More poems by Fred

While we were studying 'Creative Writing' at college, I so envied Fred's ability to see the poetry in the mundane. These two really show off that talent:

 



Visiting Time

Unlike the nurse with the loud voice

She was not young and pretty.

And I wanted to weep for her,

As, with a ward full of visitors

All dignity was stripped from her.

She was suffering twice over:

Once from the pain of the operation,

And secondly from constipation.

"Don't worry," the cheerful nurse said

"We'll give you an enema,

And that should get you going."

As the blinds were drawn around her,

We knew why....

 

 

Life in the Fast Lane

There were three foxes

One Badger

A blackbird and some hedgehogs

On the motorway this morning.

Which only goes to prove

That we car drivers

Have not lost contact with nature.

 

 



Poems by Fred

Fred was a very dear friend of mine while I was at college. He was a mature student. Having worked on submarines in the Royal Navy and travelled the owrld as a missionary, he had decided in his retirement to take a degree in English with Religious Studies.

Fred was a poet in every sense of the word. We all wrote poetry back then; it was a requirement of the course, but he saw poetry in everything and he had a wicked sense of humour. I went abroad after graduating but kept in touch by post. Fred wasn't much of a letter writer so he sent me his poems.

Very sadly Fred died suddenly in 1999. I only found out when his widow wrote to decline the invitation to my wedding. I deeply regret that he didn't live to see me get married. I know that his old-fashioned Christian heart disapproved of me moving in with P before we were husband and wife, and I wish he had seen me put that right.

I didn't keep all the poems he sent me but I have several and I thought they deserved publication, if only on my blog.

This one is called 'The Poetry Orchard'. It is typically humble, humorous, but containing beautiful imagery. All the punctuation is Fred's.



The trees in the poetry orchards

have roots that go deep

(very, very deep)

into soil that has to be fertilised

with the rich compost of life.

 

In the topmost branches of the trees

ideas roost

like mulit-coloured birds

who preen

and cackle lustily.

 

In due season

the blossoms are cross-pollinated

by the poetry of others

(and not forgetting prose!)

 

Until, finally,

the ripened poetry falls

into the fingers of the poet

and is sold in the market-place

or given to lovers!

 

Poets

ought to be locked up

in offices

In factories

In shops

And made to stop wasting time

Cultivating poetry orchards

Which are not...

And never will be...

Economically viable.