Shadows

Medium shadows; now long and low
Tickle me and usher me in
To write poems
And order laws to repeal themselves

A warning shot fired overhead
Arithmetic, yes, wet clothes
The numbers seem to paint
Scenes from my childhood

The Land by Vita Sackville-West
Was a square peg in my round hole
Whittling it down
Was done under our club tree

No words were spoken then
But nests were made
As big sister played
First day at school on our first day at school

Poetry

I've been trying to come up with some lyrics for more Rumours Of Whores songs. I'd been getting nowhere fast, so decided to look back on things I'd abandoned. I try and think in some kind of poetic form to begin with and then attempt to develop that into a lyric. Sometimes I am successful, sometimes I fail.

Some while back, after listening to Jealousy by Pet Shop Boys, I felt inspired to write this:

Jealousy
Takes its toll on me
Drives me from sanity
Round the bend
To lunacy
I wish that I
Could get away
You know any price I'd pay
So I could turn to you and say
I never cared anyway

I felt like a rebel at the time. It's unconventional. The syllables form no rhythm and there are ten lines. I felt quite good about that, but as a song, it's still a failure.

Then this:

In the night you came to me
Waving, mournful, from the shore
The fiery glow of treachery
Was not put out beneath the sea
From sparks in breaking every lock
The filthy devil set him free
With gnashers 'round each probing cock

I try.

But fail.

Still, we press on, dear reader. I am British, after all, and if nothing else, my upper lip is stiff!

Visit us at last.fm or buy our tracks here, my love.

Poem

William Barnes is one of my favourite poets of all time, perhaps my absolute favourite.

This, dear reader, is My Orcha’d In Linden Lea:

‘Ithin the woodlands, flow’ry gleaded,
By the woak tree’s mossy moot,
The sheenen grass-bleades, timber-sheaded,
Now do quiver under voot;
An’ birds do whissle over head,
An’ water’s bubblen in its bed,
An’ there vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.
When leaves that leately wer a-springen
Now do feade ‘ithin the copse,
An’ painted birds do hush their zingen
Up upon the timber’s tops;
An’ brown-leav’d fruit’s a-turnen red,
In cloudless zunsheen, over head,
Wi’ fruit vor me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

Let other vo’k meake money vaster
In the air o’ dark-room’d towns,
I don’t dread a peevish measter;
Though noo man do heed my frowns,
I be free to goo abrode,
Or teake agean my hwomeward road
To where, vor me, the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

It's so beautiful, so evocative. When reading it, I can feel the sun beating down on my face, the rustle of the green leaves in the canopy and the twittering birds overhead. I feel like I'm in heaven.

Though I've never spoken the Wessex/Dorset dialect, I did, at one time, speak with a Dorset accent. Hearing or reading such things as My Orcha’d In Linden Lea reminds me, not specifically of another place, but of happy times, carefree and without responsibility. Again, heaven.

Click here, here and here for some interesting articles about William, Dorset voices and UK dialects and accents.