October 23, 2004

• Another poet for you now, one that is constantly pissed off with life.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Tiffy (real name “Taffy”) was born in Mountain Ash in Wales and now owns a pub “The Dog & Duck” just north of London, where she is slowly drinking herself to death.

  
  

   

  
  

  __________

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  After two hours at the window,
  

  
  

  Her coat on, her bag ready…
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  She had looked at me and said
  

  
  

  “Doesn’t daddy love me any more?”
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I took her to town
  

  
  

  And she saw you there
  

  
  

  In a strange car
  

  
  

  With a strange woman.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  She never mentioned you again
  

  
  

  Until today
  

  
  

  When you came for her
  

  
  

  And she was not in.
  

  
  

   

  
  

  _________

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  “Some Fell On Thorns”
  

  
  

  ___________________
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  My eyes are not the flowers
  

  
  

  Of Spring anymore.
  

  
  

  It is cold.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  My face is hid in powder
  

  
  

  Of prolonged youth.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I long once more
  

  
  

  For that whistle.
  

  
  

  That leer…
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Yet I once hated those men
  

  
  

  Undressing each whispering flesh.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  All icy lovers do now
  

  
  

  Is talk of the past.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I look in vain
  

  
  

  For that sudden movement
  

  
  

  Of excitement
  

  
  

  In their eyes,
  

  
  

  When I sit, legs wide
  

  
  

  Across to them.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Now it is a cough
  

  
  

  An embarrassed look-away.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  So I hitch down my dress
  

  
  

  And stare out of the window.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  It too, is old
  

  
  

  And full of strange dust.
  

  
  

   

  
  

  ___________

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  “Rhondda Dawn.”

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Winter haze

  
  

  Into the dawn

  
  

  Our eyes walk

  
  

  Ice-fingers pointing

  
  

  To the smeared white

  
  

  Around sunrise hills

  
  

  To the silhoutte fern

  
  

  And heavy black rocks.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  “Here is our home”

  
  

  You say, your cold tears

  
  

  Breaking the dust-breath

  
  

  Onto the lorry road.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  I laugh at your sentiment,

  
  

  And you seeing no rusting mines

  
  

  No broken voices of coal-dust men

  
  

  No lost bones from songless chapels.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Yesterday,

  
  

  There was no dawn

  
  

  Only black rain

  
  

  From freezing of winter

  
  

  Only the soot

  
  

  From your midnight cough.

  
  

   

  
  

  ______

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  Marry a man with a hobby,
  

  
  

  He might be boring at times
  

  
  

  But at least he goes out by himself
  

  
  

  And leaves you alone.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  And a man with a hobby
  

  
  

  Will never hit you
  

  
  

  For he will be too afraid that you will retalate
  

  
  

  And destroy his life’s work.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Marry a man with a hobby,
  

  
  

  Be it collecting things or watching things or building things,
  

  
  

  You can’t go far wrong
  

  
  

  And it’s better than a man
  

  
  

  Who hangs around the home
  

  
  

  Who comes home drunk every night
  

  
  

  Or abuses the kids.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  And every now and then, buy him something,
  

  
  

  If only a book -
  

  
  

  And make him think you love his hobby,
  

  
  

  And he’ll do anything you want him to do
  

  
  

  For a whole week!
  

  
  

  __________

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  “Hero Of Fear”
  

  
  

  ___________
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  (When the vicar of Eyam,  Charles Mompesson moved to the living of Eaking in Nottinghamshire, his reward for fame was that his new Parishiners shunned him, and forced him to live in a hut in Rufford Park, because they thought he still carried the plague-germs.)
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Carrying dead memories
  

  
  

  From lead-mine ghosts.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Mompesson prays in a hut
  

  
  

  Far from the rain of Cucklet Delf.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  He had saved Derbyshire
  

  
  

  From a box of clothes
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Only to be shunned
  

  
  

  Like well-vinegar
  

  
  

  By the people of Eakring.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  He lives now for God
  

  
  

  Alone.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  And sings from a grave
  

  
  

  Of sorrow
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  To Catherine,
  

  
  

  His late wife,
  

  
  

  And to the children he had blessed
  

  
  

  Before lowering them
  

  
  

  Into the sad ground.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  He had become a hero
  

  
  

  Of fear.  
  

  
  

  ————–

  
  

  All poems by Tiffy Witherington.

  
  

   

  
  

  (Ps I like writing fiction and I like writing poetry, so I love writing fictional poetry!)

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