RANDOM DWELLINGS & AN IMPUDENT OCEAN: A POEM ABOUT ANYA SIMMONS' PAINTING OF ST IVES...

 Random Dwellings & An Impudent Ocean

(from Anya Simmons’ painting of St Ives…)

Dwellings appear seemingly positioned

At random, rising from the blues

And the eclectic hues

Of a restless, daunting ocean,

As its turbulence and impudence

Tumble a line of vessels

Moored, yet rocked and fumbled by its tide’s insouciance…

Buildings appear irregularly arranged

But clustered, huddling from the abuse

And the seething fuse

Of a listless, taunting ocean,

As its ambivalence and diffidence

Shrug a row of boats

Tethered, yet mocked and tugged by its tide’s insolence…

Pete Ray

30th November 2020 

NEWLYN'S HARBOUR, CORNWALL: MY POEM...

 Newlyn’s Harbour…

A plethora of masts and winches,

Cables and pulleys and flags

Flailing in the sun and stiff breeze.

A spattering of vessels and nets,

Ropes and lanterns and names

Painted to run the gauntlet of heavy seas.

A conglomeration of rows and lines,

Rust and debris and desertion

Resulting from maritime neglect.

An anchoring of hulks and wracks,

Trawlers and drifters and re-caulked

Fishing boats, all but wrecked.

A trail of chains and tyres,

Gulls and turnstones and baskets

Redundant on the abandoned quay.

A silence of men and engines,

Iron and flotsam and jetsam

Deposited, corroding heedlessly….

Pete Ray

PORTSCATHO: OUT OF THE GREYSCALE, INTO THE COLOUR...

 Portscatho: Out Of The Greyscale, Into The Colour…

Unkempt and dishevelled, foreground cliffs,

Their brush tousled, spiky and awry

Hide stern rocks, darkened weed and a solid quay wall,

As a group of small fishing skiffs,

Beached, redundant and huddled lie;

Like driftwood models, greyscale cottages form

A risky combat line in thrall

Of ocean, gale and threatening storm:

And old Portscatho tarries, locked in a dream,

Ragged and drained of life and its faded gleam…

Cut back and levelled, foreground cliffs

Their autumnal brush spiky and spry

Hide harsh rocks, blackened weed and a blunt harbour arm,

But no fishing vessels or small skiffs

Beached, moored, or redundant lie;

Like a model village, jaunty cottages form

A vibrant row, protected from harm

From ocean, gale and imminent storm:

And new Portscatho emerges from black and white,

Rugged, yet stained with colour and vivid light…

Pete Ray

November 2020

Thoughts about two images, one an old postcard of Portscatho, the other a similar view from a photograph I took some years back…

Love this place…

LITTONDALE IN THE SNOW: A POEM ABOUT A PAINTING BY ANYA SIMMONS...

 Littondale In The Snow…

(from the Yorkshire Dales painting by Anya Simmons…)

Barbed trees flank a group of tidy dwellings,

Like Somme trench wire glaring at an approaching storm;

Conifers, having shaken off clinging snow

Now furl

In futile attempts to shrug

From their mantles the blizzard’s cloying flakes;

Perturbed birds surge above blanketed roofs

And clipped hedges like iced cakes;

Yet the snow soon sets out its pallid stall 

  To swirl

And indiscriminately fall,

Gust and bluster, then cluster  

And hurl

Its beauty upon Littondale’s tranquility serene…

Pete Ray

November 2020

SOLIHULL'S WAR MEMORIAL: THE NURSE, THE AIRMAN, THE MARINE & THE INFANTRYMAN...

Solihull’s War Memorial:

 The Nurse...

She stands motionless

At a bedside, a grim acceptance

In eyes which have seen the ravage 

Of warfare pass through her ward…

She lingers, helpless,

Near a bedside, her prim allegiance

In eyes which have seen conflicts savage

Patients, their bodies strafed and gored…

She hovers, blameless,

At a bedside, a firm resilience

In eyes which have seen the rampage

Of shock and maiming and death deplored…

Pete Ray

November 2020

One of four panels upon Solihull’s War Memorial.

The others are written about below…

The Airman…

A tightly belted and warm sheepskin coat

Identifies the pilot’s shivering plight

In the cockpit of his slender biplane,

Flown as reconnaissance, or as a dog to fight.

A flying helmet, gloves and goggles

Identify the airman’s harrowing plight,

Hampered by trench warfare’s propensity insane

And his survival chances thus marginal and slight…

Pete Ray

November 2020

The Marine…

Staring abroad over a rail,

A rifle, incongruous, readied,

The Marine laments the lost, the drowned and the dead,

Seaward.

Glaring starboard across a deck,

An infelicitous torpedo dreaded,

The Marine resents the loss, the damned and the dead,

Seaward.

Sea-faring aboard a warship,

An inauspicious theatre headed,

The Marine repents the hate, the sins and the death,

Seaward…

Pete Ray

November 2020

The Infantryman…

The full pack’s weight endured by the infantryman

Pales

In comparison to the burden of the loss

Experienced in the slaughter of trench warfare.

The chin drops and the exhausted infantryman

Exhales

In compassion for the heavy loss

Suffered in the pushes from trench warfare.

The head falls in despair and the infantryman

Wails

In contrition for the senseless loss

Contrived by the farce of trench warfare…

Pete Ray

November 2020

NON-LEAGUE FOOTBALL JARGON EXPLAINED... 5: DROP ONE & PARK THE BUS (PLUS OTHER GEMS...)

Non-league Football Jargon Explained... 

5: Drop One & Park The Bus...

I was told I would be wearing number 6

And should “Get stuck in…”

That meant tackle, foul and kick ass,

Said Scraggsy the Manager, with a grin…

Scraggsy had told us before the match

That we should “Park the bus…”

But the driver had already completed that task,

So why put the onus on us?

When the match began we were immediately told,

“Get your heads on boys…” but I was caught unawares;

Should I be wearing one of those enormous heads

That idiots wore on TV’s ‘Jeux Sans Frontières’?

The next strange instruction as an opponent

Approached in possession and haste,

Was “Stay on your feet…” but did Scraggsy think

I’d walk on my hands and tackle with my face?

“Press…” he bellowed and I stood like an artist of mime,

Pushing the air like there was some resistance;

Then “Toes…” he shouted to me at a throw-in,

So I touched them and farted inside my pants…

“Track back…” Scraggsy encouraged at last

But I couldn’t remember my previous route,

Then I heard “Away…”, so, puzzled, I ran up the pitch,

Allowing my unmarked opponent to shoot.

He told me to “Drop off…” when I hadn’t climbed, 

Then “Look for the out-ball…” I heard,

But I could see only one ball and it was in,

Another instruction so sodding absurd…

Finally I found space and he screamed at me:

“Good area…” and then yelled “Drop one…”

But I’d had a shit prior to the game

And last night’s chicken Madras had already gone…

So when I scored the game’s only goal

From 30 yards, instead of the abuse he’d hurled me,

Scraggsy ran onto the pitch and jumped on my back,

Declaring the strike a “Worldy…”

Odd that, because I had scored it at the local park,

Another weird comment to be frowned upon;

Then after winning 1-0 we un-parked the bus

And on the way home just for him I dropped one…

He had wanted a “Clean sheet…" he’d told us

But why mention his laundry at all?

He buggered straight off to the pub, however,

To avoid the “Hospital ball…”

NO POSH DANCING THOUGH...

Pete Ray

November 2020

 

 

NON-LEAGUE FOOTBALL JARGON EXPLAINED... 4: ADVICE TO REFEREES...

 Non-League Football Jargon Explained:

4: Advice To Referees…

MY BIRMINGHAM MUSEUM FOOTBALL TEAM...

Numbed by a hangover, bloated by a curry,

The marauding midfielder burped and broke wind;

He struggled, wheezing, to don his kit in a hurry

And a fag hung from his mouth as he grinned…

The reek of his farted Chicken Madras spread amok

Around the dressing-room’s close confines;

His comments revolved around the word ‘f…’

And his replies accompanied by two-fingered signs…

Out on the pitch his glazed eyes scanned the throng 

For a suitable opponent but which one never mattered,

For this squat, obese bastard would launch himself headlong,

Preceding an assault, rendering his target clattered…  

The stink of bad breath, the stale curry and sweat

Would face up to a referee’s yellow card

 With petulance and a faked innocent mindset,

For given an inch, he would take more than a yard…

“Are you takin’ the piss ref?” he might bellow,

“I went for the ball, ref…” he might scream;

“I never even touched the twat, ref, my good fellow…”

He might argue, as his phlegm dripped like sour cream…

The advice and the excuses spilled from his dismay

With a flurry of sputum and profanity;

Cautioned and admonished he would stalk away,

His anger and ignorance clouding the inanity… 

WHEN I PLAYED FOR THE ASTON VILLA OLD STARS XI...

Pete Ray

August 2020