Tuesday 31 March 2020

PIT PONIES AT PORT QUIN...

Pit Ponies At Port Quin...



Mist dampened my hair
As I stumbled upon
The two disused shafts,
A pair of abandoned mines,
Fenced, ringed, evacuated,
Swallowing murky draughts.

Fog deluded my perception
As I peered into
The sad derelict wells,
A brace of vacant workings,
Fortified, encircled, forsaken,
Gulping nebulous swells.

Gloom distorted my expectation
As I strolled onward;
The nine distant ponies,
A pair of distinctive hues,
Foraged, grazed, mesmerised,
Swallowing obsolete felonies.

Miasma deceived my eyes
As I followed blindly
The pit-ponies’ acceptance;
A brace of disparate souls
Filed, manacled, coerced,
Gulping subjugation’s deference.

Pete Ray

Port Quin, Cornwall and walking towards Epphaven, finding two fenced-off mining shafts and the wild ponies, two colours only. 

As I followed them on a single track, back towards the shafts, I felt almost like I was one of them, doomed to labour in appalling, lawbreaking conditions.

LIMPETS AT PORT QUIN...

Limpets At Port Quin…

A gaping hole
Gouged
From a grey, sinister cliff,
Like a glaring opening
Gored 
From a sore, toothless gum.
Sinewy boulders
Glistened,
Guarding a tumbled cave:
Bone slivers
Drilled,
Dripping, bloodless, numb.

A group of limpets,
Beached
From a spiteful, clawing tide,
Like a Cheyenne camp
Isolated
From the white-man’s advance.
Conical shells
Stranded,
Storing jellied flesh:
Skin tepees 
Huddled,
Hiding indigenous romance…

Pete Ray


The groups of limpets inside a Port Quin cave reminded me of American Native Indian 
wigwams.












Monday 30 March 2020

AN UPDATE FROM AFC BINLEY MANAGER EDWIN GREAVES...

"In the troubled times that we find ourselves today, it's so easy to forget that football is just a game.

I find myself at the ripe old age of 57 and I cannot remember my life without football in it. I played the game that we all love as a child, then grew up to watch Coventry City and later moved into club management. Hopefully I have encouraged my teams to entertain in the best way they could.

We cannot escape the fact that people are dying every day from an enemy that we cannot see and this has obviously affected so many of us up and down the country in a way that I for one have never experienced in my lifetime. I hope that I never have to experience it again.

With plenty of time now on my hands I have realised how much football really is part of my life and for numerous others up and down the country too. Whether playing it, watching it, or just being involved as a volunteer who gives up their  time for free, they, like me must all be missing this beautiful game.

Rightly, football and everyday life as we know it has been shut down. For me, safety comes 1st, 2nd and 3rd.

We are uncertain about so many things football-related now but for me the burning question is when can we play football again?

I personally don't see it being any time soon which is sad but it's the uncertainty of it all. However, it's a time to be patient and let the powers that be decide the way forward now with our wonderful game, as we are experiencing a problem which I honestly believe no-one currently has the answer to.

Football is at a standstill but do we finish this season? Or do we pretend this season never happened and remove it from the record books?

As each day goes by the more unlikely it is that this season will get completed which is a crying shame for all those clubs, chairmen, managers, players and supporters who have found themselves in those key promotion places with honours within their sight.

It seems that several non-league clubs up and down the country have had their fate decided and it doesn't look like it's been a positive outcome considering everything they have done on the pitch.

At the top level of our beautiful game, could anyone tell me that it doesn't matter to anyone connected to Liverpool about what happens to the remainder of the season?
EDWIN IN HAPPIER DAYS...

Remember though what we are going through now is a life and death situation and not something that has happened before in my lifetime but I would say that there should be rules in place for future events like this.

If teams up and down the country, like Liverpool, are not crowned champions, it makes no sense when clearly they are currently the best team in England.
I have heard people talking about points per game to decide things and it's as good an idea as any, for at least it's decided on results on the pitch.

Difficult times lie ahead for us all to deal with and the end is currently nowhere in sight.

Can I remind the powers that look after our fine game that difficult decisions need to made now; please don't ignore or punish the teams that have been successful this season.

If no rules are in place, they surely must act now so that if we find ourselves in a similar situation again, we will all know that any outcome is decided on the pitch.

One last message to all: look after your loved ones and keep yourselves safe...

We are dealing with a dangerous situation and football really is only a game...

I wouldn't swap any of my loved ones for 3 points, that's for sure...

Stay safe... "

Edwin Greaves, 
AFC Binley Manager... 

KEEPSAKE LOST: A FIRST WORLD WAR POEM BY THE MOWDOG...

Keepsake Lost

It was all right to place a keepsake
Into a pocket, or amongst one’s military equipment:
Perhaps a snap of a sweetheart,
A four-leaf clover, maybe a crucifix;
Just something to place one apart
From the company in a moment of quiet,
Or to clutch whilst writing home
To loved ones, or to caress whilst unable to sleep,
Worrying, aching, terrified and awake…

Will didn’t write home any longer.
Nor did he receive mail.
The photograph he once coveted
Lay crumpled, its memory too frail.

His girl had withdrawn her affections
But he’d felt no cause to feel contrite;
He just begged or stole scraps of paper,
Upon which his grim diary to write.

He soon lay dead in the mire at Passchendaele,
In no man’s land mown down with a thud,
Soon after scrambling out of the forward trench,
Leaving his keepsake behind in the mud…

But it was blown by a breeze after the skirmish
And near Will’s shredded corpse it fell;
At his burial it was placed inside his bloodied shirt,
To give him some kind of peace in the hell…

Pete Ray
March 2020
MY FATHER'S MUM...

MY FATHER'S DAD...

The photographs must have been special to many fighting men, whether German, Belgian, French, or Russian.

The poem just spotlights one scenario.

Sad, really… 

The images show my two grandmothers and their fighting husbands.
MY MUM'S DAD, RSM HEDGES, SEATED BEHIND THE GUY ON THE GROUND...

MUM'S MUM...

They both survived, so did their marriages…

I didn’t meet either grandfather, for both died in the 1930s…

WORLD WAR ONE, A NEW POEM: RECRUITMENT & TRUTH...

Recruitment & Truth: Watching World War One Recruitment Officers…

The recruiting officers knew,
Must have been chosen
For their lack of empathy
And yes, for their lack of conscience,
Wallowing in their own belligerence;
Their staunch uniform power
Inspired awe from gullible draftees,
Excitable and eager in a seething queue,
At whom I shook my head with abject sympathy…

Pete Ray
March 2020
MASS RECRUITMENT AT A SOCCER GROUND...

Written from the standpoint of a veteran soldier, back in Blighty, confined to a desk, watching the recruitment of ‘innocent’ volunteers…



WE'RE GOING TO NEED A BIGGER BOAT...

We’re Going To Need A Bigger Boat…


It’s rather like the tip of an iceberg:
What the fellow sees is perhaps an illusion,
For the viewer, through reflections and insight,
With the artist is in collusion…

The patient fisherman grips his rod,
The scavenger on the cabin menacingly waits;
The pet dog gazes with its head in the clouds
But the timing will determine their fates…

Will the small fish take the proffered bait?
Will the larger fish take it, in turn?
Will the shark-like predator snaffle the pair of them
And toss the small vessel hull over stern?

Pete Ray
October 2017

Saw Sasha Harding’s painting on display in Fowey and liked the humour, the concept and the colours…

Had to write what I thought…

Prints are available from the artist...

Saturday 28 March 2020

THE COVID-19 DIARIES: EDITION 4...

Covid-19: Thoughts 4…

So 28th March has been reached and social rules have been tightened. Incredibly though, people in my road still haven’t received post from 18th-21st March, which of course includes Mother’s Day cards… The local postman, a fine fellow, has delivered some of this week’s items but he assured me that there was a stack of post still awaiting sorting. Let’s hope there aren’t important letters sitting in that pile which folks are desperately in need of…

We took a short walk yesterday which entailed zig-zagging across roads to avoid dog walkers, cyclists, parents with pushchairs, even a grown chap on a skateboard but interestingly, not one of those people made the first move to avoid being two metres or more from us… We were forced to cross roads every time.

A neighbour’s daughter has a boyfriend with a car but he has been at the house through some nights but not through others, which makes a mockery of what those following the rules are trying to achieve.

This morning I took a walk to my local shop to buy milk, an essential I would suggest but in doing so, I exchanged a ‘Times’ newspaper voucher for the first time since Monday. The others have all been wasted, except that at least the online version is obtainable to subscribers. Strangely, people who regularly buy a daily newspaper from the shop were apparently still strolling in each day for their essential newspaper, plus fags, presumably. 

A small blue Citroën car rushed passed me whilst I was walking, then raced past me again, leading me to believe that the driver’s daily exercise involved turning a wheel to work the arms and pressing foot pedals to benefit the legs.

A single-decker bus, totally empty passed me too and parked across the corner of a side-road, so that the driver could nip into the shop for an essential cold drink. Astonished, I stood and gaped, just as a truck delivering a skip passed by but that driver was texting and paying scant attention to the road ahead, which is actually plagued by humps…

And this was during just one, short, morning walk…

It occurred to me also that the only person I know whose life hasn’t really been affected by the new hibernation rules is the elderly lady next door. She never goes out anyway and is probably wondering what all the fuss is about…

MY CURRENT VIEW: NOT MUCH TO WRITE ABROAD ABOUT...



   

Friday 27 March 2020

TERRACES OF 6, 4 & 2: A NEW POEM ABOUT KIRSTY ELSON'S 2020 CALENDAR...

Terraces Of Six, Four & Two…
(the May image from Kirsty Elson’s 2020 calendar…)

I flipped over not one page but two,
To find the calendar image for May
But was faced by a scenario bland and stark:
A dozen properties huddled in three
Rows, in a grim, lifeless intimacy,
Cowering from Covid-19’s virus, dark?
The terraces of six, four & two…

A solitary gull alights upon a rooftop weathered,
The single hint of any prevailing life 
Within the scene, the cluster of cottages:
The terraces of six, four & two,
Wherein isolation is rife
With deprivation and seclusion,
The scenario pallid, its peace an illusion,
The residents to fear and illness now tethered…

Pete Ray

March 2020…

THEY DON'T WANT ME HERE...

They Don’t Want Me Here…

The finches, the tits and the scurrying dunnocks
Don’t want me here,
Sat upon a garden chair
Pressed into chunky stones,
For they are nervous about
Encroaching and approaching the feeders,
As a pallid sun still glares 
Through slim angled boughs.
An occasional wind ploughs
And gusts through guarded conifers
In the March chill, lacking cheer,
For I am confined, resigned
To self isolation,
Self pacification
But those finches, those tits and those tarrying dunnocks
Don’t want me here
Still, as I shiver upon a garden chair,
Crunching into chunky stones,
Overwhelmed by self doubt…

Pete Ray

27th March 2020…