November 29, 2004

• Decided to put the Terry poem on the The_Clowne_from_Clown  site. Though any comments left here will be answered by this blog.

  
  

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  Death Of The Reverend D.H. Smith.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  He hung himself yesterday,
  

  
  

  The vicar who had lost his faith,
  

  
  

  He who had seen one child too many killed
  

  
  

  By a Christian soldier.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  He had hung himself on the bell-rope,
  

  
  

  It had rung once
  

  
  

  And then was silent.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  He was a good man,
  

  
  

  A kind man
  

  
  

  Who could take no more hyprocrisy
  

  
  

  From a Labour leader who goes to church
  

  
  

  And who had given orders
  

  
  

  To destroy a people.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  He hung himself yesterday,
  

  
  

  Did the Reverend D.H. Smith.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  When I went to his parish
  

  
  

  To see his weeping wife;
  

  
  

  A mass of flowers had been placed
  

  
  

  At the lynch-gate
  

  
  

  By a people who still believed
  

  
  

  In a distant God.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  Rev Tobias Trontby +
  

  
  

   

  
  

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  “In Somebody’s House”
  
  

  
  

  
  

  We sat in somebody’s house,
  

  
  

  Just talking,
  

  
  

  You and I
  

  
  

  As we rarely did
  

  
  

  After those first few months
  

  
  

  Of infatuation.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  We sat there in somebody’s house,
  

  
  

  In love and holding hands
  

  
  

  And talking about our dreams.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  You were as you was back then, you know,
  

  
  

  Handsome, lively, always ready to listen.
  

  
  

  It was the time you only used your fist
  

  
  

  To clench a glass,
  

  
  

  And your size-12 boot
  

  
  

  To sway on your knee
  

  
  

  In the gentle rhythm of your Welsh voice.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  We were in somebody’s house,
  

  
  

  Just talking.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  And yes, it was a dream.
  

  
  

  It had to have been a dream,
  

  
  

  A dream like the dream
  

  
  

  That quicky died
  

  
  

  Once I was your slave,
  

  
  

  And you my master…
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  Except perhaps
  

  
  

  When we were in somebody’s house,
  

  
  

  And butter wouldn’t melt
  

  
  

  In that fucking mouth of yours.
  

  
  

  
  

  
  

  —
  

  
  

  Tiffy Witherington.
  

  
  

   

  
  

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  • 12:32 pm
  • 57 Comments