How can I say it started? When as a person do you really notice poetry. At what age could you say a child has the understanding to truly appreciate the written word that should evoke a concentrated awareness of an experience or a specific emotional response by language chosen and arranged for it meaning, sound and rhythm…?

I might say that the time is different for everyone, with some people never attaining a love or understanding of poetry.  The French poet Paul Valéry said that prose was walking, poetry dancing. And in every aspect of human life we see walkers and dancers. I may not be a fully blown Dancer, but I recon I have a little spring in my step.

Where did that spring come from? If I were to rack my brains, and think hard and deeply. The answer would have to be that my first introduction was at Number 1 Brookhurst Rd, Opposite Sunny Brow Park in Gorton Manchester. The house is still there today. But I don’t think they will raise a Blue Plaque for me on its walls.

The Lady that did the introducing was called Mrs Hay. She was my, and four of my siblings foster mother. I’m sure that I will at some point go into great detail about this lady. But for now I’ll just say that there is a right way of doing things, a wrong way of doing things. Then there is Mrs Hay’s way of doing things….And you sure as hell better do it Mrs Hay’s way or look out…!

When not running a very tight ship, Mrs Hay occasionally had a lighter side. And no matter how hard it was hidden, it would pop its head out now and again. It was on one of these occasions while we were gathered in the living room all freshly scrubbed ready for bed that Mrs Hay recited from memory about Sam and his Musket. The original was performed by Stanley Holloway. But Mrs hay had it off to a tee. And I loved it.

Though ‘Sam, Sam pick up that Musket’ was my favourite, she also recited a 1911 poem by J. Milton Hayes, ‘The Green Eye of the Yellow God’ Which starts as….

“There’s a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There’s a little marble cross below the town;
There’s a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.”

Hayes himself said that it wasn’t meant as poetry and did not pretend to be, yet somehow it works. It just hits everything, yet does very little of the work itself.

The Green Eye Of The Little Yellow God

There’s a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There’s a little marble cross below the town;
There’s a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

He was known as “Mad Carew” by the subs at Khatmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel’s daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel’s daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying “That’s from Mad Carew,”
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn’t take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he’d chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro’ the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp’ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
‘Twas the “Vengeance of the Little Yellow God.”

There’s a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There’s a little marble cross below the town;
There’s a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

With the name Mad Carew you get everything in the name, the whole person is portrayed in two words. This simplicity carries on through the whole piece. I just felt it was wonderful. Because it let my childish imagination fill in the blanks. Mad Carew leaving in the dark, returning with torn cloths. Being injured, being nursed, his gift rejection. The Gods vengeance. Then with little effort we return full circle to the grieving woman…! A wonderful journey of words, yet your imagination is left to do most of the work…!

As a youngster at school poetry if there was any, was thrown at you like a rock by your English Teachers. It was generally a subject hardly touched on. Or at worst ignored.

There was more poetry learnt in the form of dirty limericks in the school yard than were ever taught in the vaulted halls of the school…!

A quick limerick from memory…!

There was a young maid from Madras
Who had a magnificent ass;
Not rounded and pink,
As you probably think –
It was grey, had long ears, and ate grass.

I must admit wandering the great halls of learning was the occasional Gem. A Teacher with heart, feeling and a wondrous knowledge of their subject matter. One such teacher came in the form of Mr Nash. He taught at Harbourn Hill School in Birmingham. It is with great honesty that I say this guy had a profound effect on me and my education.

He was in my good books straight away when I found out English homework was to read books. Something I found amazing anyway. Yet he added a twist to it..! He said Try to read Fact over Fiction. And read a books a month, that’s 12 books a year, and that’s like getting a degree every four years. Which puts you in the awesome position as an adult of being able to enter a room in any setting and engage in any conversation with anyone, with confidence. I took him to his word and many months read more than one book..! I’m still an avid reader today.

Mr Nash also loved the English language, he loved to use it, and play with it. He also loved poetry, and Shakespeare. Robin Williams when in the movie ‘The dead poets Society’ says “

“So avoid using the word
‘Very’ because it’s lazy.
A man is not very tired,
he is exhausted. Don’t
use ‘very sad’, use morose,
Language was invented
for one reason, boys
to woo women–and,
in that endeavor,
laziness will not do..!”

That moment in the film reminds me so much of Mr Nash.

Honesty…

I suppose that I should come clean and admit that I’m not a real poet. Though with this comes the question “What is a real poet?” Are poets only people with published works? Or can anyone be a poets? I was led to believe that there were rules and elements to poetry. Things like, voice, diction, imagery, figures of speech, symbolism and allegory, syntax, sound, rhythm and meter, and structure.

Then of course there is the other belief, that of ‘The first rule of writing poetry?’ That there are no rules — it’s all up to you! Of course there are different poetic forms and devices, and free verse poems are one of the many poetic styles; they have no structure when it comes to format or even rhyming.

Now I for one am not even sure that what I have put together may even constitute as poetry. I shall let you the dear reader decide. I also wonder if it’s ‘Good poetry’… But as I honestly feel that the only person the poem has to make happy is the creator, I suppose all poems are good…!

I have seen quite a few poetry books, and wish I had read more than I have. I read and enjoyed many poems that tell a story on a single page. And awaken your imagination to walk with the creator on his or her journey through time, or along a street, or to meet someone. Sometimes there is more information in one poem than in a whole novel.

The best bit for me has to be the emotions that this unknown until seconds before passage of text awakes in me. Feelings that I didn’t have moments before, yet that might stay with me all day, or even longer..!

My inspiration.

I cannot say what or who inspired me to put pen to paper in the form of poetry. There are many wonderful poets, E E Cummings, Robert Frost, Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Elizabeth Dickinson and the list goes on. Yet reading their works as enjoyable as it is doesn’t inspire me to write.

The trigger for me is somewhat more bizarre. For me it is a person, or a building or an action. I see the person or the moment and an idea awakens.. ! It may sit in the back recesses of my mind for a while cooking like a good cake..! Then, generally during some quiet moment it will work its way to the forefront of my mind. Bringing with it an overwhelming urge to jot down my thoughts.

Then follows the construction phase, with hopefully an end product. Not all my efforts make the final cut. Some sadly are abandoned. Mainly because I cannot make them work..! But we keep trying and some make the grade.

One such example was a poem I wrote at the passing of an old military friend Terry Sweet. I was sat at the computer in Bavaria Germany, just going through FaceBook as you do. When I saw that Terry had passed. He was a nice guy with a loving family. I was deeply saddened that another fine bloke had gone too early.

I don’t recall being motivated to do anything at that moment. Though later while stood on my veranda with a coffee in hand reflecting on nothing in general, just taking in the mountain view. The first line popped up in my thoughts. “You never said I’m leaving” And the Ode to Terry Sweet was born.

His family received it well. What saddens me is I find as time goes on. More and more great friends and wonderful people are leaving us. One way of coping with this for me is through poetry. Terry is the only person for whom I composed two poems. The second I did especially for his wife.

The inspiration for the shape came from the word ‘Heart’ in the Title. It just seemed to fit and work somehow..!

At the moment I live in Thailand, and for a while I resided in Bangkok. For those of you who have never visited the Land of Smiles. It is truly an awesome place. You will see and experience outstanding events, and meet phenomenal people, literally by the hour.

The rich tapestry that is Asia is nonstop and twenty-four hours a day. Books have been written in the hundreds trying to capture the spirit of this wonderful bit of the world. What is my humble offering..? One poem, inspired by a day in Bangkok and a trip on the underground rail system…!

I tried to make the poem snappy and fast like Bangkok itself, I hope it worked.

Victor Hugo and I.

It can be very odd where inspiration comes from. Who would put the a French historical novel Les Miserable, and a closing down military barracks together. But for me it worked. Though in truth my inspiration came from Les Miserable the 2012 epic period musical film and a Eddie Redmayne song. Which would not have occurred without Victor Hugo putting pen to paper in 1862.

I found Eddies rendition of Empty Tables very moving. And at the time our Barracks was getting torn down, with the loss of so many Wonderfull Memories of so many great people who had passed off the Square, or lived in its Messes and hallowed halls.

I had heard Eddies song about loosing his all his friends in the Battle and being a lone survivor while in bed messing about on YouTube. Yet it wasn’t until days later when reminiscing about the sad loss of the Barracks that the spark of an idea started to flicker in my mind.

So it was back to YouTube to find it and re-listen to the words. I found it just as thought provoking the second time round. So giving all credit to Victor Hugo, and Herbert Krezmer for the original workings.

I don’t think that I will ever publish my musings in the world of poetry other than the few samples here. And I don’t for one moment think this monarch or the next will seek me out for high honours in the poetry field. But hey, it keeps me happy.