Category: Kent poetry

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

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

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

On Bidborough Ridge

Another poem inspired by my local area with references to Bidborough, Southborough, the Downs and A21!

On Bidborough Ridge

My heart lies in the hammock of this green valley
It’s gentle sides I pull about me on my return,
Grateful for its soft embrace and the chance at last,
To rest, far from the world I once devoured,
Before it turned on me and then took chase.

The field where I fumbled through my teenage years
In golden nests amongst the hay -I heard not long ago,
she had passed away –
The white bell-tower of my old school
From whose negligence I made a full recovery.

But today, when I climbed to the high ridge
And looked below, at the remnants of that
Which I used to know, beneath this sky
That silk screens the clouds, I saw
Nothing beyond the road that slips
Beyond the dusty evening Downs.

An unknown future beckons and I am reluctant,
To follow, an old dog dragging behind its master,
Beneath St Peter’s clock which has been three minutes late,
Ever since they bound and gagged,
Our churches with black tape
And the birds became our evensong
In a clear cathedral sky.

This land
My comfortI shall gladly take
But I am no fool, this is my end
There are no pastures new.


July 2021











	

	
	



				
					


	
	

		
The Apple
	


		

		

If I said to you that a single, large red apple
Appeared on our sapling this year,
I would not blame you for being unimpressed.





But 12 months ago, the very same tree
Bore no fruit on its withered branches,
And its leaves curled in pain like arthitic fingers.





Unexpected, miraculous, by late summer
The apple was bursting with red-faced pride
On the low, sagging branch from which it hung.





Not even the autumn gale that finally shook
The apple from the tree for a passing
Hungry fox, could wipe our smiles away.





For isn’t this what nature does? Bring hope
Where there was none. And where there is hope
There is a tree that grows stronger by the day.





Simon Denegri 





First draft Dec 20, published May 2021






	

	
	



				
					


	
	

		
Holden Pond
	


		

		

The blacksmith’s hammer
And the tanner’s mallet
Fell silent here a long time ago.





Their calloused pounding hands
And leather beating hearts
Now lying six feet under.





Earthen scars of forgotten
Trades, slowly fade in the shade
Cast by carefree trees.





And, but for the ducks
With their flotillas of young,
These waters would be still.





The perfect place
For my troubled mind
To rest and forge these lines.





SD 10/4/21