October 14, 2004

• “An English Country Church”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  When the large church door is closed, there is silence.
  

  
  

  One can strain one’s ears to hear any type of noise,
  

  
  

  At least in summer when the heaters are switched off.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  There is in a modern world, not much perfect silence,
  

  
  

  Jesus in the desert would today have been woken up by aircraft flying overhead.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I light a couple of candles,
  

  
  

  Outside, past the one non-stained-glass window, I can see a tree blowing.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I say a little prayer.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  It’s hard for me to kneel down these days,
  

  
  

  So when there are no other of God’s servants about, I stand up and say my piece,
  

  
  

  I am sure He will understand that I still love Him.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I then sit down in my special chair
  

  
  

  And I do nothing but think.
  

  
  

  Not day-dream, but think
  

  
  

  Of all of the things that I am sure I could do better in this world.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Sometimes visitors creep into the church as they are wont to do in England,
  

  
  

  Nervously, as if God is rebulking them for not entering his domain more often.
  

  
  

  They look at the leaflets,
  

  
  

  Buy a couple
  

  
  

  And conscientiously put the right money into the “poor-box”;
  

  
  

  Then they look around.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  When the visiters see me, they jump,
  

  
  

  And stammer as if they are intruding.
  

  
  

  Of course I get up and ask them where they come from, that sort of thing;
  

  
  

  I can play the perfect host.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  It’s funny the way they then linger,
  

  
  

  Scared to leave the church too quickly and thus show boredom,
  

  
  

  But all of the time feeling slightly uncomfortable.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Poor things,
  

  
  

  Many only came into church, because after the shops and the famous cavern, there is little else to do.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

   I close the door to their guilty whispers as they walk back down the path
  

  
  

  Past the lichen-stained crosses of Victorian England,
  

  
  

  Past where Wm Ogden, Mary Ogden, and all nine of their children, (the eldest living until he was ten), lay buried,
  

  
  

  Past the yew-tree and the chestnut and the holly…
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Then once again there is silence,
  

  
  

  Once again there is only the Lord and I
  

  
  

  In this English country church.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  The Rev. Tobias Trontby.
  

  
  

  ____________________________

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  To a Wake in Ireland, and I doze off.
  

  
  

  ______________________________
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  To a wake in Ireland and I doze off
  

  
  

  Before realising I had better get moving again,
  

  
  

  So starting up my car
  

  
  

  I cross over the Menai Straits
  

  
  

  Stopping at Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwrndrobwll-llantysilogogogoch,
  

  
  

  Where the Women’s Institute
  

  
  

  Was founded in 1915.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I went to buy some Silk Cut,
  

  
  

  “Welsh spoken here”
  

  
  

  It says above the shop,
  

  
  

  I speak Welsh
  

  
  

  Only to be served by a grumpy Englishman
  

  
  

  Who sniffs his head at me
  

  
  

  And looks at me
  

  
  

  As if I had spoken Urdu.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I get back into the car,
  

  
  

  It’s spitting with rain,
  

  
  

  So I switch on the wipers
  

  
  

  And put some sad music on
  

  
  

  And light up and sigh:
  

  
  

  To think that this is my first trip to Ireland
  

  
  

  And it’s to a bloody funeral.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I arrive in Holyhead
  

  
  

  To a big line of cars,
  

  
  

  Fumings and fumes
  

  
  

  And noise and frustration.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I reach for the glove compartment
  

  
  

  To remember that I left the map of Dublin
  

  
  

  Behind the bar
  

  
  

  At the Dog & Duck.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  This Welshwoman living in England
  

  
  

  Going to a Scotsman funeral
  

  
  

  In Southern Ireland.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  It now rains heavy
  

  
  

  And the boat is late.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  Tiffy Witherington.

  
  

  ________________________

  
  

  there are 1,000 types of snow,
  

  
  

  we learn that fact instinctively;
  

  
  

  one thousand or more types of snow.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  as children growing up in the far north,
  

  
  

  we learn to understand the snow;
  

  
  

  we learn it’s ways,
  

  
  

  it’s funny peculiarities.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  it is as if the snow is alive
  

  
  

  and is a complex person
  

  
  

  full of hidden talents.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  it is wrong to suppose
  

  
  

  we have a lot of different names for the snow,
  

  
  

  there is no need.
  

  
  

  we can understand it without using words,
  

  
  

  for words are only made to teach meanings,
  

  
  

  and the meanings in the snow have no names;
  

  
  

  only the crisp beauty
  

  
  

  of the tundra silence,
  

  
  

  only the gentle wind
  

  
  

  on our loving smiles.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  Ingar Gørse
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  ____________________

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  (Not all my poems are fiction, almost all of my Lord Pineapple poems are based on fact or self-feeling. The below is 100 percent true. I wrote it because to my delight, on the excellent www.ubu.com site, I found the very Peter Orlovsky poem that I mentioned within. (I had forgotten it’s exact lines over time.)
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  RIP-OFF.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  He steals some lines from Robert Creeley
  

  
  

  A metaphor or two from Phil Whalen
  

  
  

  And brings in a bit of Basil Bunting
  

  
  

  And says to everyone,
  

  
  

  “Hey, I’ve wrote a poem!”
  

  
  

  It’s passable, not bad at all,
  

  
  

  Some people cry “it’s wonderful!” “it’s unique!”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  They put it into a book,
  

  
  

  And there it amazes
  

  
  

  Until I come along
  

  
  

  And feels it’s all wrong.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “Morning again, nothing has to be done
  

  
  

  maybe buy a piano or make fudge”
  

  
  

  Line for line, the third stanza went
  

  
  

  Straight from a poem by Peter Orlovsky.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I tell the poet he’s been rumbled.
  

  
  

  He calls me a liar,
  

  
  

  As does the editor of the book
  

  
  

  Who publishes more of Rip-off
  

  
  

  But no more of mine.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  How swollen-headed I would have felt
  

  
  

  If in those days we had the internet!
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I wonder what Rip-off is doing now
  

  
  

  Perhaps he’s stealing from other cons
  

  
  

  As he lines up in the prison yard saying
  

  
  

  Hey, I’ve found some snout!”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  Lord Pineapple.
  

  
  

  _________________

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  I am not scared of spiders
  

  
  

  But Mummy is.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I tell her they are beautiful
  

  
  

  And that in the winter
  

  
  

  I see their lace-patterns on the way to school.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I would love to have cobwebs in my room
  

  
  

  So I can watch the spiders,
  

  
  

  But Mummy said if I did that
  

  
  

  I’ll have to tidy up my room myself,
  

  
  

  And I am too lazy.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  Sophie Lucy Morgan (aged nine)
  

  
  

  _______________________________

  
  

   

  
  

  These are the poems wrote in the past week.

  
  

   

  
  

  Not sure when I can get back to all of you, but I will. Will visit a few of you now.

  
  

   

  
  

  Terry

  
  

   

  • 1:33 pm
  • 52 Comments