This is the end, beautiful friend, this is the end...sob!

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The Last Ham Sandwich

This poem is unusual in that it is a true story. It is one of those extraordinary accounts that can grow out of a perfectly ordinary conversation, from a colleague who has placed sufficient trust and confidence in you to reveal something uniquely personal. I suppose if we think about it we all carry with us an experience that, to us, seems mundane, simply a part of our lives we have lived with for many years, but which to others must seem exceptional and moving. When I was told this story I felt greatly moved by it and, perhaps more importantly, this one revelation explained more about the character and personality of that individual, how they had grown and developed as an adult, than any in depth analysis of their character could otherwise have revealed.

The Last Ham Sandwich

He rode home filled with silent apprehension
Not knowing what he was supposed to feel
They'd broke the news without consideration
He found it hard believing all was real
'Your mother's dead boy,' rang the master's voice,
'Go home, you're needed by your family.'
And so he went, it seemed he had no choice
A journey home, made not so happily
As those he'd made on other ordinary days
He stared through hollow eyes and sunken face.

The doctor gone, the priest was also leaving
Betwixt muffle, hat and coat the boy was told.
'I'll call upon your father before evening.'
And found himself left in the dark and cold
He dared not look upon his mother's face
Until from work his father again came
And only then would enter in that place
Where lay his mother's vacant mortal frame
There stood they side by side and veiled in shadows
Of grief and loss and pain and shock and sorrow.

But there were things that needed to be done
And so the boy was left alone to grieve
And found his troubled mind still dwelt upon
The fragments of his mother's life still seen
The note upon the mantle in her hand
A golden hair upon the sofa's arm
An echoed phrase that sprang into his mind
And soothed him as he sat down filled with calm
And ate the sandwiches his mother made
To put into his lunchbox that same day.

"Et vera icessu patuit dea"*

It was with such passion I was touched
And ran headlong into such lands
The like of which I'd never known
Emotions strong rose forth unbridled
An immature, impetuous youth
Thought long confined took flight once more
Caring not for truth, nor what was real
Rather seeing what he would, and hearing
What was never said, at least outside the confines
Of some beautiful envisioned realm.

A perfect jewel unflawed was found
A mind, a heart, a human being
So lovely, caring, gentle, yet
Desirable as any undiscovered treasure
Was and is and will be craved
With avarice unfitting in a friend
Yet from such beauty came such pain
'Twas flaming truth, unbowed, unflinching
That broke the spell and sent me reeling
Back before this happy mist descended
Clouding rational thoughts and senses
That had for so longer been my master

Yet I beg you be not hasty
Do not dismiss this foolish man
Punish not his zealous adoration
For you he cares, of this I swear
Your happiness is all that guides
His oft misguided, ill-timed hand
Though far from perfect, this is certain
his mind no misconception stands
look hard into your heart and know
He never would, could do you harm
Would cherish such a valued gift
The like of which you might bestow

You could deny all feeling thinking
That you act from best intentions
Knowing you may be mistaken
Knowing what you stand to lose
Much more simply than my friendship
though your friendship is much cherished
A friendship valued and desired
Still know my feelings - strong and fearless
far from diminished burn with fire.

*And in her walk it showed, she was in truth a goddess

The Fantom Locusta

Not one to read too much into this. I simply enjoy a good narrative and felt the character of Locusta would be an enjoyable character to develop in a poem. I am an equal opportunities poet and would hate to be accused of any misogyny. Take it as it is, a bit of gothic fun in the spirit of the Romantics. It is the nearest I get to being mad, bad or dangerous to know!


The Fantom Locusta

Into the realms of Fear and Hate
A hooded horseman rode alone
To face a foe more terrible
Than any he had known before

Soaked to the skin by driving rain
And chilled right to his bones
hunched he clung onto his steed
Held in his hand a mighty bow

Across a landscape lightning lit
Lamenting peals of thunder rolled
Striking terror in a hero's heart
And with each step he grew less bold

Upon a ridge above the crags
Appeared a ghastly silhouette
Standing out against the sky
The mighty castle of Locusta

A lightning fork illuminated
A figure on the parapet
Alone Locusta's raw boned frame
Stared down with eyes of death and shame

No mortal soul could stand her gaze
A look of ice and hate and death
A face so pale and agonized
Made bitter, twisted by regret

She raised her hand, her fingers glowed
And spat out fire and shards of ice
the hero's horse reared up in fear
And threw its charge onto the ground

He rolled across the muddied earth
His bow was drawn, an arrow found
'Fieri facias!*' he cried
And took his aim at the Fantom's heart

His aim was true, the target found
Locusta clutching at her breast
That once gave succour to the weak
Before she brought them death

She screamed with agonising pain
Anger flashing from her eyes
She scrambled at the parapet
Then plunged down to her grim demise

Locusta perished where she fell
No longer mistress of her realm
Her bones lay broken on the rocks
Beneath the castle where she fell

Already mould and creeping time
Held back no longer by her hand
Devoured her citadel with greed
the stones decayed, the towers fell

The hooded hero with cautious step
Examined the Fantom's broken frame
With horror stood and watched the bones
Return to dust from whence they came

In his face see eyes of many
Tortured souls seeking revenge
Those who Locusta once had cared for
But brought their lives to a cruel end

Their pain and anger had subsided
Now their souls could be at peace
This one time realm of Fear and Hate
Was free at last from a Fantom beast.

Locusta - a woman who murders those she professes to nurse
* Fieri facias - cause it to be done

You might from my recent posts think I have a bit of an obsession with death. I would have to confess that my personal philosophy tends toward a certain nihilism but it is more that I view death as the last great unknown, the leveller that renders all of us equal regardless of wealth or wisdom. I always find it difficult to objectify my writing, good and bad are such subjective terms and only the individual reader can judge for themselves whether a poem has any artistic merit for them. However, I feel that this poem is one of the few pieces I have written that I am personally happy with, that I can come back to and comfortably enjoy again and again. Ironically, it is a poem that came to me complete and almost without effort. I remember a vivid dream in which I sat at a typewriter and wrote the whole poem almost word for word as presented here. I also had the foresight to keep a pen and paper nearby so the fragments of my dream could be recorded before they were lost to the conscious mind. it was something that had never happened before or since unfortunately!

Alone in the Graveyard

Through the rain's curtain a shadow I could see

A black coated figure all huddled in misery

And as I drew closer her face I did notice

All drawn with the sadness and pain in her heart

Her eyes, like the sky, had known beauty in summer

But now they seemed grey and were filled up with clouds

The dim sunlight glistened upon the black gravestones

The rain smeared the make up that ran down her face

She told me a tale that was joyful and tragic

As she bent down and laid flowers on the grave

The flowers were roses, their petals held raindrops

Each blossom as red as the blood in your veins

The call of a raven I heard from a treetop

Her thoughts interrupted the story did end

Blinking the tears from her eyes as she left me

Alone in the graveyard chilled by what she said

I think more subconsciously than by intent, I wrote this poem in response to Philip Larkin's 'Mr Bleaney'. I enjoy Larkin's writing but find it, particularly 'The Whitsun Weddings', suffocatingly middle class. Poor old Mr Bleaney, having slogged his guts out to provide a meagre living for himself, is far more deserving of respect than he receives at the hands of Larkin's snooty observations. Bleaney is representative of so many of us that do not enjoy the many advantages afforded to the intellectual class, this does not mean we do not have the same cultural and intellectual ownership of our literary and artistic heritage. If, as Larkin complains, the company of Mr Bleaney is so tiresome, why then elevate him to the subject of your creative endeavour?

Dignum Laude Virum Musa Vetat Mori*

The first rays of light crept hopefully about

Casting their prying fingers in and out

Of long night time shadows, forcing them

To slink like nocturnal beasts revealed

Into remote corners and crevices unseen

As day followed night the light fell full length

Upon a dusty window pane shut tight

Made grimy by neglect and marching time

It struggled and yet finally did pass through

To cut the dusty gloom inside a house

No better than its neighbours and no worse

The cheerful light laid bare with no remorse

The shabby living room of this small house

A patterned woollen carpet, faded in the sun

The patchy threads had been much walked upon

And battered furniture antique in style

Old newspapers left yellowing in a pile

Upon the mantelpiece a clock had ceased

To count the passing hours long ago

An ashtray was the only souvenir

To indicate this house was still a home

It lay full gorged upon the butts and ash

Explaining why the peeling walls were stained

And in that sealed room the air was stale

A fine layer of dust had settled gently upon

The back of an old armchair, its back to the door

Still looming in the fast receding shadows

A gnarled hand grips each arm tightly

Wrinkled brown skin, chipped black nails

Paler than the palest ivory

The whites of eyes that can no longer see

Staring from his face quite peacefully

A face much lined with wrinkled age and care

Though crowned with white his head is mostly bare

In life he had been poor and lived alone

In the dignity of death this was undone

And so we must retire from this poignant scene

Back out onto the streets from whence we came

And up above those rooftops all the same

To watch the bloated sunset's fading rays.

* The man worthy of praise the Muse forbids to die. Horace