Author: simondenegri

Alone in Rio

If you were here,
Sugarloaf Mountain would be
All the sweeter,
And ‘Christ the Redeemer’
Could relax his arms.
We would make love in the heat,
Then sleep.
Instead I sweat out old battles under
The sheet.

If you were here,
The air conditioning would not blow,
Hot and fever cold.
We would have been upgraded to First,
And I would have ventured beyond the hotel,
For something to eat.

If you were here,
We would be drinking this
city together.
From a bar overlooking
Copacabana,
In wide screen format,
Making up words to ‘The Girl From Ipanema.’

But instead, I’m sharing photos with you, who is
Half way around the world
Of places half-heartedly been,
Half-seen,
Without you.

If only you were here.

Late Summer

This morning I used the stepping stones of freshly poured gold
To walk between the trees.

I breathed the night-cleansed air that I have too long taken for granted,
Filled my lungs until they burst.

I felt the warmth of the climbing sun on my face and fondly
Remembered loved-ones long gone.

I tasted the forest on my palate, like good wine, and thought
Of friends I could invite to dinner.

I saw autumn in the parched undergrowth and wilting leaves
And suddenly grew impatient for its technicolour thrill.

This morning I drank the world in and it stayed with me
And that is all I can ask.

August 2023

Scales

We fight every morning,
With the bathroom lights on, and the door closed.
Then go our separate ways
For the rest of the day.

That my ageing, neglected body,
Does not bring out the best in you, is plain to see.
In fact, we should have stopped
These trysts long ago.

It does not take long,
For my hopes to drip-dry on the cold stone floor,
My shame laid bare by the pity
Of your angry displays.

And as I push you into a corner,
Your protests muffled by damp towels and abandoned clothes,
The steam clears from the mirror to leave me,
Standing alone in self-loathing.

Gulls

Gulls

I used to hear the seagulls
In the distance, and tell my sons
That they had been swept inland
By a storm out at sea. Because
That is what my father had said to me.

But as I got older I used to wonder,
If they had sought sanctuary of their own
Accord, following the Medway,
Through the locks and surrounding hills.
Calling, calling to others lost.

Until today, I did a walk that I had never
Done before – the path sticky
And uneven beneath my feet. Alone,
I found myself looking over my shoulder
In spite of sunshine and an open sky.

I walked and walked until the path,
Opened out onto a familiar road.
Looked up to see the seagulls circling,
And swooping like pairs and pairs of
Old mens’ eyebrows set free on the air.

Realised no storm had blown them,
Of course, nor that they had followed
A stream to its source. But rather they had
Found, as scavengers will, the local tip,
With all its temptations in a skip.

August 2022

Old Boy (Hamish)

Old Boy
I shall miss your snores 
From beneath the dining room table, 
Between the larder and the front door. 
Their low mumble through the wall -
The sound of a continuity announcer on Radio 4. 

Old Boy
I shall miss your meet
And greet, with wagging tail. 
Your dolphin nose nudging my thigh, 
Leading me away from the open sea, 
To calmer waters, the safety of the shore.

Old Boy
I shall miss that long 
Sigh and those puppy eyes,
Your shoulders slumped and head hung low,
As if you have never been less loved in your life,
While loitering near to where the treats are kept. 

Old Boy
I shall miss you lying
In the middle of the kitchen floor, 
Immovable, inconvenient, oblivious, 
To the humans stepping over you, 
Like clumsy astronauts walking on your moon.

Old Boy
I shall miss that noble,
Gentle, heart of yours, 
In that lumpy, bumpy body
Held aloft by those stiff old joints, 
Trembling with every step.

Yes, old boy, I shall miss you. 
It’s been the best of walks. 


May 2022

As it should


A little before 
Half-past five on a Sunday morning,
The nursing home phoned to tell me 
My father had died at precisely 5.13am.

I remember thinking, 
Is it still ok to send him my love?
But it was a short conversation
And there was no more to be said.

As I lay back in bed,
The rain fell.
A short, sharp, Spring, shower. 

I remember thinking,
I wonder if the soul 
Is like the rain in reverse, 
Pixelated silver drops rising.

Then the rain stopped  
And the dawn chorus resumed. 

I remember thinking,
I wonder if that is the angels
Singing for my Dad as he arrives
At the pearly gates. 

But it was simply the 
World turning,
As it should.

May 2022

Rock Steady

A shoogly table. 

I look to see if the floor is uneven
Or one table leg shorter than the others.

While you place your soft, grey, leather glasses case
Under one foot.

To steady us both.


May 2022

Winchelsea Beach

Setting off down the beach 
We slip and slide, 
On the slow, ancient tide of shells and stones
That shifts beneath our feet.

While puppet-string gulls
Dance on the wind, 
And rod-and-arm ships line up astern against 
An early sky.

Then hit our stride, piston legs
Perfectly in time,
The shingle making the sound of pulsing steam
With every tread.

Soon it is time to sit and eat,
Catch our breath, 
While lazy teenage squalls skulk, late home
From a night offshore.

Each of us coveting the smooth
Marbled pebbles, 
In our pockets, now cherished memories set free 
From here, for evermore.


May 2022

Kent and Sussex Poetry, local poetry, winchelsea

, , , ,

My Dear Old Mum

This is some ‘found’ poetry I have taken from three letters sent by my Great Uncle Francis (Frank) William Denegri to his mother while a Prisoner of War (POW) in June 1918. He was a Rifleman in The King’s Royal Rifle Corps and captured in May 2018. There are four ‘letters’ – which are in fact brief notes written on Red Cross postcards requesting food and other items – and each begin ‘My Dear Old Mum.’

My Dear Old Mum

What a pleasure,
To write and let you know
The news, small as it is.

I am in the best of health,
And sincerely trust you are the same.
Remember, work tires but worry kills.

I muck in with a chap called Jimmy Moss
We get on alright, and when one of us
Feels a bit humpty, the other cheers him up.

Hurry up the day when letters
From England come,
As I know you will send plenty.

Please send some cigarettes
As they are in great demand,
I could get little pleasure with them.

I am in the best of health and sincerely
Trust you are all the same,
On no account are you to worry.

From your ever loving son, Frank
I hope to see you all again.
God be with you always

Frank died from pneumonia while still a POW on July 11th 1918. He was 19 years old.

BACKGROUND – Below are the transcripts of the letters which are scrawled in fragmented sentences and notations on the cards and from which I formed the above. Other than order and the occasional word there is very little I have changed that would alter the sense.

4th June 1918

I have some good news to tell you
We have received our first supply
Of two parcels from the Red Cross

There are some very strong rumours of us,
Receiving letters from
England.
**Hurry up the day **when they come,
As I know you will have sent plenty.

I trust you are all in the best of health as I am myself

On no account are you to worry

7th June 1918

I can’t tell you **what a pleasure it is **
To be able to write and let you know the news
Small as it is.

I muck in with a chap called Jimmy Moss
We get on alright and look after one another.
When one of us feels a bit humpty
The other cheers him up.

17th June

**Yesterday was very wet but the weather has cleared again today **
Will you please send me some cigarettes through the Red Cross
I haven’t started smoking yet but they are in great demand
And I could get **little pleasures **with them

I am in the best of health and sincerely trust you are all the same
Remember work tires but worry kills won’t you?

From your ever loving son, Frank
I hope to see you all again.
God be with you always