I’ve supped a few pints in the Plover
and sipped the odd Rum at the Rights
it used to take all day to recover
from those hazy Thetford nights.

 I used to drink at the Bridge,
imbibing bottles of Brown,
but it’s nothing short of sacrilege
that now they’ve closed it down!

 We didn’t have to walk very far
if for a drink we were heard to clamour,
we could have a quick one in the Star
and end up at the Trowel and Hammer.

The Angel in the market long since fell
and you no longer hear The Red Lion roar
The Dolphin flounders in financial hell
- all yesterday’s pubs that exist no more.

 But the saddest sight of Thetford’s past,
is the sorry shell that was once the Anchor,
by the river where its memories cast
fading shadows drunk with anger.

 These are all pubs that I recall…
These are all pubs that have closed their doors..
that will never again be on the pub crawl,
when at ‘Last Orders’ you’d be on all fours.

 So now we’re left with the King’s Head,
The Terrier, Railway and the Green Dragon..
The Chase is great if you want to be fed
or you can drink and be merry in the Albion.

 But my friends, the point I make is this -
it don’t matter where you get your beers,
‘cos if another pub closes, it’s not the booze you’ll miss
or the kindred souls who all shout ‘Cheers!’

 It’s the cheerful greeting from a happy face
where all the people know your name;
it’s the loss of the warmth of a  friendly place
that would be the real shame!

 But think of the problem if we lived in Bury town..
Consider the moral and ponder it well..
that if one by one the pubs all closed down
and the last to go was the Nutshell…

 << >>

]]> http://wordsasunder.wordpress.com/2012/04/21/ode-to-a-forgotten-pint/feed/ 1 redroom10 http://wordsasunder.wordpress.com/2012/04/03/all-about-thetford/ http://wordsasunder.wordpress.com/2012/04/03/all-about-thetford/#comments Tue, 03 Apr 2012 21:14:40 +0000 Words Asunder http://wordsasunder.wordpress.com/?p=534 ]]> As an unexpected return to this blog after a few months of doing other stuff please find below true value for for your time with not one, but TWO new poems for your persual…and not only that, you get to see and hear me read them too!!

The poems concern my hometown, Thetford in Norfolk (that’s in the UK, England to be precise, for the more  geographically challenged readers).

The first, Lets SoRT iT Together, was written in support of the town’s bid to become a Portas Pilot, ie to win funding to boost and develope the ailing town centre. SoRT IT is the name of the organisation set up to achieve this and stands for ‘School of Radical Thought in Thetford’

The second poem, Thetfordian Dreams, was written a few years ago and details how Thetford used to be and my love for the place.

The video of my reading of them both was taken at a local pub, The Black Horse, on March 27th 2012, at an open mic night where I was surrounded by some talented musicians and singers and I was the only poet.

Heres the video link:  Thetford In Poetry

And here’s the poems:

LET’S SoRT iT TOGETHER

 Thetford’s heritage is in our heart
our blood, our mind, our soul
For together we stand, not apart,
with Thetford’s future our united goal.

The ravages of time have taken their toll
and decay has crept to our very core
as the town has lost its historic role
as business’s fold and shut their store.

Past Civic design has shown its flaw
and absent landlords care not for their ward
our lackluster precinct has become a bore
and the needs of the populace are ignored.

And then came hope.. oh how our hearts soared!
The Lady of Portas announced her Pilot prize
so SoRT iT was formed and ambition restored
and Thetford looks forward with visionary eyes.

 No longer do we hear despondent sighs
or fear there’s no future for our beautiful town
because SoRT iT sits down and supporters arise
and together we’ll work to restore our crown.

x x x X X X x x x

THETFORDIAN DREAMS

From the Priory ruins to Castle hill
And Joe Blunt’s lane to the river Thet;
These are the places that I never will,
As a true Thetfordian, ever forget.

 The place of my birth was Melford Bridge road,
In the long hot summer of sixty-two.
The sawmills buzzed through an endless load
Of timber that once, in Thetford Chase grew.

 The main A-11 passed through town
And Cloverfields was but green common land;
And cars were able to drive right down
Old King street where I now stand.

 Roman invaders left their mark,
Overlooking us now from Gallows hill;
A headless nun walks the bridges at dark
And the legend of the Iceni, lives here still.

 Thetford has bred many men of note,
They’ve claimed their place in our history book:
Burrell for steam and from Paine we quote,
So for future pride, to the past we must look.

 There’s not many a man, born so proud
Of his heritage and his past,
But I am, and I’ll say it loud-
I’ll love this town to the very last!

x x x X X X x x x

I know she wishes
she was a witch
possessing powers
of persuasion
and subliminal
suggestion
and able to
project her
desires through
the ether and
place them in
my mind

With nonchalance
apparent I turn
my head and catch
her eye
she smiles first
(the guilty
always do)
and I say nothing
for I’ve won this
battle
but it’s only
the start of
the war.

< < > >

Don’t tell me to remember!
I will never forget!
The phone call from
a nameless doctor,
my heartache
and upset.

I know what today’s date is!
Can I ever forget
his spoken words?
My sadness?
And regret?

It’s the 5^th of November..
a day we can’t forget!
I cried a lot.
We all did,
and more yet…

As still they celebrate with
sparkles after sunset..
And we still live,
and still love,
and will never forget.

RIP Dad… 29.04.39 – 05.11.09

I offer you this, a sorry refrain,
a cautionary tale to be heeding,
concerning a man in considerable pain
and medical attention urgently needing!

google searches he was soon reading
to find the illness with which he was struck
he had no symptoms of rash or bleeding
and in his search he soon became stuck

finally he decided his courage to pluck
and visit the doctor to end his torment
the doc examined him and said he was in luck
for he knew the cause of his painful lament

t’is nowt but a boil lad, we’ve got a treatment
and with a nurse he left him for medical toil
til the man ran screaming, manhood agony evident
then shouts the doc No Nurse! I said prick his boil!!!

The fair Lady Godifgu, the Lady of Coventry town;
In anguish she wept and with anger was fraught
At the misery, Leofric’s tax had brought down
Upon the folk who, ere the tax, already had naught.

 At this she saddened and in her mind a plan was caught:
Godifgu, ‘tis said, came to Leofric when in chamber alone;
That he lift the tax, was all she pleadingly sought!
Yet laughing, he swore: Hypocrisy! I will not condone!

 You! In your jewellery and garments finely sewn!
The spittle of his wrath speckled her face:
You dare accuse me of having a heart of stone?
You live this way, only through MY grace!

 But yet I see a test of your resolve in this case:
Naked, as the day you were born, you shall ride
From one end to the other of the market place;
Only then, will relief from this tax be supplied!

 Upset and shamed fled Godifgu to her tower and cried,
But strengthened yet her forceful mind.
Heralds she summoned once her eyes had dried
And despatched them forthwith, her plan well defined.

Hither I come, mounted, unclad as Leofric designed,
Through street and alley to the square,
And if this tax you wish me to grind,
Then, for my modesty, let not one citizen see me bare!

The Lady Godifgu unpinned her cascading hair
And as a snake shedding skin, stepped from her dress.
Trusting the good folk that none would stare,
Astride her steed she went, modesty free of duress.

And thus from her destiny, she could not digress,
As through deserted streets rode naked Godifgu, proud;
Her virtue and honour, the loyal town folk would not oppress
For the normally bustling streets, were now devoid of crowd.

 Blank faced door and window of curtained shroud,
Were the only audience of her splendid quest.
For alone, in silence she rode, through streets once loud,
Chaste, not immoral, and all for Coventry’s best.

Her journey completed, she returned to the keep and dressed
And went once more to the Earl Leofric’s side:
Now lift this tax! I have done as you behest!
And that I am true to the people cannot be denied!

 Leofric, muttering, sent orders far and wide,
For his agents to cease their onerous, collecting task.
A man of his word was he, who never lied,
And no greater thing, could a man of his wife, ask!

 Once more in happiness, could Coventry bask,
And nowhere could be seen grimace or frown;
And from that day to this, many a beer cask
Has been opened to toast, the fair Lady Godiva of Coventry town.

< <   > >

Excelsior!  I shall cry!  Uttered at the last.
What for?  The question, I’ll no doubt be asked.
For England!  I’ll say, my heartfelt reply.
My England! The place I want to die!

 For when I depart
this glorious isle,
I shall still my heart
and die with a smile.

For though I die and leave behind
loved ones in my wake,
memories of England will ever find
my spirit at another daybreak.

Because of all I’ve learned
about this country sublime,
I WILL be returned
time after time.

 Excelsior!  Of England, will be said.
Encore! To England again!  Once this me is dead.
For I will live another role
in this wondrous, hallowed place:
Same joyous, English soul;
different happy face!

<<   >>

as scents
and sounds
scintillate
my senses
I stand in
statuesque
solitude
miniscule
under the
milky way

a light blinks
steadily and
glides silently
across the
ebon sky
unaware
of my gaze

a moth
flutters by
franticly
foraging for
light
I feel
its fleeting
flight
and accept
my relative
ephemeralness

in the
distance
a constant
rumble of
traffic in
droning
motion
provides
a bass line
backing
to the
moans of
lovers
coming
carried
through
an open
window

and nearer
muted voices
moan of
trivialities
as the
stench of
cigarette
smoke
assaults my
nostrils

at last
the dog
completes
her ablutions
and I retreat
indoors to
become
once more
significant

<<   >>

stewards with
megaphones
herd the
loiterers off
the concourse
onto the grass
a jostled man
drops his
hog roast

the swelling
crowd
sidestep
the mess
except a
disorientated
woman who
stops then
walks away
serviette
flapping from
her flip flop

roast hog
melds
with the
concrete

dave grohl
melds
with the
crowd

eventually
the stewards
give up
the concourse
soon disappears
under a sea
of humanity
and the hog
disintegrates
before the
encore

<< >>

 Boadicea stands now as statuesque Queen,
At Westminster bridge in old Londinium,
Her image emblazons the penny, now unseen,
Her like won’t be met in another millennium.

 But though we live the here and now,
It’s to the past that we must look.
So remember, and learn, as I tell you how,
The Iceni legend came unto our history book.

 In the ivory towers of ancient Rome,
At the corrupted hub of a sprawling Empire,
Was the licentious Nero, who lay at home,
Dreaming, unwittingly, of funeral pyres.

 Far away, on the edge of Empire grand,
The Cohorts and Legions, who as invaders had marched,
Swathing across such green and pleasant land,
Now policed a nation now of freedom parched.

 In one great domain of true Celtic blood,
Death deemed it due, to sup on Prasutagus’ soul,
And thus created opportunity, for legend to flood,
Through Boadicea, to embody her fated role.

 For Prasutagus had acquired a vast treasure hoard,
But had failed to produce an heir.
So in order to protect the family he adored,
He foolishly willed Nero, an equal share.

 Roman eyes glinted with malice and greed,
And sacked the estates of the belated King.
Countless Centurions on criminal deed,
Obeying immoral orders, sealed by Nero’s ring.

 And thus came the villains to palatial abode,
And took brave Boadicea and her daughters, two.
The palace was pillaged as Nero crowed,
And the women were subjected to improper imbrue.

 The sweet apples both of Prasutagus’ eye,
Were cruelly stripped and brutally raped,
Whilst Boadicea was beaten `neath darkened sky,
At which her wounds wept, and openly gaped.

Her body thus battered, but not her womanly resolve,
She rallied the Iceni of the Anglian folk.
With a cry that none, could from their duty absolve,
Follow me or submit to the Roman yoke!

 Twice hundred times a thousand men of steel,
Marched for vengeance and Iceni pride,
And justice and freedom from invaders heel,
And the memory of their brethren that had died.

 The fist of Rome, Nero’s right hand,
The governor Suetonius Paulinius,
Was away on business across the land,
And of these events was somewhat oblivious.

 And thus to Camulodunum, they came unchecked,
And mustered without of the decadent nest;
Then Boadicea, whom with Roman scars was bedecked,
Incited the Iceni with her bloody request.

Tis I they beat and whipped and scarred!
Tis from I they looted and stole!
My family’s lands lay sacked and charred,
And Iceni blood runs down gibbet pole!

My daughters innocence was bestially defiled,
By the wicked contempt of Neronian lust!
Prasutagus was by treachery beguiled,
Forward Ecene!  Grind the tyranny into dust!

 Warlike Brittannia, grasping trident aloft,
Charioted led the ranks to the affray.
At pleas for mercy, the warriors scoffed.
For no prisoners they took on this vengeful day.

 Death gloated and reaped his ripened harvest,
As the Iceni tribes continued their work of slaughter.
And Boadicea’s fury was vented by her bloodquest,
Screaming, Revenge!  For me and my daughters!

 Camulodunum fell, and Rome winced in pain,
For no one was spared from Iceni hate;
By the torch or the cross, their presence would stain,
No longer, nor bridle, Britain’s fate.

 Boadicea’s wrath was still not abated,
And she rallied once more the men,
Camulodunum is taken, too long it waited,
“Onwards to Verulamium, to victory again!

 This, my friend, is the stuff of legend.
The spirit of rebellion for what is right.
The snarling underdog, turns to send,
The evil marauders back to the night.

 Verulamium too, fell to the sword,
Its Roman denizens put to death,
And still the battle drunk Celtic horde,
Were urged to smother every last Roman breath.

 South they turned to Londinium town,
Their fury and impetus still not spent.
And plundered the jewel of Rome’s English crown,
That the might of Empire was buckled and bent.

Paulinius, from Mona, at last sallied forth,
To quash the infractious uprising.
Reinforcing his troops with Legions from the north,
He deployed his strategy with a speed surprising.

 At Fenny Stratford, on Watling Street,
The Empire’s finest, the Roman foe,
Invoked the Iceni legend with a crushing defeat,
Of the rebel band, inducing Boadicea’s woe.

 The disciplined engine of military might,
Advanced in unison to the fore.
Iceni hearts trembled at the doom laden sight,
And the ground turned to quagmire from Ecene gore.

 Once more victorious, the Roman eagle flew,
“Veni!  Vidi!  Vici!” still held sway.
But from that loss the legend grew,
And lives among us still today.

 Boadicea, with her heart so full of pain,
Imbibed of poison to quell the ache.
Her spirit and soul still live again,
Seeking Shackles of Injustice which to break.

 For this you must know is the lesson learnt,
To be shouted loud throughout the land;
Though Liberty, at the stake, may be burnt,
Against wrong-doings, Britain must stand.

 Boadicea’s bones are long since dust,
But like a Phoenix, she arose anew,
Rule Brittannia!  Yell with a patriots lust!
Boadicea and the Iceni, were Britain’s true!

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