The Foggy Foggy Dew

Is the far west an idyllic place? No, it ain't! This poem presents the grittier side not seen by the holiday-makers but on full view once the tourist season is finished. Causewayhead is one of the four shopping streets in Penzance, known to each and every Penzancer. 

   Two other folk-like poems from decades ago are "The Explorers," written in July 1980 and posted here on 26 September 2012 and "Love's Imprecation," written in December 1979 and posted here on 26 April 2013. Both these poems are written in trochaic tetrameter.

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In Penzance town when autumn’s come
   All’s damp and grey, all’s chill;
The wind’s an endless gusty hum,
   There’s rain on door and sill;
And each thin dawn of leaden hue
   Brings the foggy foggy dew.

The granite streets are tight of face,
   Folk trudge against the wind;
The sea’s like slate whose cold embrace
   Hides bodies bloat and skinned;
And early risers hunch askew
   In the foggy foggy dew.

Well, through that fog there walks a wife,
   Time-worn though still petite,
Fearing she’s never lived her life,
   That men are all a cheat,
That joys or sobs, and all that’s true,
   Are but foggy foggy dew.

She married, sprogged (just one), her man
   (A drinker) though soon ran;
For years to please she freely span
   But none was gentleman:
Sometimes she ended black and blue
   Like the foggy foggy dew.

Scraping a living as a clerk,
   An admin drudge of sorts,
She slaved to build a shaky ark
   For self and child, both noughts,
For all around like bills now due
   Was the foggy foggy dew.

And now past sixty, daughter gone,
   Solving her drought of cash,
Her man returned; much put upon
   She felt again his lash,
Resigned to what she always knew –
   Life is foggy foggy dew.

But all those years, close by was one
   Who fumed and held his tongue,
Who wanted her and might have won
   If he had fit among
The tough she sought, drinking their brew
   Dark as foggy foggy dew.

So, baffled, sour, down Causewayhead
   He limps each lonely day,
And if they meet there’s nothing said,
   They nod and look away:
Out in the bay in slew and slew
   Curls the foggy foggy dew.

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© August 2024

"Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep..."

In this poem in trochaic tetrameter the first, third, fifth and so on lines use the same rhyme sound, from the third line running through the rhymes alphabetically. The first line rhyme word - "sleep" - reappears at the end. However I seem to have overlooked the word "cheep" - perhaps there are others. All the even lines use feminine rhymes.

   I've written several poems using a single rhyme or at least a very limited number of rhymes. An example of a single rhyme poem is "Pride: Skeltonics," written in July 2021 and posted on this blog on 19 December 2023. Read it here.

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   Now I lay me down to sleep,
Day’s long wester done and dusted,
   In my head I hear a “beep,”
Loud then thin like winds when gusted:
   Pointed as a signal’s bleep –
Conscience’ restless, “Oh, if only...” –
   Probing “Were you kind or cheap,
Aidful to the lame and lonely;
   Were you frank or did you creep
Thoro’ swamps of lies for spoilings?”
   Matters these, which, psyche-deep,
Fuddled by fake motives’ coilings,
   Many thrust in some dark heap,
Urgent that they be not branded
   Losers like Uriah Heep.
Nightmare: with your sins you’re stranded,
   Chased by lictors in a jeep;
Pinned, hot-cheeked, you face the sentence,
   “Truth’s not yours to mould and keep;
Clouded though it be by pretence,
   Truly it exists. Now leap.”
Fly-lords, though, those dire deceivers,
   When the soul is at its neap,
Wielding reason’s logicked levers
   “Prove” all that’s a misheard peep.
Caution! What they’re really saying’s
   “Buster, what you sow we reap.”
Limping, then, through springtime mayings,
   Trudging winter’s frozen seep,
Thoughtful man, though still cuss-minded,
   Follows inkling, not the sheep:
Trustful is he or self-blinded?
   Whichway, having topped a steep,
Visioned, there he finds a locus;
   Eye-wide at the land’s far sweep,
Scruples, guilts and all that hocus
   Purge away; absolved, he’ll weep;
Going down, his world adjusted,
   There at last he’ll soothe in sleep.

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© July-August 2024

Gull and Pigeon

This is written using the Tanka stanza with a syllable count of 5, 7, 5, 7, 7.

   The Lady Macbeth quote in stanza four is from Act V, scene ii, lines 34-5: "...yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?" And truly, when a gull has finished disembowelling a kill, it is a revolting sight to see its head and beak slathered bright red with blood.

   I have written several poems about gulls - annoying "flying rats" as many call them, but always fascinating to me. In November 2014 I wrote "Gulls Landing: An Observation" about a flock of blackhead gulls. Its purpose was simply to document what I had seen and make a few speculations. It didn't occur to me at the time but it seems to me now to be rather in the tradition of Erasmus Darwin's scientific poetry which, again, was much concerned with precise observation. I posted "Gulls Landing" on 22 November 2018; it is linked here.

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Returned from the beach
I found a brute herring gull
Attacking the corpse
Of a roadkill young pigeon,
Tossing it like a duster.

Its back feathers stripped,
The gull gouged to its innards,
Quarrelling out strips
Of guts, gulped down with relish –
Meatier prize than bread scraps!

Full fifteen minutes,
Dodging the passing cars’ wheels,
Tugging that body
From road to pavement to road,
It gorged greedily at speed.

Ah, Lady Macbeth,
Bloodied of hands and night-dress
And “who would have thought...!”
That gull’s white head, yellow beak,
Were red-drenched by the pigeon’s

Oxygen-bright blood:
Lord, how its chaps must have reeked
Of blood and flesh’s
Tart sour gases. Uncaring,
It ransacked ever deeper,

Ripping out liver
And heart – purpled, mucus’d gobs,
Swallowing them whole,
And flinging that pigeon-rag
High; its wings, feathers, loll head –

Glaring-eyed – flopping
Mutely in death’s helplessness.
Yet crass are the gulls,
Crude as the log crocodile
Hurling its prey to all points,

Void of the crow’s dodge
Of one foot grasping its prize,
Thus firming it for
Defilement: lacking also
The hawk’s hook beak, powerful

To rend the breast flesh
That, tool-less, a gull can’t scoop;
So, feed’s end, what’s left’s
Not a bared carcass, rather
A grimy hollowed puppet.

Well, all gut-strippings
Eaten, losing interest,
Languidly the gull
Flew off, leaving that battered
Clout, knocked by cars in the road.

And come night a fox
Will grub it up, sneak it down
Some alley. Next day
Only a stain will be left
To hint there was life then death.

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© July 2024

A Thought on Death

This is written using the Tanka stanza (syllable count 5, 7, 5, 7, 7).

   One of my early poems about death, written in October 1980, featured one of my most-admired philosophers, Plotinus - the greatest of the Neo-Platonists. Its title, "Try to Bring Back the God in You to the Divine in the All," is a quotation of Plotinus's final words on his deathbed. I posted it on 19 July 2012 and it is linked here. A more recent poem on the subject is "A Shop Doorway," written in September 2014 and posted here on 12 July 2018.

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When Chance discovered
What’s organic, in fact it
Discovered Death. For
Life is Process: started, there’s
No dodging Newton’s fiat –

Lacking self’s being,
Process must burn itself up
And, cindered, return
To unlife, mere particules
Inert in Space-time’s dredgings.

Think: from Conception’s
“Now,” each thing that lives – creature,
Plant – though first it grow
In spades, complexing itself
That a fine-tuned entity

Result, at one with
World and task, is fraughtly skid
On an escapeless
Scarp, recycling energy
Until, like a sucked-out shell,

Shrugged by life’s forces,
Which leach to a younger host,
And strengthless to feed,
Its “thisness” that’s unique slumps
To miasma, Death’s last breath.

That’s a fate includes
Even the self-aware – us:
Surely knowledge, though,
Should disabuse of skin’s creep,
Mind’s tremor, at End’s beckon?

Heidegger teaches
That Death’s finis in itself
Gifts not nulls meaning,
Exerting limit which duns
Effort, outcome, to effect:

But that’s mere whistling –
The condemned man’s petrified
Faced with unbeing!
And even bed-death is hard –
Its cancers and infections!

Truth, some affect shrugs,
Others will shiver, but all
One can do is wait
That unlimbing loneliness
For who knows the place or hour?

Might faith help? It claims
Knowledge of our embodied
Wilderment, its rapt
And final homing, barring
Sin’s free-willed choices which damn.

All depends: does Chance
Or God have the monarchy?
Hints glint like dust motes
In light, but all that’s assured
Is Death’s grin: the rest is hope.

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© April - May 2024