Month: April 2005

  • “A Long Night’s Journey Into Day”



    (An Haiku Sequence.)





    1.

    feeling you beside me:

    i hold out my hand

    and touch something hard.



    2.

    you and i

    naked on the bed.

    outside: a thunderstorm.



    3.

    i can not see the lightning,

    only hear the thunder

    and your thick breathing.



    4.

    we kiss in the dark:

    the territory

    of the blind!



    5.

    our priest says

    our love is evil,

    what does he know?



    6.

    you beside me,

    i gently move up you,

    happily going to hell.



    7.

    the day becomes

    the tomorrow

    for i hear the dawn birds.



    8.

    just one more kiss

    before you go to work

    as a straight man.



    9.

    sitting alone,

    i count the long hours

    for your return.



    10.

    each car i hear

    is not your car

    and i sigh.



    11.

    but you return,

    and we shower

    to Chopin.





    —

    The poet known as “Empty Chairs”.


     

    (the poet is gay and blind.)

     

    Links to photos will be on the The_Clowne_from_Clown
     site

  • Trying to write a poem tonight.



    I’m trying to write a poem tonight

    But I cannot.

    There are too many unwritten thoughts

    Inside my head;

    Too many thoughts

    That are not part of any poem,

    But will nevertheless break into a poem

    With all their inconsistant worries,

    Crowd out a poem

    And dullen it.



    No, I cannot write a poem tonight,

    And I don’t know why I tried

    As there are no flowers in my vase

    And no moon in the sky.



    —

    Tiffy Witherington.

  • Not being very well and having a lot on my plate, I’ll won’t be updating this blog yet. Sorry, but I’ll be back whem my left arm isn’t in so much pain.


    Terry.


    here’s somethin to go on with.


    Old Love



    I’d pick you up

    with my picker-upper stick

    if it were not laying flat out

    upon the floor…



    —

    Terry Cuthbert

  • The Reverend Toby writes…


    Do you know I have written over 100 poems? I never meant to be a poet. I love poetry though. Edward Thomas, R.S. Thomas, Dylan Thomas, just to mention one surname!



    I never wanted to bore people with my own little woes, hopes and dreams, and I never showed my poetry to anyone until I had a blog.



    I find the right-wing American view of our Lord most disturbing you know, there is so little compassion in it. Jesus was so compassionate that people mocked him for his compassion. Today Jesus would help gay people get married, respect the divorced and even understand abortion.



    That was why God sent Jesus to be among us, to show us that we are all equal in the eyes of God, if we show understanding and kindness to others.



    At the Second Coming there won’t be a heaven just for those who cry out the Lord’s name. Jesus showed us that was not the case. Muslims, athiests and others will go to heaven if their hearts are pure. And many who have taken holy orders, be it Bishops who molest children or Reverends who preach hate…there can be no room in heaven for those, those whose Christianity is only a mask for cruelity and selfishness and spite.



    Perhaps that is why I write poetry, too many people are put off by Christianity because too many Christians have lost the plot, that is, it’s what is in a person’s heart is that matters, not what they have been taught to believe.



    Here are three of my poems, the first to a fellow blogger who spoke of her father, the second about a dying parishoner, the third about my late wife who was killed when she lost control of her car some years back.



    I hope you love them. if not, I am sure the Lord will love you, even if you do not believe of his existance.



    —

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby †

     


    —


    Light Of The World. (For Brendaclews)



    Through your stained-glass window I see

    How so near to God you are,

    And when the sun shines through the colours

    You know that He is not far.



    You know how near he is to you

    Even when you close the window at night,

    You know He is there with your father

    Two men always in your light.



    Whatever poets may have given you,

    However must fun, and yes, strife,

    There can be no man nearer to you

    Than the ones who gave you life.



    —

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby †


     

    —

     


    It was a long day’s journey into the night

    And into the next morning.



    But still I sat with him,

    My eyes heavy with soot,

    My mind fighting back my dreams…

    I still sat with him.

    I sat with him till he died

    And it was worth it.

    For he opened his eyes

    Just before the very end

    And thanked me for my journey

    Even as I prayed for his.



    I dozed off doing my own sermon

    Later that morning.



    “Was it THAT boring vicar?”

    Asked a young man later.

    I smiled and said “yes,

    But isn’t life wonderful?”



    —

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby †


     

    —

     


    “A moment in time”.



    Standing by the gate

    And singing,

    And always be there

    Singing…

    As the whole world begins to evolve

    Around only those few moments

    And no other.



    You singing the hymn

    I always loved,

    Singing it

    At our front gate;

    Ignoring the fierce rain

    And seeing only me.



    Singing, always singing

    In the photograph I took

    With the camera of my mind

    On that wet winter’s day

    After my first sermon here

    In this old church.



    I close the gate,

    A passing motorist stops

    Wondering why that old vicar

    Is standing by his gate

    In the pouring rain.



    —

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby †



    —-

  • “Take these chairs from my eyes, and let me see.” : (The blind) Ray Charles.



    the windows of this house are painted

    with the memories of many years.



    only i can see them,

    only i, the blind man

    can see the memories

    that the windows hold

    or the lies that was told.



    but i like to think that there’s more love

    than hate

    etched up on the glass.



    yes, a circus of thoughts are on my windows

    of everything ever done

    within these walls.



    and only i can see the windows,

    only i, who can not see the doors.



    i with the empty chairs

    that sit upon my eyes

    and will not let me see.



    (that is why i use this name.)



    but at least, thanks to lawrence;

    i have no chains around my heart

    to stop it breathing out love.



    —

    The Poet known as “Empty Chairs”


    —–

     


    they say that i must have a feel

    for poetry,

    for i write them down in braille.



    it must be strange to some of you

    to read my poetry on a computer,

    something which i have never viewed.



    i hope it means my poems are better

    when read aloud, but i doubt it.



    i have not the musical voice

    to hear the cadences



    my partner will be tapping this now

    onto my web-site and blog

    i won’t want to fall out with him



    or he might end this poem with

    “dominic is a shit”



    (PS. He said he has began writing out my poems with no capital letters, if so, he is a jerk!)



    —

    The Poet known as “Empty Chairs”




    ——–

    This is a hard personea to do, I am not blind and I have never had a gay experience, but I seemed to have put them together here. Does it work? Any blind/and or gay people out there, I would really love to know, by eMail or comment. I can be discrete if you want!

    The Clowne.

     

    Link to well…check it PLEASE! For_Terry

  • “Empty Chairs”, poems 66-74.



    woke up to chew

    an indigestion tablet,

    and found myself laughing

    at your fingers

    writing on my hand.



    —



    one good thing

    about being blind,

    i can hold

    my gay lover’s arm

    in the street!



    —



    to the edge of the light,

    and beyond:

    my blind love for you

    has it’s own eyes.



    —



    feeling the silk of the water

    as i swim

    into your unseen arms.



    —



    waking up

    to hear your heart pounding

    next to mine

    and your sleeping arm

    on my back.



    —



    waiting for you at the door

    and tasting a snow-flake

    on my tongue.



    i smile, and move outside



    and i hear you squashing

    up the drive.



    —



    i loved you

    from the first time you spoke

    and woke up

    my silence.



    —



    i’m playing my poems back

    on my tape-recorder,



    were you laughing then

    or are you laughing now?



    —

    The Poet known as “Empty Chairs”

     

     


    Lord Pineapple Next…



    ————–


    I nodded and held my beer,

    It had been a warm evening

    But now it was getting chilly

    And drops of rain flew in the wind.



    “I know what I am” I said,

    Half in bitterness, half in the knowledge

    It will always be thus.



    I could not help it,

    I remember my father hitting me

    All those years ago

    For being mildly autistic,

    For fearing the unknown

    For easily getting lost

    And panicking.



    “I’m sorry” I said,

    As she left her lemonade.

    We shook hands

    When once we kissed.



    It had never went further

    Than a kiss.

    I knew it would not.



    I watched her go,

    The tears in my eyes matching

    The tears in the rain.



    It was a long walk home,

    I did once think of throwing myself

    Into the river.



    But what did I expect?

    Romance?



    Between a woman who had everything

    And a poet who had nothing?



    I picked up a dream somewhere

    But it wasn’t my dream,



    It belonged to the silence.


    —

    Lord Pineapple


     


    On the Three_Headed_Sarahs is more info on the Sarahs’ farewell party plus “The best of The Sarahs’” including a real filthy piece of prose!

     

    The_Clowne_from_Clown  new! Nostalgia time! about rugby, being a war-correspondent and why my mortality does not frighten me. Read it, it’s better than my poetry!

     

    Beautiful and sad poetry from a broken hearted genius, for that is what she is, I set my reputation  that dancing_pen will one day be a famous American poet. Buy her books at   http://www.lulu.com/dancing_pen

     

    There’s my latest book “Bubble & Squeak” of course, but such is the post I haven’t had my copies yet, though American buyers have!

  • At the death of the Pope

    I gave a service

    For the catholics of this small town,

    Inviting over

    A retired priest.



    For God is God

    In all our eyes

    And sod what anyone else thinks.



    —

    Reverend Tobias Trontby †


    —–


    Time to eat my cucumber sandwiches

    On the top of Mam Tor.



    This is a beautiful place

    When the sun is shining.



    “‘lo Wevvie Tooobee!” shouts a tiny girl

    As her parents come over to chat.



    Half of Shawthwaite comes up here,

    It’s our local park,

    In spite of the long steep climb to the summit.



    From here one can see miles

    Including the whole of the small town.



    God could not have brought me to teach His word

    In a more beautiful place.



    —

    The Reverend Tobias Trontby †

     


    TEXT 196:


    i wrote inside Steve Martin’s car “i love you Steve”. I don’t, can’t stand the man, he appeared as the spider in the series the spider and the fly about a fly being caught by a spider and having to “spin” (no i am not making this up) a story that would make the spider allow the fly to go. anyway i sat through one such programme where the actual ghost of jack benny came arm in arm with a younger whatshername, the one in that film about, about you know, about love inside a toilet bowl, remember she was brush, forgot who played the crap, might have been john wayne, i know betty gable anyway Steve was the second actor to play this part, the first one was that one in the movie where the two candy-bars in the shop had a wager which one would be brought first, and was the winner, well loser for instead of being eaten by a pretty woman was eaten by a dog when a child scared of the candy bar saying “please give me to your mummy” threw it down and it was ate by this dirty great dog of no pedigree played by that woman who was in the film about two walking sticks in a hat stand in a dinner for some scottish highland games held in a hall in ohio to save money, there were all those ghastly mock-scottish accents even worse than that actor who played james bond, not sean but that big fat girl of eleven who ate up the villians in one meal, the film was called “you are only eaten once” anyway Steve Martin tried to sue me but when he found out i was a lamppost on the Old Kent Road, outside a hajal chippy that used to be the left breast of that woman who played a pencil next to the actor who played an eraser who had rubbed off that actor who was a plastic flower in the film held inside a mail box on 51st street, Steve gave up and told the story to the spider who ate him



    serve the bugger right I say.



    —

    Horace Smith Esq wrote for the ff % 243  website after eating some of that wonderfully druggie leaf from the planet ff % 103.


    ___________

     


    It was the first time the sun had shone for days,

    we should have in reality, been happy.



    Msr’s Derevox’s son was working in the fields,

    when they led him away.

    He was fourteen.



    They don’t do it because they see us as a threat,

    they do it for a bit of fun.

    They just fancied shooting a boy in the head,

    a boy who had never touched a gun.



    The last time they came they raped a young mother,

    ten of them, one after another.

    She hung herself in disgrace.



    Not that they would have cared.

    After all, we are just savages to them…



    The Germen men

    of the Master Race.



    —

    Jacques du Lumière


     

    ————-

    On the Three_Headed_Sarahs next will be more info on the Sarahs’ farewell party plus “The best of The Sarahs’”

     

    The_Clowne_from_Clown this blog and next, Nostalgia time!

     

    Beautiful and sad poetry from a broken hearted genius, for that is what she is, I set my reputation  that dancing_pen will one day be a famous American poet. Buy her books at   http://www.lulu.com/dancing_pen

     

    ps I wrote the four pieces straight out of my head in one hour, correcting only 4 typos and adding a period!

  • Why are there not more poems about the home

    About doing all those things that need doing?

    Cooking, washing dishes, changing nappies,

    Picking up toys…



    Why are there not more poems about such things,

    Things that all us women and mothers do

    Day after day, unloved, unthanked…

    And when at last the children are asleep

    And the house is as tidy as it will ever be

    We sit in front of the telly only to hear

    “I’ve been working my ass off all day,

    Not lazing about the house like you!”



    Perhaps if there were more domestic poems

    Men will learn to understand

    How we waste our lives and brains

    Whilst they are laughing and flirting at work.



    But then it is all too dull for poetry,

    Emptying potties, washing clothes.

    There is only a certain amount one can write

    About hoovering a carpet to a child crying,

    Or cooking chips when a mini-man fight is going on.



    Perhaps that is why there are no poems about the home,

    Women do not want to be reminded that

    They are slaves to be lied to and sometimes whacked

    By men who rule the fucking world!



    So our dreary days go unrecorded

    As we wind our weary ways

    Through the country churchyard of our lives…



    I can write no more, someone is pulling at me

    And wanting a drink.



    —

    Tiffy Witherington

     

     

     


    Feeling F***** In The “Dog & Duck”

    —

    Another cold wet day,

    Just what I need with my own cold.

    I wrap up warm

    But still shiver

    Still feel like crap

    Which reminded me I needed another…



    Reluctenly, I put my coat on

    (I wish I had a toilet in my car!)

    I have to do some shopping,

    And later on,

    I’ll have to open the pub

    Even if I’m not behind the bar.



    I am about to go out

    When Susan comes,

    She is the wife of the landlord

    Of “The Fat Owl Of The Remove”

    She says she will do my shopping for me,



    I thank her quicky

    And just make the loo!



    —

    Tiffy Witherington.





    note: “The Fat Owl Of The Remove” is Billy Bunter. (Link)

     

     

     


    is…

     


    I Think I Will Marry A Dog. ( A REAL one!)

    ————————————



    I think I will marry a dog

    next time.

    A dog will not threaten me

    or abuse me.

    A dog does what it is told.

    It gives love

    as it takes love.



    A dog will come out with me

    and not stare at the curves

    of teenage girls.



    A dog will just lay at my feet

    and love me for my kindness to it.

    Love me

    for 12 years or more

    without any form of sex.



    Yes, I think I will marry a dog

    next time.



    Please make it legal.



    —

    Tiffy Witherington.


    ______________

     

      WordFaery ‘s site is at
    http://www.cafepress.com/StripedSocks Her CD to follow

     

    And my fan-blog is at For_Terry !

     

    Next blog I’ll advertise the beautiful poems of dancing_pen  and her books.

     

     

    On the Three_Headed_Sarahs  site is a controversal poem by Sophie Morgan, showing not the dark side of her, but the dark side of childhood on a rough out-of-control estate.

     

    Nostalgia time at the The_Clowne_from_Clown ranch