Tag Archives: poetreecreations
When I feel I can’t fight the world anymore
I look to you for an open door
Your shoulder to lean on
Your hand to stroke away my tears,
Your soft voice to console all of my fears,
Your reassurance that you will protect
Me from harm and neglect,
I look to you for an open door
When I feel I can’t fight anymore,
I need your gentle hand
To guide me through
The rough exterior of this land
I look to you for an open door,
Where I know I will be safe
Not lost anymore,
I know you will be there for me
When I feel I can’t fight the world anymore
I will be reassured
Once I have entered your open door
The Snow- Storm
In the post this morning was a pamphlet sized envelope. I wondered what I had ordered and forgotten, and was pleasantly surprised to find inside an anthology from Middlesbrough based poetry press called Ek Zuban, ( Ek Zuban means one voice in Urdu) entitled ‘When the Tramp Meets The King , poems from a competition to commemorate the 35th anniversary of the deaths of Charlie Chaplin and Elvis Presley.’
I remember the day Elvis died. I was sitting in my best friend Adrian’s kitchen while his mum made us pizza’s for lunch (home-made, I don’t think you could buy them ready-made from the local shop in 1977), and we were sipping drinks from the Sodastream when the announcement of Elvis’s death came on the radio. Adrian’s mum had to stop what she was doing and have a little cry; the King of Rock n Roll had died, a figure who had loomed large over her childhood and teens.
Back to 2013 and the anthology. I opened the envelope and found the well produced booklet of poems selected from the competiton entrants and remembered how I had seen the competition advertised last year and, being intrigued and inspired by the idea of Elvis meeting Chaplin, I had written the poem, posted it, and forgotten about it until now. There’s some lovely stuff in there, poems exploring the possibilities suggested by a relationship between these two legendary figures of the 20th Century.
Seeing my own poem again in the anthology, I can tell it was a first or second draft. But I like the poem and would like to share it so I’ve posted another version here.
The King meets the Tramp
Just who is who Charlie? You, dressed as the victim
of his age, or me in my cape and lame’ finery?
Your dignity shone in every attempt to help the orphan kid
or whoop the big guy’s ass.
Yessir, you made me laugh! You were regal, stepping so easily
from screen to celebrity. And me Charlie? I’m a kid
from a shotgun-shack in Mississippi, the one who sold his soul
for a Cadillac and a swimming pool full of girls.
I ask you Charlie, does holding court to a bunch of good ‘ol boys
change a trucker to a king? But it’s not so sad Charlie;
even as the phony pharaoh of Vegas I could still sing with the voice
God and America gave me, the one I kept despite everything.
By Roy Marshall
Hello little robin
wearing your scarlet red vest
how dainty yet proud you are
seeking food for your nest
the feeders are flowing
fresh seed to the brim
so go call the others to come delve in
Now perched on the bird bath looking fully fed
surveying surroundings for your next daily bread
please please visit again little bird for you
bring comfort I feel safe
with thoughts of someone so loved and missed can’t come
sends you to me in his place
By Sandra Cameron
He was always at the forefront of the battle
That was where he chose to be
Directing his men hither and thither
Fighting hard to ensure a victory
His courage was something that could not be doubted
It was plain for all to see
To his men it was a source of inspiration
In return they repaid him with their loyalty
Who is the manof whom I speak today?
Just one of many who led their men in war
Who were prepared to give their lives to in conflict
So that we could live in peace for ever more
He was one of the unsung heroes of the war
Whose deeds are among those that never will be known
But who contributed to the final victory
By ensuring the seeds of victory were sown
Every year in November we celebrate the anniversary
When the great war came to an end
Let us never forget those who made the sacrifice
And what it was they were fighting to defend
The first time something is done we may regard it as spectacular,
We can appreciate the effort, the dedication and the stress,
But soon the deed becomes quite common place and banal,
As it is repeated it impacts upon us less and less.
For many years man had tried to climb Mount Everest,
And then one day there was a photograph for all the world to see,
Edmond Hillary and Sherpa Tensing standing on the summit,
They had ensured that their names would go down in history.
Once man had reached the summit of that mountain,
Once it had been shown that man could ascend its height,
It seemed that the task was not so difficult,
And today people standing on the summit is a common sight.
The same is true about many of man’s achievements,
Once achieved they became easier to repeat,
But it is the name of the first who is remembered,
Theirs is the record which goes on the record sheet.
Down the ages there have been those seeking to be first,
To achieve something which has never been done before,
Many, many people have failed in their efforts,
But their efforts have inspired others to try even more.
Man had dreamt of travelling into space,
No on ever really thought it could be a reality,
But in the last century these dreams were fulfilled,
When man harnessed the power of rocketry.
Today man travels into space with regularity,
It still fills people’s mind with fascination,
Now we are told that in the future many men will go,
And that in the future space will be a holiday destination.
What mountain is it that you would like to climb,
What is it that you are hoping to achieve,
Is it something which has never been done before,
Or something in which you fervently believe.
It may well be that you will never fulfil this ambition,
But failure should not fill you with despair,
If you have done your best you can feel satisfied,
Knowing that to be the first to achieve something is very rare.
All was quite on Christmas Eve
Not a sound could be heard
For I was waiting for Santa
In the silence something stirred
I heard the sound of tinkling bells
Echoing through the night
Could this be Santa Clause?
On his sleigh all bathed in light
O please Santa don’t forget me
For I have been good and true
O Santa please don’t let me down
I would like something special from you
Instead of bringing me presents
I ask nothing at all for me
Just wrap all the spirit of Christmas
And deliver it for all to see
The spirit of Christmas is magical
Lets touch those in need
Let it touch those that are starving
Giving nourishment for all to feed
Let it comfort the lost and lonely
And to all those and their own
Bring the spirit of Christmas
As they sit alone at home
Bring laughter back into this world
Let it lift up and sustain
Shower it down on those that suffer
To bring peace into their life again
As the tinkling bells drew nearer
I hoped Santa heard my plea
That all my prayers would be answered
And the presents he’d leave for me
Come with me to my parents
Sit on an African stool
And stretch out your legs
Drink from a calabash
And refresh your soul
Marry me that way
Let the whole family see you
Let them ask you who you are
Tell them your intentions for me
Marry me that way
Set the drinks before my parents
Let them ask you why you are here
Let me watch your heart beat fast
Because you want to impress
Marry me that way
Watch as my family accepts your drinks
And welcome you to the family
Watch as they start calling you;
In-law, Son, uncle, brother and friend
Marry me that way
By Sheila Chanase
There are days,
When I miss you
With a sudden intensity
Which surprises me.
It aches, in a way I didn’t deem possible,
In a heart, I didn’t know I possessed.
And I lie in this room feigning sleep.
Pining away, struggling with my existence.
While I choke from these strange arms enveloping me.
Should I strive, in vain, for you, most divine?
Or should I instead, be miserably content with what’s mine?
– Sreshtha Sen
- For the hot spiced syrup
- For the rhubarb
- To serve
- 500ml/1lb 2oz vanilla ice cream
- Pre-heat the oven to 140C/275F/Gas 1.
- Grease a 20cm/8in square cake tin with butter.
- Sieve the flour, a pinch of salt, the ginger, nutmeg and mixed spice together into a large bowl.
- Mix in the oatflakes.
- Warm the tins of syrup and treacle in hot water to make it easier to measure them out accurately.
- Put the syrup, treacle, butter and soft brown sugar into a small saucepan and melt over a gentle heat, bring up to a simmer but do not boil.
- Stir into the flour mixture.
- Mix in the beaten egg and milk to create a soft, almost pouring, consistency.
- Pour into the buttered tin and bake for 1¼ hours, until firm in the centre.
- Remove from the oven and leave in the tin for 5-10 minutes before turning out and cutting into squares.
- For the hot spiced syrup, simply whisk all the ingredients together in a small pan and warm, but don’t boil.
- Place the rhubarb into a saucepan with a little water and the sugar.
- Bring to a simmer and cook until just tender.
- To serve, place a spoonful of rhubarb in the centre of the plate, top with a ball of ice cream.
- Place a piece of parkin on the side and drizzle over the spiced syrup.
Nutty toffee apples
Studded with crunchy nuts, these grown-up toffee apples work well for a Halloween or Bonfire Night party recipe.
- Push the wooden sticks halfway into the apples at the stalk end.
- Dissolve the sugar and water in a thick-bottomed pan over a gentle heat.
- Add the butter and syrup to the mixture and bring to the boil. Continue to boil, without stirring, until the toffee reaches 140C/275F (use a sugar thermometer to measure this).
- Remove the pan from the heat and gently stir in the nuts.
- Carefully dip each apple into the toffee, making sure each apple is well coated, and set aside to harden on a baking try lined with non-stick parchment.
- Let them cool then eat
MORE RECIPES TO COME
For six years
My fingers were trained
To build crescendos,
Sinking delicately into chords
Like Demi plies
In front of you
And you tried to rebuild me
But you still have me,
My missing pieces
In your back pocket
And I haven’t seen you
For eight months.
For six years, we raced each other
From one end of a scale
To the other, not once slipping
On the ivories,
Never did tears
Accompany the music
Until my fingers
Even if we were
To meet again,
I couldn’t ask
For them back.
Now, six years later,
Stiff fingers and a heavy heart
Weigh on the yellowing keys
Like bad memories.
And even after all these
I never miss a note.
We call them selfless, freedom fighters,
people who revolutionised their societies
We talk about them with the deepest admiration
And utter their names in sheer awe and reverence
Forgetting that they are (wo)men just like you and I
Two hands, two legs
Ten fingers, ten toes
They too like us, face divers kinds of woes
They are lauded with the statuette awards
Praised by columnists with all the glittering accolades the language can afford
We put them on pedestals and are held in their thrall
Forgetting that they are (wo)men like us all
What set them apart
That which sequestered them other than their heart
The heart immersed in what’s right
Or one that’s willing to forgive a slight
They stand up for what they believe, consequence be damned
The courage to pursue justice and not condone what’s an obvious sham
Yet we speak of them like they are celestial
Similar to some kind of extraterrestrial
One head, two knees
Not with one more eye
Forgetting that they are (wo)men like you and I
Where others failed they succeed
Became the heroes their ailing society needed
Not swinging with the status quo
To oppression, injustice and corruption, they said no
They stood out indeed
They faced the challenge squarely
And subdued what could be considered an insecurity
They chose to put truth first
Came to be worth ten men due to that peculiar mindset
Yes it’s all in the mind
Maintaining a good conscience while on your grind
So be it Dr King or Yaa Asantewaa
Next time you think of Steinem and Mandela and in adulation sigh
Remember, they are (wo)men like you and I
[This piece is something i have been thinking about for a long time and i was partly inspired by an article I read written by Manasseh Azure Awuni. You can check it out at http://opinion.myjoyonline.com/pages/feature/201309/113071.php ]
Okay so now there’s this dichotomy
Between a man and his conscience’s anatomy
What makes him greater?
His exploits or his character?
Some would argue, “what does it matter?”
The end justifies the means
The tasty pancake, the batter
The finish line, the short cut
The celebrity, the rut
Goodwill and good heart go out the window
All we care about is the gleaming end-product
There’s another thing imperative though
A subtle ingredient that thickens the dough
In the vineyard are delectable fruits
But what hold the desired succulence are the indispensable roots
Navigating through life, the reputation of our work precedes us
Albeit in the hearts of our guests,
To the audience of our person,
What remains indelible
Would be the inner you which to them was visible
That dazzling smile, the kindly heart
The spirit of your personality, that’s what’s more memorable
More than appellations, far exceeding the stellar
Your nature is rooted in their minds forever
So character versus work
Each having its perk
Doesn’t have to be one or the other
Two rich potions that together
In the tub lather
I’m Setor Dzisenu, a new Ghanaian blogger currently living in Accra, Ghana. I’m also relatively new to poetry and look forward to learning more to better my work. Cheers!
Growing up in Eastwood
With mining all around
Was difficult for Lawrence
For his health was not sound
He was bullied at school
He failed to join in games
He preferred the company of girls
For they did not call him names
His father expected him to be a miner
But Lawrence was playing it cool
First in Eastwood to win a scholarship
He went to the Nottingham High School
Alas he didn’t distinguish himself
The other boys were a class apart
He left school in the summer of 1901
Started work in factory as a clerk
In 1904 Lawrence did very well
In the Kings scholarship examination
His mother wanted him to be a teacher
Which he did through his determination?
Lawrence went on to be asuccessful author
This brought success into his life
Poetry was also one of his passions
But controversy through his work was rife
But his work may have been controversial
His written work was good
As a great poet and a writer
Who live in his home in Eastwood?
I remember the Steam engine
Thrashing out the wheat,
Laying out our street.
The Steam Trains,
Bellowing out their smoke.
Watching from the bridge,
Trains passing made me choke.
Steam boats on the river,
Chugging up and down,
Children smiling faces,
As they raced around.
Days spent by the embankment,
Paddling in the pool,
Children eating ice cream
Trying to keep them cool.
Trams clanking too and fro
Memories from the past
All these things I remember,
The years have gone so fast
Memories of Nottingham
Flowers that bloom in May
Memories I will treasure
Until my dying day
By Malcolm Bradshaw