Poetry evening in sight...

Poet-in-Residence is planning to go to a poetry & music evening. The last time he went to this annual event he won a water-colour painting in a raffle. It's all done in aid of a worthwhile charity and so its a good thing for P-i-R to support. The poet in attendance may be, it's not clear yet, a particular favourite of Poet-in-Residence's; and although he doesn't pretend to understand a word that she recites he is very much taken with her strong and confident delivery. The first poem below is about this particular poet. The second poem is about the English, Welsh and Irish poets Tennyson, Wordsworth, Thomas and Brown. The third poem imagines the relaxing atmosphere of New Orleans before the flood.

Attending a Poetry Reading

Nobody understood it really
understood what it was
really all about
although some of us had heard it
once or twice before
and one of us
had even read it several times
but still
nobody understood it

and when I pressed her
about it
pinned her
to the bar
with a kind of pathetic poetic gaze
she held forth

that it was all a stream
of consciousness
and that I should have known
that

what went unsaid
was meant
and was indeed
more
than implied -

since
you're something of a poet
too

or so I've heard

she said


Walking with the poets

When Tennyson tramped
by Freshwater Bay
and the wind off the Channel
soaked him with spray
he mentally noted the lines
in his mind
and wrote them up later
after he' dined.

Likewise Will Wordsworth
our fell-walking friend
wandering and wondering
and rhyming no end
over the hills
and the craggy outcrops
down in the valleys
and up on the tops.

So it goes on; Dylan Thomas
you've read
how he rambled in Wales
around Laugharne
and Worm's Head;
a gill in the Crown
and a pint in the Brown's
a dart in the bar
and a card in the lounge.

Up on the moors
in his scarf and his bonnet
gritty Ted Hughes
was nowt but was honest,
and though they confess
he went on a bit
those true Yorkshire folk
thought Ted was a hit.

But the best walk of all
is in fair Dublin town
to the fine broken rhythm
of dear Christy Brown
who grunted and strained
on the lavatory pot*
and used the adjective
lugubrious a lot.


Old Times

the sultry southern air
is filled with lazy jazz
soft swing and reverie
old souls enjoying
an evening's chat
an anecdotal clink of ice

they face the chapel bell
muse on Sunday's hymns
and serious clothes

dogfish soup
is burbling on the hob


c)- Gwilym Williams

*Christy Brown wrote an amusing poem
about being disturbed by a curious farmer
whilst engaged upon a scatological matter -
the farmer disturbed by Christy's plight
(see Daniel Day Lewis film 'My Left Foot'
or read biography of same title)offered
to lend a hand!