I was frightened
Your eyes said: 'Fear's a child's dream. I too
Have dreamed and woken.'

A.S.J. Tessimond

For the next dew days I am continuing with the poetry of A.S.J. Tessimond (1902-1962), who spent a short time in my locality.

I hope you like this poem.

THE SAME HOUR WILL NOT STRIKE

'Nothing happens twice,
And the same rain will not fall,
And the same wind will not pass,"
Said the Lover sadly, sadly,
Looking in the glass.

'Nothing happens twice,
And the same rain will not fall,
And the same stream will not run,'
Said the Lost One gladly, gladly,
Groping past the Horror,
Past the Shadow, to the Sun.

A.S.J. Tessimond

TWO MEN IN A DANCE HALL

Tom laughs, is free and easy;
And girls obey his call,
For whether they obey it
He hardly cares at at all.

But Edward burns with longing;
And angry anxious pain
Cries from his eyes too loudly,
Too eagerly, in vain.

A.S.J. Tessimond

THE RABBIT

The rabbit has a charming face:
Its private life is a disgrace.
I really dare not name to you
The awful things that rabbits do;
Things that your paper never prints --
You only mention them in hints.
They have such lost, degraded souls
No wonder they inhabit holes;
When such depravity is found
It only can live underground.

Anon

"ONLY IN SLEEP"

Only in sleep I see their faces,
Children I played with when I was a child,
Louise comes back with her brown hair braided,
Annie with ringlets warm and wild.

Only in sleep Time is forgotten --
What may have come to them, who can know?
Yet we played last night as long ago,
And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.

The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces,
I met their eyes and found them mild --
Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder,
And for them am I too a child?

Sarah Teasdale

AT MIDNIGHT

Now at last I have come to see what life is,
Nothing is ever ended, everything only begun,
And the brave victories that seem so splendid
Are never really won.

Even love that I built my spirit's house for,
Comes like a brooding and a baffled guest,
And music and men's praise and even laughter
Are not so good as rest.

Sarah Teasdale

I heard them making love in the next room
all night on and off at every hour.
I heard moans, whisperings and sighs
and in between silence and its power.

I hardly slept, they kept me half awake.
I saw their young bodies intertwined.
I heard laughter, sniggering and cries
and passion urgently defined.

Next morning I prepared to leave quite late
and went downstairs to organise the bill.
Such a sense of emptiness about,
the office open, everything still.

I needed coffee and a fresh croissant.
The manager in black at last appeared.
“Those people in the room next door to mine . . . ”
He looked at me, I smiled; I’d say he leered.

“There was only one man in that room.
Old. We didn’t know he was dying.”
I looked at him again, he looked at me.
I could have sworn that he was lying.

Vivian Smith

My poem yesterday, by Simon Armitage, was described by one of my readers as "gruesome".

Here, in contrast, is something more gentle and romantic - a very short poem by Sarah Teasdale.

I would live in your love
As the sea-grasses live in the sea,
Borne up by each wave as it passes,
Drawn down by each wave that recedes;
I would empty my soul of the dreams
That have gathered in me,
I would beat with your heart as it beats,
I would follow your soul as it leads.

Sarah Teasdale

I am venturing into the darker side of Simon Armitage, with this poem about those who self-harm.

Warning: If you don't like the sight of blood, do not proceed beyond this point.

I SAY I SAY I SAY

Anyone here had a go at themselves
for a laugh? Anyone opened their wrists
with a blade in the bath? Those in the dark
at the back, listen hard. Those at the front
in the know, those of us who have, hands up,
let's show that inch of lacerated skin
between the forearm and the fist. Let's tell it
like it is: strong drink, a crimson tidemark
round the tub, a yard of lint, white towels
washed a dozen times, still pink. Tough luck.
A passion then for watches, bangles, cuffs.
A likely story: you were lashed by brambles
picking berries from the woods. Come clean, come good,
repeat with me the punch line 'Just like blood'
when those at the back rush forward to say
how a little love goes a long long long way.

Simon Armitage

I am very bothered when I think
of the bad things I have done in my life.
Not least that time in the chemistry lab
when I held a pair of scissors by the blades
and played the handles
in the naked lilac flame of the Bunsen burner;
then called your name, and handed them over.

O the unrivalled stench of branded skin
as you slipped your thumb and middle finger in,
then couldn't shake off the two burning rings. Marked,
the doctor said, for eternity.

Don't believe me, please, if I say
that was just my butterfingered way, at thirteen,
of asking you if you would marry me.

Simon Armitage

THE SANCTUARY

If I could keep my innermost Me
Fearless, aloof and free
Of the least breath of love or hate,
And not disconsolate
At the sick load of sorrow laid on men;
If I could keep a sanctuary there
Free even of prayer,
If I could do this, then,
With quiet candor as I grew more wise
I could look even at God with grave forgiving eyes.

Sarah Teasdale

For the time being, this is the last of my poems by Simon Armitage - an interesting writer.

ABOUT HIS PERSON

Five pounds fifty in change, exactly,
a library card on its date of expiry.

A postcard stamped,
unwritten, but franked,

a pocket size diary slashed with a pencil
from March twenty-fourth to the first of April.

A brace of keys for a mortise lock,
an analogue watch, self winding, stopped.

A final demand
in his own hand,

a rolled up note of explanation
planted there like a spray carnation

but beheaded, in his fist.
A shopping list.

A givaway photgraph stashed in his wallet,
a kepsake banked in the heart of a locket.

no gold or silver,
but crowning one finger

a ring of white unweathered skin.
That was everything.

Simon Armitage