Once Beauty Rang

Once Beauty Rang
(Alice Herz-Sommer,1903-2014)

Once beauty rang
from these thin hands
now crabbed with age.

Once beauty sang
and kept at bay
the terrors of Terrieznstadt.

Once beauty rang
and filled a heart
with warmth and love.

Once beauty sang
and taught a child
to play and live.

Now beauty sings to say farewell
to one who overcame all hate
and justified her faith.

Friendship and Caution

Friendship and Caution
by
Tom Roach

I am disturbed by what I’m asked to do
where do the bonds of friendship end
and those of caution
where do they begin

I have a friend as close a friend
as can be
at an age of eighty-three he wants
to drive long hours to visit me

that’s fine, but there are implications
here
that do not at first present themselves
only after careful thought
does one become aware
of the duty of his care

Reaching Seventy

Reaching Seventy
by
Tom Roach

Seventy
what an age
I am a knotty pine

my grandmother’s
ornaments hung
bobbing, swinging
from her eyelids
with every twist

One of mine
will
excrete water
if I stand
triangular
and wait...
patiently

SEX?
Oh come on!
an ancient ghost
might stir a timber
to inhabit
a dream
(note to self: very, very rarely)

De rigeur
visits to a
dermatologist
“I can remove”
she says
“for forty dollars
and your face
will look younger”

I pay
the price of vanity
and for the
frostbite scar
to heal
I wait...
patiently

SEASCAPE II

SEASCAPE
by
Tom Roach

I was on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic.....

the wind
HOWLED
and tore thru
E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G

indigo sea with tearing clouds
flashing sun and roaring wind
captured me
as
wild horses raced across the sky
and
mountains danced
to the
rhythms of the gale
casting
leaping riders
at the sun
while
wind-whipped peaks
were
stripped to foam
becoming
frosting thinly spread
on
roughly riven seas

was this beauty to my eye
or was it fear personified
what would my
sailor Grandfather have said
.....
he knew
all about
“the lonely sea and the sky”

I climbed

I Climbed

I climbed
steep paths
with dogs
chasing phantasies
and
the smell of urine

Heart pounding
till
I could hear it
in my ears
and feel it
fill my breast

On to
where
the adamantine
Smuts
stepped
his
one thought
to stay alive

Past the
precursor
to heather
and the
oldest of plants
still living

To rocks
full
of deep holes
providing myriad
entrances to hell
or homes
for
the only relative
of the
elephant

Where howls
the wind
lifting you
as a hawk
and tossing you 
to the
azure Atlantic

Here you
can look
to the South
over
Vasco’s Cape
seeking
like the
tireless Scott
the icy wastes
of Antarctica

Stand then
and drink
with me
of nature
knowing
the wind
the earth
and the sea

I Entered

I Entered
b
I entered
by dark walls
blood red
and
purged myself
in ecstasy
uncommon
of fluid
as ancient
as a
primordial sea

The Witness

The Witness
by
Tom Roach

I am a miner and I delve the dark depths of the earth.
Where every second’s full of fright and men are only there on sufferance.
Where rocks can tumble crushing us, our shrieks and groans and flying blood
they cover all and we who live can only stand and stare.
Where we call Christ and call again - the Devil’s howl our sole reply.

Oh Lord, why was I above the ground, the day those damned birds flew? To be below in my black mine would have been better.
Why was I there to hear the rocket’s roar?  Why was I there to hear the bang?
Why was I there to look up at the sky and see the whirling, twirling people?
Why was I the one to find the little girl? Her blond hair streamed, her blue eyes smiled and in her mouth she’d tucked her thumb.

I’ve often seen, a thousand feet beneath my toes, the Devil’s work in progress.
But I never thought in G’d’s blue sky I’d see the Devil openly.
That day I looked toward the sun and there I saw him laughing.
That’s what I saw, good Lord, the day the Devil made the black birds fly.

Nice and Warm

Nice and Warm

You are nice and warm
my loved one said
and I replied, prosaically
that is because
I got my bed socks on!

The Turn of a Phrase

 I wrote this poem earlier this morning and it has rather stunned me!  We were in the process of getting an affidavit signed, when it occurred to me that the most important phrase in the document was very old and that it had a lot of history attached to it.

I am still working on this piece.....changing the odd word here and there, trying to get the rhythm just right.  This is a process that will continue for some weeks to come.

The Turn of a Phrase
by
Tom Roach

there is a phrase
the sound of which
transports my mind
to nether regions
of our written history

i ask myself
how many men and women
have espoused these words
and
with what degree
of real sincerity

what consequences
hung upon their saying
how many lives
ended or continued
on their statement

what were the fortunes
made or lost
marriages arranged
or broken
children found
or lost forever

how many times
have two people
stood and looked
intently at each other
and then
one was heard to speak:
I make oath and say.....

Newsmen of our World

Newsmen of our World
by
Tom Roach

Newsmen of our world
are extremely lucky.
They have the Olympic Games
upon which to report.
Nothing else is happening.

Oh sure, two Syrians met and killed each other.
People got their rocks off
cursing and swearing at those who should be their friends.
In Indonesia,
a volcano destroyed an island, costing many lives.

While here at home,
a teenager killed three
because he was lonely
and filled with jealousy.

But all this pales in significance
when compared to THE OLYMPIC GAMES.
Nations compete for medals
and if they win, they are better than their neighbour.
(Actually, athletes compete, they represent humanity,
but are not countries. Do you understand?)

Lots of news is there.
Athletes show their humanness
when they slip and fall.
The more spectacular the crash
the better then the picture.

But really, there is nothing happening.
We move smoothly along
toward the sixth extinction,
the only one caused by ourselves.
The one I will never see.

When the Soldiers Come

When the Soldiers Come
by
Tom Roach

Oh Mummy, Mummy, Mummy
please can you tell me
when the soldiers come
will they the children kill?

Yes, they will kill the children.
Children are the Nation’s future
and the soldiers don’t want that.

Oh Mummy, Mummy, Mummy
please can you tell me
when the soldiers come
will they kill the Aunts and Uncles
and the Grans and Gramps?

If they stand gains’t tyranny,
my child, they will surely die.

Oh Mummy, Mummy, Mummy
please can you tell me
when the soldiers come
what about the young?

They’ll be on the streets
dear child, watering the flowers.
We will not see their like again......

Oh Mummy, Mummy, Mummy
please can you tell me
when the soldiers come
will they kill you and me?

No, that they cannot do.
We are the Nation round the world.
We are too many
and they, thank God, too few.

The Saddest Thing

 Friends tell me this poem is about loneliness.  I am not so sure.  I think it is about life and its risks.

The saddest thing
by
Tom Roach


The saddest thing
is a grand old tree
smashed to the ground
in a storm.

The saddest thing
is a memory gone
leaving no trace
or emotion.

The saddest thing
is an aged dog
licking your hand
in farewell.

The saddest thing
is an old friend
desperate
for attention.

But, the saddest thing of all
is a friendship lost
by a word
that cannot be retrieved.

Here is an introduction to what I am!

i am a writer!
three books,
thirty histories
one short story
some poems
entries in encyclopaedia
articles in magazines and
in newspapers
and a novel (unpublishable)

i put one word in front the other
and hope that they make sense
not that there’s much money init
enough for a cup of coffee
once a year

writing is not how
i make my cash
to get the lucre
i edit the works of others
it pays well and
i have the satisfaction
of
from chaos
producing order

books and journals
proceedings and academic papers
hopeless translations into
what purports to be my mother tongue
all are grist to my mill

you will find my name
“Tom Roach (Ed.)”
in obscure places and
on publications gathering dust
filling the back shelves
of archival libraries

it is fun and i have done it
wherever i have lived
seeing the sights and sounds
and more
of the middle east
of africa
and of ancient india

not bad for one who started work
labouring in the forests
of far northern scotland

Thoughts on WWI poet, Wilfred Owen

This year is the 100th aniversary of the start of the First World War.  One of my favourite poets is Wilfred Owen.  He was an Englishman, the son of an LMC family that lived in the industrial Midlands.  From what I have read about him, he was a lonely child and I think this shows in his poetry, which in my opinion, is some of the best to come out of that terrible conflict.  He is a poet, whose work moves me profoundly.
   

Thoughts on WWI poet,
Wifred Owen
by
Tom Roach

Alone, a child walks down a street
canyon walled with red-brick homes.
Each has a smoking chimney
bay window, doorstep and a garden wall.

The frosty air is filled with sparkle.
The red sun slowly sets
while the sky is coloured
the softest of dove greys.

The slow dusk covers all
like the lightest of wool blankets.
And in the homes
the windows close their eyes
with a drawing down of blinds.

I embedded the final line from An Anthem for Doomed Youth, into the last verse of this poem.

Mr Bojangles

I was listening to the album, "Mr Bojangles" by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, one of my favourites.  When the following verses suddenly came to me.  The poem is nothing really original, but it does express how I feel about a man long dead and a band whose recordings entertained me for hours in my youth!

Mr Bojangles
by
Tom Roach

I put on the music
and listened to an old man play
as he said himself
his fingers they were stiff
but every note was there

the rhythm it was steady
and all the beats were counted
I just wished I had the talent
to play guitar like him

the song was sad and made me cry
but did he give a damn
you could feel his feet a jigging
to the tune

then from the dark background
I swear I heard a sob
and a sadder man than I implored
“Please ....  Mr Bojangles .....  dance!”

Under the Green Leaved Trees

Under the Green-leaved Trees
by
Tom Roach

it was beautiful under the green-leaved trees
the air was filled with the songs of birds
and the laughter of children playing
                   
i walked, i knew
without touching the ground
under the green-leaved trees

the sun held me high
as it dappled and blinked
through the spaces between the leaves

while ahead of me there
was a  pond like a mirror
shining under the sun

too soon i came
to the end of the trees
and looked on a grass-covered meadow

no children played
and strange birds sang
while the grass weaved and waved in the wind

i stood and i pondered
what to do
should i go on or turn around

where was my heart
was it under the trees
or out on the sunlit plain

but the past was gone
and if i pondered for long
the grass would turn brown as it died

then the pond would freeze
and the snow would come
while the winter wind would bite

so i stretched my legs
and walked on home
leaving the magic behind

On Hearing News of An Old Friend

Main Street, Bel-Et-Quin, Somalia, Spring, 1993

On Hearing News of An Old Friend
for: S. L.

by
Tom Roach

My wife just told me
you have left Afghanistan
undoubtedly by the skin of your teeth.

I remember when we first met
it was in Somalia, another of the world’s
fine sunny places suited for a vacation.

You were not there for a holiday
you were there to make a peace
your soldiers armed to do the job.

Yours were a tough and ruthless crowd
trained more to fight than police wild streets
where bullets flew from hidden guns.

It was a place where children played
a game of snatching
sunglasses from off a soldier’s nose.

While at night, others crept
with knives between their teeth
and hatred in their hearts.

The poet Housman said:
“the world has still much good,
but much less good than ill”.*

You were the good!
The council met, schools reopened
women shopped and farmers tilled their fields.

The heavy load, it wore you down
for truly, I have never met
a man so tired as you.


*    A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad, stanza 62.

Oh Canada

Oh Canada
by
Tom Roach

I listened as the singer sang
“Oh  Canada
Our home and native land”
and looked out my window at the trees
green now it is July

it was not that long ago
the land slept tight beneath the ice and snow
and deer walked through here
with dainty steps
and untroubled glances right and left

sing what we may
the seasons will progress
and then retreat
in song we call this place                  
Oh Canada

but, without the land
we could not be here
to enjoy this long romance
it is the steward of our wealth
and what we take, we surely
must return or else
we shall not sing of Canada