We all like a poem. Our own laureate Gingerella (AKA Paul Holland) has penned some poems for GFB and here they are in slightly higgledy piggledy fashion for us all to admire. I’m a little bit jealous. There are even drawings with some of them!
We hope you enjoy them.
Fish and Chickens (Paul Holland)
I like the folderol of blue embroidery
On the white tablecloth’s cool brilliance
Today’s breakfast coffee spills join
Drips and crumbs of our meals together
Are lifted and shook out
Before the cloth is put away on it’s shelf
Ready to be smoothed out table set
For our next meal together
Or we’ll maybe wash it
And use the one with the fish and the chickens
They instead marking out
The songs of our days.
The Pass (By Paul Holland)
Neutron Star (Paul Holland)
With greenest of bright openings
Four cardinal points of fern
Push out beside the rill
From the Winter’s
Last clinging beech leaves
Into sharply cut waters
The Brute (By Paul Holland)
Can it be true
Is this what a man is
What is a man
What is it to be a man?
Out the scowling door.
Son scuttling behind.
Son young enough still,
Young enough to briefly pause.
To help his mother on with her cardigan.
This moment of weakness
My hope for his future
He followed his dad.
She swallowing her Grinding pain.
She taking it
Sucking it up
Grimace after Grimace.
With small shuffling
Out the A&E door
Off into the night.
Would it be too much to expect more kindness?
A surfeit of kindness.
God but for a bit of kindness.
Thoughts of Wampum (Gingerella)
I met the man who drank the farm.
He again slapping his heavy hands together,
Talking at the bar’s sweet spot.
Slapped his heavy hands together,
Rocked on his heels,
Looked smiling around the bar.
No one paid him much mind.
Maybe some if they could be bothered looked away.
Who wants to catch his eye.
Sucked down his rum and coke.
Made great play of just enough ice in the glass.
Slapped his callused hands together as he wilted.
Standing at the bar
Past travels done,
Best slap the hands together.
Rock in and out of the Bar’s sweet spot.
Single handed applause from all.
Tyrella Beach by Moonlight (Gingerella)
I can see all The Shore as my dogs bound away in grateful release.
By a dune’s stump
It blasted away by a storm of eight years ago
I sit and stare south in winter’s moonlight.
I know this beach.
St John’s Point and its lighthouse,
The Cow and the Calf.
There away, another spot blinks
Cast out from the Isle of Man,
Towards Newcastle’s yellow lit streets and shore.
Tips of the Mourne Mountains capped with low cloud.
A silver beam
Carried the shore’s length
Glittering upon each wave.
There above, a brightly lit planet
Shows through the gathering clouds.
You are south and tho’ this beach looks south
It’s winds now but safe gusts for summer kite surfers.
You are far,
I have your light and look for it
But although see planets
Rocks at sea
I am still here shorebound.
For something as simple as you and I
Tonight I cannot see you
Bog Road (Gingerella)
When you go to the bottom of the well
In sadness scrabbling the deep ooze and mud
Scrambling around below.
The talk then is of the climb back up but
There are sometimes valuable things down there.
Peopled from times past
Reasons to go down
The echo of words spoken of those who went before.
Their history hopes and dreams now spent for themselves
But cast there not to be weighed down and hold fast the present
But given for us to find
A safe ballast
With twisted golden torc through free
To other lands.
Our future theirs
Their dreaming hands wrought twists
Living longer than flesh.
Golden summer or winter night
Livings loud delight.
A Belfast View and Ill Children (Gingerella)
Leaving the Adolescent mental health unit
Looking clear across the City to Napoleon’s nose
This is a country were we don’t make men anymore
Those yellow cranes are all but for show.
Crazy kids made crazy by their lack of a wire to follow
The vine choosing to hug the ground to
Grow in the dark places
Not having light to forge them.
What dark forces these children find to forge them.
What currents pass for air and light.
The darkness eats and they are consumed in its petrified dish.
No rare penicillin here no liberating thrum.
The manic joy of youngsters music and laughter dulled
Tracked looped flattened in a base bass beat
Squashed with nauseous smurfs.
Scared and scarred, dulled and witness to
More blast and sulphurous rush than any
Red rivet from the yard below.
You Told Me (Gingerella)
My errant love,
Gone to the bushes
To the village of the west.
It’d be there
That they have you now to their dry breast
It’s their arms that have you in time.
All broken with seething hatred
In the yard 7 long years ago
A cacophony voices in your words.
All the determination I loved you for
I watched as you gouged
Your sanity with vile purpose.
Wild eyed unfocused
Lighthouse spin skewed off its gymble.
The deep grinding of stones
Letting their sooth mortar into rough
Sand and eyes fears of lime.
Drug settled weary
Your light burns
It lights other sights now unseen.
Riding the Madrid Metro (Gingerella)
I didn’t see the band get on.
The mum and dad
Both wearing Disney shirts and their kids tied to games machines,
The old woman I stood for, after trying to read the metro poetry,
Yes; I saw them.
But I didn’t see the band get on
I heard and stood across from the giggling girls talking in Portugese
I saw them..
But then the band put to play.
The band of Indians
Peruvian?-They’d skipped the ponchos…
I hadn’t been prepared for the band getting on.
Hadn’t seen them put to play.
I had been thinking of you of course
Of our newly found love.
Of how to change this
Make that work what I should do
The details and such.
They put to sing in that dark hole of the heights.
And the band got on and I knew of the depths
That she and I had fallen
Of the coffin nails driven deep into what was a marriage
Of my broken nails in my attempts to free us both.
Of her despair.
And they sang in that hole of the heights
Of joy and hardship
They knew of the yearning of the exiled
Of the long distance of a view.
And I thought of you my new love.
And I remembered
That the winds will blow
And thought I don’t mind
For it is of you, not the details or such, that they sang.
As now I’ll be ready for the winds to rage
And for the screaming distance of a view.
I saw that the Portugese girls were laughing.
As before me they’d noticed I’d put to cry
Sweet salt water tears.
I could no longer hide when the band got on.
Hermaphrodite Hoodie (Gingerella)
Should I push or pull
When the weary raincoat of cloudy night has opened before Dawn’s door
There you’ll find hermaphrodite hoodie stirring in the nether region
Dawn turns only to say
“Stop muckin’ about”
Sighs hermaphrodite hoodie
“What I’d give for any port in a storm
Yes brandy and a little drop of port”
“Garr……” slurps Dawn (pint of heavy in hand)
“But your eyes are a sore sight
Stay awhile ye twisted stranger, try an rearrange, yer a bit of a dog in a mang…er”
“Mark me well Dawn! today I’ll play wit’ me ditties an’ yer man there dreams only of havin’ titties
I Cannot Wear Turn-ups (Gingerella)I cannot wear turn-ups.
Johnny come (beardy) lately,
Don’t have the Legs
Not because like a hat that’s
‘…not a hat ’till its tilted’
I feel my trouser is not complete without it’s turn-up.
Tho’ I think that’s true.Mabey because I no longer need the Handmedowns.
But still cock’o’ the walk
I saunter by in Oxfam’s finest.
A Bodem jacket
Why sure; that’d be the boy to beat the band. No
The reason I cannot wear turn-ups
I can’t bear the carnage. It is rather the Sandfleas.
Hosts of little springers
I on the beach saunter by.
Finding them lost then on the kitchen floor.
No more, no more lost hitchers please no more.
Too far a leap
Too too sad
That such a programmed leap
Of faith or fear
Of nature’s push
Too far to turn for home.
Ginger Rimmed (Gingerella)
The Sea’s waves
Heavy with the Moon’s oily light
Moon glow seaside Bundoran
Caked in winter’s corona of cloudy night
The town glows too
From above seen
The waves take on the pores
Of skin swept sea
All held firm this
The ginger wigs are a right laugh
The ginger quips right daft
Scurf and scurvy out there
Lorries smoking and tractors squirting slurry
Globally warming world in a hurry
Ask yourself sweet ginger boy
Are we apt to worry
I only shifts after a curry
Other Stuff – Below are a selection of poems submitted by readers – we are happy to receive anything from anyone so feel free to submit something! Sad, happy, funny or just plain stupid we are keen to hear from you.
Why Does Memory Not Fade?
Stitch my wounds they have come undone
Rebind the ties that tether me to sanity
My heart bleeds useless sentiment
As I visit your memory
This breaking, raw, flailing pain
Swirls with unctuous ease
Around my mind
As to what if and perhaps
Youthful, stubborn pride
Earnest wishes of a mendicant fool
Return to me stolen years
Of the loss of you
Cold cold my mind’s eye now lies
No longer towards the sun and future untold
But to hoar frost breath of far behind
The summer’s rays fall cold upon my soul
Embers of their fires warm no part of me
I am frozen in essence and form
Bereft of all that I know to be true
If I had known what I know now
I would have died for the pursuit of you
No love will conquer your loss
No hope will instill peace in me
This septic, taunting pain endures
As brute reminder to my folly
Friend, tell me how to forget her
Because I cannot
I will not, shall not
My last breath shall shape your name
My last thought shall capture your smile
My last heartbeat will be broken
And when the worms that will dine on me rest
They shall spell your name
Rip and tear my flesh
I have no need of it now
Salt these opened sores
A foolish life I have made
But a life I know must be lived
To all those things
I hold dear
You above all
I wish you well
As I depart dead hopes
Now decaying and pustulant
But like a child’s first unsteady steps
There will be a world of untrampled dreams
To set foot upon once more with undisguised glee
I love you
And should have told you
Fuck, I fucked up
But I must source peace
To tie me to sanity’s calm purpose
We recently received this untitled epic of Homerian proportion and sentiment from our musicologist Gingerella Rockerfella. Hope you like it Mate!
Untitled (Gingerella Rockerfella)
I never knew me dad that well
He often worked away
He left when I was eight years old
Me mum said he was gay
He left her for a another guy
I always thought it weird
A funny guy called Albert
With a big red flowing beard
Me dad he was a ginger
Though he didn’t have a beard
He had gingivitis
Something I’ve always feared
But left me with a legacy
To which this day I’m proud
When I look into the mirror
“I’m Ginger” I shout aloud
I don’t mean that I’m ginger
As in Ginger Beer
I think that’s Cockney rhyming slang
For some who is queer
Some people think that being Ginger
Can be something of a curse
But nothing beats the pleasure
Of making up crap verse
Ode To Gingers (Non Ginger Wannabe)
Sweet Ginger Dreams (ginger Missus)
I dreamt I was a red head,
While asleep in my bed last night
A flame head temptress, a ginger “Roxanne”
A girl to put on that red light
Women would give looks of envy
Men gave looks of desire
Wherever I went, the same effect
One glimpse could light anyone’s fire
Sweet Ginger Dreams
Descend upon my sleep
Blissful hours of slumber and peace
A fantasy I wish I could keep
For now when I look in the mirror
The truth in the cold light of day
No red flowing locks reflect back at me
But instead my hair is all grey
When I first bought me socks they were quite fantastic
Cotton rich beauties with the bold snap of elastic
A joy to put on and cover me skin
Long ones naturally, right up the shin
But today I looked out upon the washing line
And noticed with sadness their recent decline
Pegged garments edging away from them keen not to be seen
Pants, shirts, bras, towels, even me new black jeans
For safely I can say without fear or compunction
A definite case of hosiery erectile dysfunction
As they dangled in the still air, limp, shapeless and forlorn
A hole in the toe and heels ripped and torn
Yet I loved me socks in a manly kind of way
They were with me for many a day
In good times and bad, happy and drunken
Talked to them once on a slow drive to London
The pretty girl laughed, the sock a puppet snake hissed
“Your beautiful” he said, she gave me a kiss
Less impressed she was when I asked of me darling
There was a hole in the heel, how good was she at darning?
I look upon the clothes line with a sad eyed stare
And determine that they are beyond repair
But remember you I shall for your support, warmth and valour
You deserve a place in knitwear Valhalla
Just like The Vikings starring Kirk Douglas and his dimple
Sadly without that budget my plan will have to be simple
No floating longboat chased by flaming arrows
But bury them tonight in a neighbour’s ornamental wheel barrows
Moody In The Sudeley (CP Copper)
The tiles stretch upwards towards a cistern of emptiness
The vision roars in the background of what will only ever be forgotten praises
A ginger strolls into the room stating his German ancestry has just been realised
As he dips his bratwurst into his Tetley
The salty sadness of remembrance fades away
The Flash states if only everything in life was as reliable as a Volkswagen