South Chingford Poetry

Another great poem from my former neighbour Beverley Rock of the Ages Each stone, a living memory As I walk and wonder -  Time and its space creates a story - Gazing openly asunder   Every stone a piece of history Embedded and in its place I read, feeling, each ones glory Its strength, its grace What does it tell me? How can it tell you? That once it walked free, And once it flew. Wind and sea waves buffet Into skipping, dancing Alongside smaller pebble set With tumbling and prancing The core element sublime Waiting for its merger In a futuristic time Altering form to purpose Rock into grains of sand It surpasses all Attempting to understand  Rock of the Ages Trodden ground Sung by the Sages Whose feet have touched It never gives up!  Beverley Gill  March 2022 RETURN TO LIST OF POEMS

This is another poem by my former neighbour Beverley, now returned to her native South Wales.   Togetherness  Love shared, a wave ridden high Intertwined in the Sea of Life. Why? Beckoning the edge of the morrow Of what that brings. Ending with one's eventual sorrow - A death of things. Survival powers to the tides, Life abounds gaily swift. There's nothing we can hide To the sounds of this drift. Love comforts the soul, Turning to light We shine, reaching our goal, The tides move on with us.  Beverley Gill 2020 RETURN TO LIST OF POEMS

This poem, inspired by Epping Forest, was written by Bev, a former neighbour of mine. She returned some years back to her native South Wales. The narrator is a tree! Mother Nature's Transmutation I could tell many stories Listen if you will Of a time way before you A way beyond you still Mother and I bear witness To a living free wild reign With even Winter's crispness We return again and again Wind and Rain refreshes; Sun gives parch; Our feet implant, drink deeply Of Mother's beating heart Earth transmutation flows To remedy the modern rush Of barren senseless 'knows' Laughed at by song of Thrush No one listens to 'my' story I've seen it all before By all of my Mother's glory Its right here on the floor Beverley Gill RETURN TO LIST OF POEMS

Michelle is a volunteer on the Saturday morning shift at South Chingford Community Library. She spends part of her time at home in Saudi Arabia, and part in Chingford where her mother lives. I find this poem very moving.        DEAR GRANDMA   She sits alone, small and frail, childlike in an adult's chair. But there is life inside that wizened shell. Her heart and soul burn on untouched.                🌺 But that soul cries to be free from strains of age;    she's lived her life, why should she struggle on?                                          🌺 But for me, I cannot be free, let go of ties that bind, of memories of those times gone by when I was young and small and weak, and it was she who cared for me.                         Many years lat...

Now, turning to political issues! (thank you Gillian)   R E F E R E N D A   CLEARING THE AIR Atmospheric pollution cries out for solution; Getting agreement is another matter. Nuclear fission or exhaust gas emission – Even the trees have given up hope. Sad to say, over recent times, Political hot air has been squirted around. From helicopter, battlebus and on the ground. After all the talking show us some action. Less pollution – more solution  Let’s have a referendum!   THE ARMY Fourth largest in the world. None feared more, yet very much under strength (Where have we heard that before?) Why are we always the first to send forces To trouble spots in world trouble sources? It does seem barmy to turn us into a salvation army!  Let’s have a referendum!  PRUDENCE Must it always be jam tomorrow? The drastic shortage of teachers and doctors Call for equally drastic measures. So a few billions there and a few millions here Then patience for a few more years....

  Received from my cousin Gillian NINETY FIVE Miscellany No longer am I an Essex man now Norfolk by adoption. Essex may be very glad or even sad, but Norfolk had no option. I once wrote with understanding of the chap up on the landing who didn’t know if he was going up or down. Now I have no landing but a better understanding of the foibles that bring misting to the windows of the mind. Eleven years ago I received a MENSA award. Today alas that is all going by the board. Although I’m getting podgy and eyesight more dodgy I can still count on my fingers up to ten. IQ gone for a burton does it mean for certain I’m a late developer in the digital age? Maybe second childhood would suggest a new tutor, extending knowledge via a simple computer. But with modems and software it’s a safe bet I would quickly be trawled up in the dot com net. So it seems without doubt computers are out. When I get to ten I must start all again. Myriads of little ads. confront us with persistence. S...

  Thank you again Gillian for this one! MEDICATION   -   MEDICATION   -   MEDICATION           An election plea to support the pill, pills, pills, wonderful pills. What a palliative for most of our ills. From Holt to Devizes they’re in all shapes and sizes. For complaints of every description chances are you will get a prescription for pills, wonderful pills. In this period of medical dearth, and all are promising the earth of the future we can only guess, but spare us from recruiting Spin Doctors for the N.H.S. Let’s not be carried away by statistics, instead be simply more realistic. Please bring a Bill to keep the pill. Let the election winners select a pill, and have it made in the Party’s colours. This would signify Victor Ludorum for the term, and it would inspire the others. To show a link with business too, by agreement by the parties, they might negotiate a profitable sponsorship wit...

This poem describes Frank Ashen's move from Buckhurst hill to Norfolk (from Cousin Gillian again!) MOVING INTO THE NINETIES After forty-one years getting to know number five I thought it was time to make a new life.   The reason was plain. There was nothing to gain from waiting at spots aptly described as bus stops. No corner shop handy, the one-seven-nine was proving to be an uncertain lifeline. From a peaceful existence where I was the king, to estate agents, solicitors, oh dear, was I doing the right thing? Anticipation, expectation, frustration became part of every day. I wondered, is it worth it? corner shops, bus stops, or nay.   I very soon found the real size of my task. To attempt this alone was too much to ask. Happily the family were soon on the scene to guide, and sometimes to push, with a shove in between.   From Elbury to Sheringham for a closer watch on Holt. But delays on the site, oooh! More frustration, I wanted to bolt. Gradually things change...

  A nature poem from Frank Ashen (thank you Gillian!)         THISTLEDOWN Proud and erect the thistle stands, purple headed, thrusting to the sun. Defiant in its outward stance, yet welcoming without second glance, to butterflies and bees that hum. As flowered head ages and petals fall ‘tis crowned again with puffy ball. A feathery, silvered plume, soft as down, usurps the purple coloured crown.   Atop the plant which gave it life this fragile daintiness sits exposed to Nature’s whims and fancies, responding to each breath or swell.   Kissed by the summer breeze the translucent orb changes in amoebic shape, returning with subtle shiver as breeze abates once more in heavenward expectation. When Natures comes to take a deeper breath, exhaling with quickening wind, staunch stands the thistle, though bending in respect. While thistledown is whisked toward the trees on its unknown journey to procreation.   Carried on the undulating wind the...

  Thank you again Gillian for this one. THE EIGHTIES IN THE NINETIES It’s nineteen hundred and ninety two, one more year has passed. Reflecting on a general view it seemed shorter than the last. Routine continues much the same, though with noticeably less go. No special high – no feat to claim, and still can’t set the video.   Shopping just the same old bind, still fighting with the trolleys. It really needs a Sinclair mind to outsmart all the wallies. It doesn’t seem the greatest thing to rid us of the awkward ‘barrow’. Please, someone with the will to win, get us on the straight and narrow. Ideas abound for things to do to keep one occupied. Cut the lawn or paint the loo. (Still a smidgen of pride). But when time comes for a decision it seems much easier to watch television. T.V. alas, for all its good, has much to answer for. The ratings list is paramount; each Channel has to score. The viewing times dictate the terms, and the fashions, too, in sport. Now pansies ri...

  Frank's part of the Ashen family were football supporters. Our team will invite no inter-tribal rivalry now, as it no longer exists, at least not at a high level. Walthamstow Avenue FC was a leading amateur club in mid last century. Some of its playing highlights were drawing with Manchester United at Old Trafford in the FA Cup in 1953 (the replay was lost at Highbury), and winning the FA Amateur Cup at Wembley in 1961, beating West Auckland Town 2-1. Both Frank and myself were present at the match. This poem was written around the turn of the 21st century. Frank appears to be somewhat disillusioned with the way the game was going at that time! With thanks again to Cousin Gillian for a copy of this poem.       FOOTBALL AND THE WORLD CUP Some views of a nonagenarian Oh! What has happened to football, that grand old British game? So many signs suggest it has been hijacked, for it’s really no longer the same. Money, and the glamour of internationalism have introdu...

The bio for Frank L Ashen appears with the poem "What a difference a year makes ". I am grateful to my cousin Gillian in Australia for sending me a copy of this one. EIGHTY FIVE To be alive at eighty five, must be Wonderful!  Some may say. To me it seems it’s not a dream, It’s just another day. Four score and five – and still alive! With congratulations freely flowing, The fact remains at eighty five It’s the tablets keep you going!   The nimbleness of yesteryear, Oh, the joie de vivre! More likely now to be just a touch of fever. The easy movement, smoothness and agility Gives way (ha ha) I have to say, to “Ouch! My bloomin’ knee!”   My poor old car is ageing too But we’ve managed to get around. With eyes on the blink causes me to think Whether motoring is quite sound. So if my eyes won’t help me see Is it I who needs the M.O.T.?   Even the garden, all neatness and splendour, With grass well cut and beds well made! Now...

  Please see the poem "Strawberries" for a bio of Martina.                       Autumnal I slurp away, darkness as a black canvas in a cup of tea I drink every morning. Grey dots of rain soak into a first draft of today and leave behind papier maché of footprints in leaf laden puddles. Vivid splashes on sparse trees are frozen dancers of a dance macabre. I believe in the open fire, pungent smell of burning wood, collapsing into fragments. Scarlet sparks like droplets aim down on the stone, when I shed my thoughts into a glass of Autumn wine. When residue dissipates and metal spikes of an evening chill bite into my bones,  I fiercely close my eyes to preserve, in this ever-changing field, a sense of body print in space.                              Martina Gritzova (2017) There follows artwork which accompanied the original work on the poem:   ...

A bio for Glenys Barton appears with the poem "The Tenrec". About this poem, Glenys says 'I searched every drawer, cupboard, etc. and this really happened'.                            Pinning the Devil I mislaid my purse but knew not where, it simply vanished into air. I searched and prayed 'cause full of cash for clothes to shop and make a splash. Several days passed of fret and worry, vaguely thought I'd hidden the money. Lack of concentration, such upheaval, resort to witchcraft and pin the devil. So pushing the needle into a chair I dreamt of my purse, please tell me where ... Would you believe, five minutes later I would find my purse. Praises to the devil!                                Glenys Barton               RETURN TO LIST OF POEMS

  A bio for Glenys Barton appears with the poem "The Tenrec"                          A Katzenjammer Have you a katzenjammer, like a head hit with a hammer? You drank too much wine, now is that a crime? The result a katzenjammer. Spare me the details last night, surely I wasn't a fright? You say I got into a fight, though usually I'm so polite. The result of a katzenjammer. How did I finish in A. & E. remembering a muzzy brain see? I'm called to the quack, sympathy he really does lack Has he never had a katzenjammer? So once again it's Saturday night, I must decline your offer - that's right! I'm really a good girl, I will knit and I'll purl No more to suffer a katzenjammer!                                        Glenys Barton                     RETURN TO LIST OF PO...

Jackie is a friend of long-standing who I first met while working in Harlow in the 80's.    This series of Limericks details the delights of home-made preserves.    There was a young lass called Georgina Who wouldn’t be beat by Corona We all trooped to her door Knowing what was in store Jam or marmalade made ever finer.   Jam and chutney first time were in favour Then Georgina got bored with those savours So to marmalade moved Second time around proved Spicy Ginger was much the best flavour. Now Georgina preserves things with Love Boils and pickles with help from her stove She stirs, beats and chops Even prays, sings and bops But her love is what makes us all move. Jackie Edwards                         RETURN TO LIST OF POEMS

Glenys Barton is one of my cousins. Her husband Peter was a lecturer in mechanical engineering and taught abroad, mainly in Africa I believe. They spent some time in Mauritius. Glenys had one of these in her garden. Slugs and snails the tenrec eats a diet for hedgehogs, perfect treats. At night he plods on delicate feet, a tailless wonder patrolling the beat. A nasty shock because of his meat Madagascans delight, whenever they meet. Into the pot, stewed at gently heat part of the food chain man should delete. Glenys Barton                         RETURN TO LIST OF POEMS

 Martina from the Czech Republic was a former volunteer at South Chingford Community Library, joining at the beginning, at the same time as I did. In her own words: "First writing attempts in early teenage years in the mother tongue continued after a long pause while living in London, first poems in English. Travelling to Asia and Australia later on inspired a few travel poems. Currently living in Paris, a regular attendee of  a writing anglophone workshop for the first few years, first stories in English. Inspired by French language studies, first poems and a flash fiction in French. Hoping to publish a collection of poems or stories accompanied by  her own illustrations." See also  a link to the school blog where there are a few French texts by me  https://obloch8.wixsite.com/confiblog/post/aeb49514                                       Strawberries I've always lov...

  Poems appear in the strangest places. This one was written on a piece of paper found tucked inside a book returned to South Chingford Community Library. There was a citation which read: "Helena Hope you like Lots   of love always from Margo xxx" Who am I? I am the depth of the ocean I am the light of the sun I am the darkness of the cave I am the beauty of the flower I am the delicate butterfly wing I am the strength of the mountain I am the courage of the warrior I am afraid I am the gentle soft breeze I am the rage of the storm I am the trusting new born I am the suspicious victim I am the growing seed I am the evergreen I am the changing leaves I am infinity I am limited I am love I am different and travel alone I am the same and travel in company I am me and I am you                                   RETURN TO LIST OF POEMS

  A bio for Frank L Ashen appears before his poem "What a difference a year makes". BEING NINETY --- IF ONLY ... I give thanks for having reached this day After some hiccups on the way. When the excitement (?) has come and gone Back to normal I'll carry on. Sometimes it seems I'm doing well, at others it is hard to tell. Some things I did without a thought Now become problems, somewhat fraught. If only I could pack a holiday bag just as others do. Some pants and vests and shirts and socks, some trousers and some woollies, too. But first there comes the meditation, working out the medication. Tablets, capsules and the like, creams, salves, something for the night. It's not so much what you are 'on', but allowing for what might go wrong. No one to consult with as of yore. Play for safety, take rather more. If only I could walk a line; one that is moderately straight. Instead of stumbling as if to mime one who's had one over the eight. Would aerobics, I w...