Poetry
Poetry also has its place at First Sunday Folk Club and Folk at the Ferry. Don Walls, of York, has regularly graced the floor with his mischievous, humourous and serious poems. He has four books published (Abbey Print).
The tradition of performing a poem or two here, and a poem or two there is kept alive by various musicians and singers, who intersperse their musical performances with poetry, and occasionally a monologue or story.
Don Walls
Don Walls is a poet from York, and has published four books of poetry: In the Shed, Inside Out and Down the Lane. He can also be heard at The Black Swan Folk Club, Thursdays, Peaseholme Green, York.
The Lament of the Door Knob
We're mainly unnoticed
except for crystal, brass polished bright
porcelain sometimes,
but most of us are bakelite
and spend a lifetime in service.
No burden too great,
they hang anything on us
- bags of bottles, a brace of pheasants.
Kids swing on us, the strain
sometimes gets us down.
(Our name, of course, they take in vain).
They wrench and twist us
clench a fist and batter the door
sending a tremor through our spindles.
We wobble with age.
I often wonder what would happen
if we all disappeared at 7 a.m.
half the nation woudl be locked in the loo
- imagine the mayhem
or at the passage of bills, laws
would depend on the opening of doors.
In fact, everything works when everything works
it's all down to function, not status
yet that's how they rate us.
Joke
I have a favourite joke.
My wife is tired of it so I keep it in the shed
and groom it every day.
I roll around in stitches.
Once past midnight friends dropped in to hear my joke,
their laughter boisterous buffeting the sides of the garden shed,
and the police arrived.
'And what's the joke? they said.
I told them,
and laughing mad they rolled their helmets round the lawn.
Lights came on across the city.
Then the reporter from the Times arrived
and asked about controlling it.
'It's mind over matter,' I said.
But as soon as the joke opened its mouth,
he wet himself.
This was not reported in the Times.
Then, the joke leaked out
and folk everywhere were doubled up.
Women gave birth
and a pill was prescribed
to stop the laughter the morning after the night of mirth
and Health and Safety proofed the shed ten decibels thick.
As for the joke,
whenever I walk him on the Ings,
He always wears a muzzle.
Susie Fox, York
Susie Fox is a singer/songwriter, but also writes poetry. She frequents "Speakers' Corner" at The Terrier Pub, Stonegate, York, on Wednesday evenings 8.00 pm, second Wednesday of the month, to read poetry and listen to other contributers.
Given the depth of darkness
Given the depth of darkness,
the cumulous clouds,
and the hiding moon,
It’s a wonder I found you,
joined hands, and so we steady
each other in the deepening night.
Given the avalanche of stones
that rain upon the path,
the briar and thorns that grasp and tear,
We cling together,
wind-blown,
and walk the narrow ledge.
Given the bitter cold,
the driving rain,
an uphill climb –
There’s no breath for talking now.
Eyes meet, and silently say,
“Not much further.”
And there is no home,
Nothing we call our own,
That is not encroached on, eroded and spoilt.
But the dark womb of comfort,
The heartbeat of living,
Is found in your arms.
S J Fox 2007
Burial Rites
Lay me down, deep in the dark brown
Under the sun-spilt sky,
Wind will caress the soft earth over me,
Rain rinse the dust and grime.
Shroud me with fresh tumbles of flowers,
Floral funeral pyre,
Vibrant rose-gold, blue-bold, ochre-gild,
Cascade of scented fire.
Sow on my six-foot meadow, wild herbs,
Speedwell,Trefoil, Wild Thyme,
Paint the green turf with primary colours,
Deep-rooted they’re soon mine.
Sing me an anthem, sing of the morning,
Flaming gold flowering fire,
Soft in the mid-light, dew-mists releasing
Bride-blush tint of the sky.
Lay me down, deep in the dark brown,
Wreathed in herbs and rich grass,
Birdsong lulls this garden to sleeping,
Song and perfume to last.
S J Fox 1997
