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