Poetry: Environment
An Earth Diary
A look at the environment and society, some of the early work dates back to 1961, but, on re-reading it, I felt that the content was too morbid, so the earliest piece is from 1978 during which time I was serving in the army. There are poems which occur at the same time as I was in hospital, or on licence from hospital, which are included here. Continuing on are three poems from the last decade of the 20th century.
A Wet Day
This was written in 1978 while at the Castle Martin (near Pembroke) Tank Range. The range is on the coast nr St Govan's Point and is a wind swept sand dune on top of a cliff. It is not a pleasant place on a wet day. Form is sonnet with couplets.
Spots of water, wetting the window pane,
rattling themselves against the wooden plane;
cloud spray falls down upon the earth-green mass,
wetting the stunt trees and freshly mown grass,
and the rubber of the car-wheel goalpost:
the coke bottles and the sweet papers coast
with the takeaway cardboard container
and the broken hose-reel retainer.
A black-headed gull picks through the litter,
watched by a vole: wary, hopeful sitter,
waiting for the weighty scavenge to leave.
A mole sniffs the air from his earthy sleeve,
forepaws ready for a swift departure
from the plate of the scavenging creature.
©Chris Green, 1978 & 2006
Castle Martin: Sea at Dusk
When one stands beside the sea and the tide laps the water, in little wavelets,
slowly up the beach, I wanted to use words whose vocal sounds echo this effect, and the rhythm or scan is that of the water creeping higher up the beach. Form is sonnet with couplets.
Soft light slithers soundlessly across sea,
breaking that most barren eternity.
A gavel of gulls garrulously grate
that so mournful evening's aching spate:
proud Pilate's speech needed but this loud cry,
to turn aside the Pharisee's decry.
Land lingers longest lit at dusk
by the failing flare's silhouetted husk.
'Handel's Water Music' laps absently
at the light-vacated shore on the lea.
The lonely warning bouy's metallic song,
from the shadowed sea's wave-spread diphthong.
Like Canute's wet progress in that past age,
tidings challenge the scribbler's pilotage.
©Chris Green, 1978 & 2006
Tidworth: Play
Tidworth Garrison in 1979, I had taken a walk out onto the training area and I
had reached a small hill which overlooked the tank parks and married quarters, it was probably at the weekend and was in the summer. I wanted to paint a miniature landscape of the scene.
A child's screeched retort,
distorted by young sport
childrens' swarming transport
in the car-harbour port.
Loud-voiced anger rebounds,
tantrum-tempered sounds
echo 'midst summer's day.
Afternoon's angered play
beneath the hot sun's spray,
pecking order on display.
©Chris Green 1979 & 2006
Munster: A Dull Day
1980 in Münster I was in the alcohol abuse unit of the British Military
Hospital, having my first session of 'drying out' and was feeling pretty
miserable. A psychiatrist who read this poem said that I was paralleling my
emotions. Form is loosely sonnet.
A dying tree stands beneath my window,
rent and torn by wind and weather, its skin
a coloured orange from the fungal Rusts.
The sky has a sheened-grey, dull aspect
and desolate drizzle hides the distance.
Stark trees standing forlorn and water-logged,
their remnants of spring and summer hanging,
limply, dead and soused with heavy rain.
A wood pigeon gains a clumsy clawhold,
scrabbling for balance on a mouldy limb
which bears the marks of careless killer fire.
Jew's Ear fungi camp upon the dead bark;
raindrops drip, hang-a-while, then drip again:
peerless and peaceful, dripping time away.
©Chris Green, 1980 & 2006
Walkenried, Bad Sachsa: The Garden
This is my favourite poem it is simple and describes what I wanted to say and
there is nothing hidden in this piece. The garden was attached to the Inner German Border hut where I was a relief caretaker for a couple of weeks. What you read and see at first glance is all that is there. Form is sonnet with couplets and triplets.
The sun-warmed smell of turpentine pine
in the late afternoon to dusk sunshine.
Four eider ducks are nestled together,
rustling their feathers, beside the river.
Riots of sunbeams scatter their warm light
to catch the airy, flowing swallow's flight.
A red squirrel chitters in a birch tree,
unaware of the silver forestry.
Water fluttles within its riven bed,
as though to fill, with music, all my head
with chattering, watery-flower thread.
The light brightens the green and grass-like stem
that pokes its poignard above the Earth's hem;
token of living song: Nature's Anthem.
©Chris Green, 1983 & 2006
Herne Bay, Kent
This was just after I left the army in 1983, visited Herne Bay in Kent which is
on the coast around the spot where the traffic in the English Channel turns left
for the River Thames. It was a misty day with sounds blanketed in the fog. One's view became tightly focused. Form is loose and based on the motion of water and mist.
The mist creeps seawards.
The sea rattling against the pebbles;
Mist, sky and sea, altogether;
Rusty steel collars of the well-rotted
Wooden uprights along the breakwater;
Flints and conglomerates pebble banked
Between the sea and the promenade;
Black headed gulls floating idly
On a dull-grey, flat sea;
Red floats mark the lobster pots;
An inshore fishing boat is anchored;
Two anglers, squat patiently in a small boat.
The mist creeps shorewards.
White painted houses with red roofs,
Start to hide themselves in the mist;
The air cools and a whisper of wind
Chills your neck and forehead;
The sea dies and the tide turns;
Loud hammering comes from the pier,
Accompanied by the rasp of a plane;
The arrogant sound of a car-horn
Stabbing and wounding the quiet;
The impatient slam of car doors,
And, "Dad, where's the sea? Eh?"
"Where's the sea? Its all mist!"
Promenade based amusement:
Bingo and Bandits and Space Invaders;
Beer, cigs, smelly feet and bad breath;
See the sea - "Its all misty."
"But we can spend fourteen days
at the Amusement Arcades
and never see the sea at all!"
©Chris Green, 1983 & 2006
Salisbury Cathedral, Mid-day
After I left the army I spent around 18 months travelling and looking at places
that I had always wanted to visit, one of these was Salisbury Cathedral. I was
struck by the numbers of people using the building and their reasons for doing
so, and I wanted to look closer. Form is sonnet with interweaved couplets.
Tourists' shuffling seat;
The busy, clicking camera;
The Memory of a man,
Measured by the tread of feet.
People: the touring chimera;
Scuff sentiment from the floorplan,
While dust drifts with the shuffling meet,
Stirring coldly in the sunlit heat.
The tourists paying for prayers,
While worshippers prey for payers.
Organ and choirs trembling echoes
Filling the Cathedral hollows,
Seeking all Christian fellows:
"Come share our hallows....hallows..."
©Chris Green, 1984 & 2006
Death Penalty
In 1985 I was living in Ancaster, a small village in Lincolnshire, in an old
hall which was the dumping ground for people on UB40 who had nowhere else to live. Being an outsider I did not know about the reputation of the place before I moved in, and it took 18 months before I could move out. If the building was not good, at least the people I met were, in the main, kind and generous; and I think this is true in most countries, that people who are at the lowest part of the social tree tend to be more supportive of each other. I certainly learned a lot about survival and living on State Charity which stood me in good stead for when I was later homeless after release from the mental hospital. There is a lot going on in this poem, on many levels, though if you need to sum it up I suppose that I am looking at 'attitudes'. There is no particular form.
I remember there was a tree,
I think it was in a zoo -
but it died.
They had rats and mice
who fed in the sewers,
and bats and lice
who lived on the viewers;
they had an industry
without competition,
it was a monopoly
without compassion;
they had insurance
for peoples' assurance -
and all thrived.
There used to be birds too,
and animals roaming free;
there used to be a planet
whose name, I think, was Earth;
it was the place of our birth
before our deathwish plummet.
They had a death penalty
for nature conservancy -
but it died.
©Chris Green, 1985 & 2006
Another Christmas
Towards the end of 1985 I moved to the Medway in Kent. It was a time of turmoil for me, I was falling apart inside my head and the time of my involuntary incarceration in the mental hospital was fast approaching (but I did not know that then). I became involved with the Mormons at this time, not for any good reason, but because I needed help at a basic human level.
The rain falls:
Humour and laughter are frail flowers,
generous with their scent - easy to destroy;
If I feel sad - I draw upon the hours
and remember the flowers' scented joy;
I hide my face in the petals' favours,
but carry, in my heart, the sad small boy.
A car sprays water from the road,
raindrops glittering in the streetlamps.
A figure trots, furtive and wary,
Mr Brock enjoying a pre-prandial stroll,
glides silently into the churchyard.
Limestone colonised by green lichen;
watery flowers bloom on the stones,
and blossoms trickle into the mosses;
it rumbles down the guttering
and drip-dribbles: Ker-plunking
twenty-feet into the old zinc bath tub;
while Mr Brock trots into the night,
betrayed by a vague flash of white.
The rain falls:
Carollers in overcoats with battery lanterns
do not see Mr Brock as they cross paths;
happy voices hidden in the music of water
and careless feet which scuff against stone
as they walk to through the churchyard.
They approach the little Saxon church
and the door opens - releasing yellow light
which is swallowed by the void night -
allowing them to pass inside to the 'Welcoming Rite'.
A barn owl crouches in the bell loft,
not one whit to woo the sight:
a field mouse scuttles from stone-
to-stone, safe within the waters' might.
The church clock reaches mid-night, a pause -
and the hour bell starts to ring,
timing its strike to twelve, and breaking,
stroke-by-stroke, the heart-felt-silent-waiting.
As the last stroke lands: echoes barely dead...
The other bells are released from sleep
and peal out: "Christmas!" "Christmas!"
"Its Christmas!" "Its Christmas Day!"
The porch door opens and welcomes all,
seats fill and bells call:
hot breath meets cold air and steams,
each chair supports a little spiral of mist.
Mr Brock goes home:
The chorus whispers in the background;
a small man, young for his calling,
climbs into the pulpit and starts to speak:
"My dear friends, welcome and thank you.
Today is the Festival of Christ,
of Jesus, our Lord's Birth Day.
As I look out from this rostrum,
I can see you all, huddled together,
as the sheep of God that you are:
sharing this house of God,
sharing this cold air, and that rain,
sharing our warmth and goodness.
Later today we will share gifts,
and party and feast and drink toasts;
but remember: this is our Lord's Day,
when we should share our love
with each other, with God, and with Jesus."
Mr Brock sleeps at home.
©Chris Green, 1985 & 2006
Song: The Dog
In 1992 I was living in Kings Cross in London and approaching the end of my
licence period from the mental hospital; there was a sense of nearly being free, of nearly being able to do, to go, to be whatever I wanted - without a doctor or official saying different.
Water bumbling by
as canalboats ply
their trade of leisure,
giving man pleasure.
The dog barks -
A dandelion on the lock,
its head a feathery white flock
spread ready to catch a wind
and fly like 'waifery' spind.
The dog barks -
A gnome in mad colour,
rent by wind and rain,
seeks a quiet harbour
to ease his old pain.
The dog barks -
The lock gate lowering
the water by opening
within, a rift, to lower,
like a lift, the water.
The dog lies down -
Cloud meandering free
brushing the greenery
and the narrow-boat crew
with dawn-mourning dew.
The dog dreams -
Gone is the boat, with the flow,
gone are the men and the radio,
gone is the water bubbling by,
gone is the dog lying nigh.
©Chris Green, 1992 & 2006
Freedom
1st August 1992 Freedom, 3 years without a recurring episode, 3 years of
stability: nearly 6 years in total including the nervous breakdown ("the winter
of my discontent"). Form is sonnet with couplets.
Now Winter has ceased its icyed voice here,
afresh, Spring starts the Seasonal New Year.
The snow lingers on the higher ground,
while lower, crocuses are to be found.
Animal life seems to halt in mid-stride,
waiting, like many-a-groom for his bride.
Expectant silence rules the land this day,
then, as though the sun has shown them the way,
sounds beat loudly upon the rushing air.
Symphonies of sound, with all taking their share,
each one an actor and each with an act
to be played upon this Spring-laden tract.
The lives of each, like the tryst of lovers,
form the backdrop for all of the players.
©Chris Green, 1992 & 2006
Grantham Market Cross and Conduit
Grantham was where my father lived and where my sister still lives and where I visit sometimes, it is not a town that I feel comfortable in. It is a seat of Tory power (Margaret Thatcher’s home town) and in the 1980's became a suburb of London for those well-off enough to afford a Season Ticket on the railways. I suppose that Grantham represents memories. Form is narrative.
I remember, a long time ago,
the stream used to bubble by,
fed by the spring, and in turn
feeding the Market Place pump -
but that was long ago:
there used to be a trough
and a horse-mounting block;
and I could watch the rainwater
glistening on the cobblestones.
I could watch the people
huddled against wind, or the rain,
or lounging on my stone in the sun.
I remember the old workman
in his corduroy breeches,
with his cart and shovel;
shovelling the horse dung
from the Market Place
to sell at a penny a bucketful
to the 'fancy' flower growers.
I remember the old women
coming to Market to gossip
and to buy and to sell.
Old men and young men,
the farmers and their labourers,
gathered outside the Market Inn,
talking of land and weather,
comparing the stock prices
and John Merriweather's Shire.
I remember the peace of early morning;
the villagers readying their market stalls
and the arrival of foreign traders:
then the quickening pace, as people
arrive to buy; to argue; to bargain.
I remember watching as the day waned
and the people began to leave,
and the stalls were tidied away,
and I was left to stand in peace.
I remember watching men marching,
a flowering tide of khaki,
and the sound of too joyous music,
a little later a weeping man.
Long years have I stood here,
watching the change from horse to car;
from mud-tracks to tar-macadam;
watching the sunless days,
with their brightless ways;
felt people: sitting, standing, walking;
feeling time wearing my stonework
as surely as any rainstorm.
I mark the old Market Place:
the crossing of the ways,
where, once, water was gathered;
the well and the stream are interred;
now stands a stone folly, inscribed:
"Town Conduit - 1597"
stained, worn and waterless,
like me, another old landmark,
to be viewed, only by tourists:
walked round;
sat upon;
photographed;
and forgotten...
©Chris Green, 1994 & 2006
Cottage and Garden
This is a group of three sonnets which explore aspects of a cottage and a
garden. I wanted to look through the eyes of a 'biscuit tin' painter. Forms are sonnet with the first being 'quadlets', the second being couplets and the third having some triplets.
Scents and sounds flow from the little cottage,
airs and tunes charge the atmospheric guage,
and whispers of smoke stray and assuage
weathered thatch and chimney's heritage.
The red-sandstone building blocks on the moor;
a boot-trodden stone step protects the floor,
wind-planed wood forming windows and door,
secure guardians against the windy score.
Inside: the hot hearth with its singing fire,
bellows puffed within the domestic pyre -
warming the hungry feline dame and sire,
while, warily, the mouse creeps to his byre.
The clock tocks: "mobilis in 'immobile'",
patient pedant in clockwork: no sun-dial.
Enter the cottage, stepping on granite;
none of that muse-less, man-made concrete;
aged and walked to warm neutral greyness.
The rich cousin to the clerical mouse
reaches safety and hides within the blackness,
fast, prisoner in domestica's house.
The finecky feline at the fireside
kneads a front paw, in a worried aside.
On the wall, on either side of the hearth,
there are four pictures, two and two, of Earth
pictured minute through the Four Seasons.
The breeze wheezes within the environs,
a dying gasp from a certain bellows,
ripples curtains at the parlour windows.
Garden:
The bustling fauna's infant joy assumes
gentle airs' song amid the early blooms;
with the youthful sunlit scent of bluebells
among the budding green of baby fells.
An upright, strait, white-painted, wooden gate,
within a dry-stone wall of aggregate,
in situ, handsome gardener's abbreviate
to the stony fastness, such hues placate.
Upon the wall ivy creepers crawl,
and Annual clumps, in green dormancy,
sit bank'd in foliaged cragged fall:
climbing roses waiting, in infancy,
to start that first crawl up and up the wall,
and join the rest in Nature's growth tenancy.
©Chris Green, 1995 & 2006
Bride Price
I wanted to write a piece about drought and the consequences of it; at the same time I wanted to draw attention to the provision of inappropriate aid
programmes, e.g.: CAFOD, who shipped grain into Uganda (I think it was) and
destroyed the local economy which was grain-based; thus aid has had to be
continued. Aid should enhance self-sufficiency and self-reliance. Aid should not be about creating dependent societies. There is the deeper social connection of dignity, of being able to fulfill obligations which are inherent within that particular society; and with this is the need for there to be children, and the wherewithal to bring children into the world, to keep them, to provide what they need. Some human rights are very basic the ability to care for oneself, to have food and clean water. At another level I wanted to make a distinction about Human Rights: I personally do not class being able to get a wheelchair onto a bus as a human rights issue, it is an ACCESS issue; whereas starving to death, in a world which has the knowledge, the knowhow and the wherewithal to prevent it, very definitely is a human rights issue. Form is first person singular narrative; the language style is not representative of any particular group.
"When the food ran out grandma left us.
I remember the dry croak of her voice,
her eyes and that last look -
she touched each of us lightly on the head
and cradled ma's head tight.
I remember that she said she was
'just going to meet some old friends'.
She turned and walked away, not looking back.
From other huts women walked away
while old man magic beat his drum and sang -
'let the rains come, let the rains come..'
We hadn't got much of anything
except the red dust that filled the hut each day.
Old man magic talked to the elders
and soon we were going to a better place.
We took nothing with us, hadn't the strength.
So we walked and as we did so
the old men left to meet their friends:
old man magic just went,
one day there and the next gone,
maybe the spirits took him.
We got to some place the same as home
and sat in huddles, in a crowd, in nothing.
Spirits came who said they were 'friends':
they stole our soul with their black eyes.
They promised help and left us
and we walked to meet our friends.
The help, when it came, did not save us;
the babies died first, too young to walk
so we carried them to meet their friends.
One day the food stopped
the 'friends' said they were sorry and went:
they stole our dignity with their ghost aid.
Ma said, "You're the eldest now," and I was,
but the men were too weak and too poor
and none had a bride price, nor land, nor hut -
it is a barren place.."
©Chris Green, 1998 & 2006