This new page added 18th June 2001 by special request. 

If any other readers would like to feature their poems here, just send them to me and I will almost certainly publish them (it would take a lot to get over my belief in freedom of publication or under the depth of my taste).

Lee Blackburn    Andy Jackson     Dean Nelhams     Tom Fry   

Gee Blackburn (Mrs Lee) contacted me in March 2003 and asked me to add one of Lee's poems - a pleasure for any good poet, particularly one who shares my name:

RECOLLECTIONS

Glass of scotch, I reflect;
Childhood memories reconnect,
Green days of summer storms,
I remember and feel warm;
Frightened by the recollection,
Thoughts swirl in apprehension;
My whole life flashes in one short burst,
but I've been through this before so I'm well rehearsed;
Take a deep breath and have another sip,
Just enjoy the reminiscence trip;
Time moves along and the days count down,
Things are even better the second time around.

Andy Jackson 

A fellow fan of I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue and penner of verse learned of the E J Thribb Poetry Corner and asked for some of his work to be featured on the site. Ready as ever to oblige, here it is.

Brewer’s Troop

When they firebombed the brewery - yes, I think that was the cause
They never could have visualised this war to end all wars
There was discontent at the Con.Club when the lager taps ran dry,
And it slopped onto the Precinct, engulfing passers-by
The troops were soon alerted, and the word spread through the ranks
They rumbled off the bypass in a belch of growling tanks
While in the smelly Precinct the party gathered pace
A copper by the barricade took a six-pack in the face
The smell of burning beermats gave the air a bitter bite
One man doused himself in vodka and set himself alight
A doctor tried to save him from his cheap self-immolation
But his spirit wasn’t in it, and he died outside the station
Another man was crying, crouching down behind a wall
Just snivelling and swaying as he answered nature’s call
His head was gashed and bleeding, streaming blood into his eyes
He smeared it with his right hand as his left zipped up his flies
The General howled the orders, and the troops took up position
Each soldier recognising the importance of his mission
- a fight against inebriates, a war on impropriety
A desperate attempt to make the world safe for sobriety.

And when the war was over, they gathered up the bits
Of boozers blown to giblets, and dropped them into pits
They filled the holes with concrete and and left a simple stone
Its legend bears a message that will chill you to the bone

It reads “TO ALL YOU MOURNERS WHO STAND ATOP THIS GRAVE
BENEATH YOU LIES AN ARMY WHO DIED THAT YOU BE SAVED
THEIR DREAM WAS OF A NATION RUN FOR EVERY DRINKER’S PLEASURE
WHERE WHISKY FLOWS LIKE WATER AND AN END TO ALL SHORT MEASURES
WHERE BARMEN ALWAYS CALL YOU ‘SIR’ THROUGHOUT THIS HALF-CUT LAND
WHERE PUBS ARE ALWAYS OPEN AND THE BREATHALYSER’S BANNED
BUT NOW - ” always at this point a tear springs to my eye “
- THE LANDLORD HAS CALLED TIME IN THAT GREAT TAVERN IN THE SKY”.

Andy Jackson

Andy was so pleased with the presentation that he has sent another three which it is my pleasure to publish.

BRITAIN’S MOST WANTED POEM

 I went down to the town today to see what I could see
The crowds were quietly grazing, and looking straight through me.
I saw a poem standing by a derelict shop wall
As I went across to read it I heard the poem call.
It had metaphors for fingers and irony for eyes
- no-one could guess its nature behind that thick disguise.
Its lips were black, distended, wire-hair defiled its chin.
Its tongue lolled from the corner of a maniacal grin.
It gave a reedy chuckle (It had garlic on its breath)
and though I could not know it, I guessed his name was DE’ATH.
I yelled “Hey! What’s your game, pal?” as it lunged with all its text
(from a poem, not the kind of strange behaviour you’d expect)
I railed “Now wait a minute!” as I stepped back hastily,
“Have you got your poetic licence? If so, I’d like to see.”
Not pausing for a couplet, it slid down off the page,
and, gathering up its stanzas, it made off in a rage.
I’d obviously disturbed it (I thought long and hard upon it)
from mugging some old limericks or beating up a sonnet.

 Next week, while watching ‘Rhymewatch’, whose mugshot did I see?
That selfsame nasty verse staring blankly back at me!
It was wanted by detectives for a string of minor rhymes.
They knew a lot about it - the places, dates and times.
I realised with horror how close I must have been
to metaphysical violence from the lyric-thug I’d seen.
I know I’ll not sleep safely until the law decrees
that this beast be locked away in one of Her Majesty’s anthologies.

IF I AM NOT COMPLETELY SATISFIED I WILL RETURN THE GOODS WITHIN 14 DAYS AND I WILL OWE NOTHING

This is your deluded conscience
Speaking through your letterbox
Free quotation no obligation
Double glazed with childproof locks
Your invitation to subscription
Last chance now at knockdown price
Art is cheap and art is homely
Reader’s Digest? That looks nice!

You could be that special person
Someone somewhere has to win
Here’s a quid to prove we mean it
Here’s a bank to keep it in
How the cost of wanting spirals
How the cost of having falls
Krugerrands and china thimbles
Keep them warm with cavity walls

Guarantees in bold italics
Soothing, smirking, insincere
Visa, cheques or postal orders
Self-addressed affix stamp here
Have you problems with your memory?
Are you bald and long for hair?
Have you seen our latest brochure?
You will find a solace there.

Market Forces Sweetheart

We roamed the town for hours, for
somewhere to chain the bike
We couldn’t catch the train because
the unions were on strike
You held me oh so tightly
when we heard they had surrendered
Your hugging bent my Visa
but my credit was extended

We came with the intention
of buying a new toaster, but
we came away with futons
and a bloody James Dean poster
We queued for Queen and Company
For what seemed half my life
I bought a sense of humour
And some knickers for the wife

And when it came to five o’clock
outside the TV store
the siren blared ‘Attention!’
to all the other floors
We took our shoes and socks off
with all the crowds above
and sang the Corporate Anthem
in the Shopping Mall Of Love

 A new submission, 10th February 2002, from Dean Nelhams

Shared Inside

Storm battered windows speak of
remnants of a moment shared and lost.
A strained but peaceful man lies
down at his bruised wives side.
Instilling discipline is the masters’ justification,
but still the boy cries.
His self-imposed incarceration is only
broken to chase away the children
that taunt him.
Movement in the corner of the room
pours icy guilt on the lovers fire.

Does a key still exist to these
impenetrable walls?
 

Tom Fry mail

added October 2002

Thoughts