"dunkirk" poems
from an idea by Sheila Sharpe
In the foul heat and damp and rot and stench
After dusting off 1 the bodies of dead pals
The living and the dead, the living dead
Old Boats 2 lit off a cigarette and growled
“They say this stuff’ll **** ya.”
1 Dustoff – noun. Dust off – verb with an adverb. A dustoff is a medical evacuation via helicopter, as in “Doc, your dustoff will be here in three.” To dust off a patient, then, is to transport a patient, not to tidy him. I have recently read detailed arguments about the terms dustoff, dust off, and medevac, but no one quibbled about such minutiae along the Cambodian border.
2 Boats – a boatswain’s mate, the brains and muscle of the Navy. Boatswain’s mates do it all and are seldom acknowledged in history or art, not even in the recent film about Dunkirk. A boatswain’s mate is often addressed as Boats, and always with deference, even by the C.O.
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
Dunkirk; night
Swallow might
Losing sight
Yearning light
Hugging tight
Is your feeling right?
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 2:55 PM UTC
The underlings stare
In submissive awestruck
Subjugation in landmine-filled
Landfills, are stuck
In the trenches, the feces
The carcass-strewn muck
Where the vermin-spawn ****
As they're taught how to work
And to fend for themselves
Like the Fall of Dunkirk
As the imminent doomsday device overhead
Incapacitates them
As mere prey to a web
Of a global dominion
Ambition connection
Subconscious hive-mind
Buzzing out the objection
And phobia-spreading
Pandemic misanthropy
Greed in disguise
Subsidizing atrocity
Not for me,
I am
The justified treason
The reason the man-hunters
Close open season
The cease-fire peacekeeper
Proliferation
The water war's rising
Desertification
An MIA runaway
AWOL defector
Still haunting the tombs of detente
Like a spectre
With what I assure
Mutually in the end
When I send go-aheads
On the ICBMs
And avenge the dependent expended
Caught in
This crossfire for-profit
Arms race it has been
Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 3:33 AM UTC
The two nurses
strip me off
for a blanket bath,
said Grace,
I lay here on the bed,
my blind eyes
staring at blackness.
They lift each leg stump
and wash them gently
and with care;
they wash me where
only mother ever touched
when I was a child;
they wash me
with the warm water all over,
talking between themselves;
they talk of the bombing
the night before,
of the people brought in
from the raid;
of the many dead
who lay
in the mortuary now.
One talks of her night out
with her boyfriend
home on leave,
the other asks questions;
I fail to listen to.
I think of Clive
and the last time
we made love
in my bed
before he went off to fight
and was killed at Dunkirk,
and the night my house
was bombed and my maid
was killed and I lost my legs and sight
and thrown into this dark night.
They dry me gently
and dress my stumps again
and the put on my nightie.
They have gone
and I lay here
musing on Clive
and the man Philip
who came with Guy
and who talked to me
and promised
to take me out.
Why would he want
to go out with a legless,
blind woman?
And where
would we go?
He never said
and I may never know.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 3:14 AM UTC
“Mrs. Tubb, prepare my raincoat,” he said, “I’m going under the carpet.”
His ears were steaming.
“I’ll be waiting by the hanged stag,” he said. “If it gets to six and I'm still not home, put tobacco in the telephone.”
Down there, at the foot of the stairs, Mrs Tubb’s tears fell to the flattened backwards.
In the middle of the night, whilst she was sleeping,
And without her permission,
He had changed her name to Margot St. Vincent.
“Take off that murderer’s moustache and stretch out on the infamous Chelsea Blackmail Floor.
Ask the biggest bugs to dance,
You may never get another chance.”
The quietly handsome and magnificent Millicent Milligan was feeling rather ill again.
She had been dreaming of the brittle marigolds of Saint Petersburg.
She had been dreaming of pine cones and boiling marmalade.
Her home had fallen into a hole.
It was on the evening news,
But by the following morning they had lost interest,
A mountain had struck a commercial airliner and so no one was much impressed by her Home in Hole Hell.
355 were dead,
And possibly a well known racehorse,
And a corpse in transit who, of course, was already dead, but still, it was vexing for the family.
They found a priest in a poplar tree,
And the head of a hand model at the back of a cave.
(The hands were still intact and were couriered to their agent in a special flask).
Half in, half out of her delicious stockings
Wendice Titian cuts out scissor clippings of her
Sinister yellow sister.
Overnight the years twist.
Edgar Snooker has heard he is to play Hitler's dog on the silver screen.
Edgar Snooker is not a dog.
And the screen was never silver.
And besides, it is not true.
Someone is out to destabilise him.
As posh, brainwashed sausages consult
The Punchline Advisor of Dunkirk,
As the Lord is seen on all fours on His moon
Causing daily electrical police misfortune,
As the masses embark on the clamorous, scattered and impossible journey to disappointed purity,
As her money is without temperament,
As the self-conscious guilt daughter unbuttons her plush helmet,
So the richly magnetised stars are winding down.
As candles whisper in the middle of the road,
As Margot St. Vincent revolves the nickel tap
Of the gas powered knitting plate,
So Father Flynn is inconsolable.
He found a photograph of ****** Bob on top of his wife’s hat.
She denied everything,
Including that she was there at all.
Father Flynn fell for it.
That's faith for you.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 8:12 AM UTC
I am lying flat on the bed,
a nurse is rubbing my leg stumps,
her hands are smooth,
fingers skillful.
Another nurse
is beside me;
I can hear
their conversation
between each other.
She died in the night,
the nurse nearby says,
terrible wounds,
didn't think she
would survive.
I think of Jean
and how she had
just gone off after
our row yesterday.
Her children were dead
at the scene;
the house took a direct hit
in last night's blitz,
the nurse nearby says.
It is tragic children
being killed like that,
the nurse rubbing
my leg stumps says.
I stare at the area
of their voices as if
I could see,
but I see nothing,
darkness where voices
come from.
My hands lie dormant
by my sides.
It is oddly sensual
this rubbing,
painful but sensual,
as if the mixture
of pain and rubbing
combined to make it
seem sensual.
I remember Clive
touching me the last time,
his hands moving
between my legs
and kissing my feet
and even now
I sense his kisses.
The last time
we made love.
There between me
he lay.
Then, he was gone
and died at Dunkirk.
The reality shocks me
and I move,
Steady , Grace,
steady, am I hurting you?
the nurse says,
holding my leg stumps.
No,
I say,
no just a memory.
She rubs again,
the sensuality fighting
with the pain.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC
.oh look, i can take a screen-shot... so i don't appear as some rambling internet lunatic... sorry about the outcome of what my original ought to have looked like... out of my Pontius' hands... just like a retired person doesn't understand mobile phones... me and a.i.? can we go back to when i could have understood Dunkirk?!
ever notice this?
the NPC meme...
see the transformation
when you insert...
eyebrows?
\ /
. .
/_
_
oh look, a rabbit?!
volatile buggers...
listen...
what?!
i didn't say anything!
i couldn't get the angle right...
does vvvv or wwwww
represent a grrr: of frustration
of clenched teeth?
let's see...
\ /
. .
/_
_
satan! oh, hey bro, thanks
for coming...
\ /
. .
/_
vvvv
**** that's not going to work...
you can't craft memes using
letters, letters are too complicated
for a meme...
you need the reserve bank of
punctuation and "punctuation"
markers...
****
my bad...
you know... the nights that i spend
listening to music,
and not listening to alt. media
commentators?
SLOUGH, S'LOW,
SL'OH....
the hours pass, slow...
if they ever translate...
oh look... 'ere one...
'ere one for the memes...
__
ΙΧΘΥΣ ιχθυς / __ /|
|__ |/
kevin & perry go large...
what?
*big fish, little fish,
cardboard box*?
don't know the dance routine?
it's a ******* classic...
a bit like the Sheryl Crow
debut album.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 10:23 PM UTC
Life changing
the Blitz bomb
took my sight
and my legs.
Clive gone too
at Dunkirk.
I recall
our last kiss
as the train
left London.
I sit in
this darkness.
Hospital
smells around
and voice sounds.
Morning Grace
a voice says.
My blind eyes
turn around
to the sound.
Who is it?
I enquire.
Doctor Clay
I have come
to see you
and see how
your stumps are
the voice says.
They're painful
I tell him.
Nurse we need
Grace to be
lying down.
Between them
they lift me
on the bed.
Fingers lift
my nightdress
and unwrap
bandages.
Fresh air hits
the leg stumps.
His fingers
examine
what is left
of my legs.
They're healing
very well
he tells me.
Soon we will
have someone
sort you out
for new legs
he informs.
I thank him.
He goes off
and the nurse
(small fingered)
now attends
to some fresh
bandages.
As her fingers
touch my thighs
I recall
Clive touching
me there too
that last time
before he left
for the War.
I stare out
into dark
cold spaces
and a far
away shore.
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 9:12 AM UTC
I'm outside in the wheelchair,
sitting facing the sun,
my blind eyes sense,
but do not see the light.
My leg stumps
are covered by a blanket,
I am tucked up
neat and tight
like a parcel.
Hello, Grace,
a voice says to my right.
It's Guy.
I smell him,
the scent he wears
is overpowering.
Hello, Guy,
how are you?
I hear him take a chair
and sit beside me.
I am fine, but busy,
Hitler's being
a pest in France,
and hush hush work
in progress.
He is silent;
his hand touches mine.
Enough of me,
how are you?
I am unsettled,
I say,
my legs ache
and the stumps are sore.
How are they
treating you?
He asks.
Very well,
but I am impatient,
depressed,
want answers where
there are none,
ask questions,
but know the answers
before I ask.
How do you manage?
He asks.
I am getting there,
slowly, but surely,
I reply.
His hand rubs mine gently.
It reminds me
of Clive's hand on mine
that night he stayed
and we ended up
making love in my bed.
I miss that.
Making love.
Clive dead,
killed in Dunkirk.
How's Donald?
He is busy,
Gus says,
can't say what
he is doing,
hush hush stuff.
I see, I say,
although don't.
Philip is in the States;
he hasn't forgotten you,
Guy says,
he will take you out
for dinner once
he is back.
I can't imagine
going out for dinner;
people watching me
being wheeled into
a restaurant with no legs
and blind,
them staring,
and me unable to know
if they are looking
and what they
are wondering.
Guy talks on,
but I am
thinking of Clive,
of his kisses,
of his body
against mine,
seeing it in my mind,
even though
I am blind.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 6:37 AM UTC
After the wedding and small reception
Philip carries Grace over the threshold
of their new home. Iris the maid comes
behind them ready to help set Grace on
to her legs again. He sets Grace down
carefully with Iris's help. Grace stands on
her artificial legs balancing herself. They
walk into the lounge, Philip guiding her
along as her blind eyes stare into the room.
Wish I could see the room. Wish I could
see Philip and Iris. Philip takes Grace to
the settee and she sits down slowly. A home
again. Hope this one doesn't get bombed.
Well Grace you are home again, Philip says.
Yes, its good to be out of hospital and in
a new home, she says. He takes her hand.
Want you to know this is your new home
forever, he says. New home. I'll never see
it or him. Where's Iris? She says. She's putting
your clothes away in our bedroom, he says.
Bedroom. Bed. And he will want to make
love to me tonight. How will he be when
he sees me naked and legless? He's seen my
stumps, but never naked and half a woman.
She grabs his hand tight. You have never seen
me naked, what will you think when you see
me without clothes and legless? Will you really
want to make love to me? He leans in close
to her. Of course I will, I love you, Grace,
he says softly. But I am only half a woman,
a blind one too. She cries. He hugs her closer
to him. She can sense him near. You are a complete
woman to me, he says. Iris comes running into
the room. What's up? She says, going across to them.
Grace is worried about tonight, he says. Iris kneels
down beside Grace and whispers: you have your
husband who loves you madly and me to care for you
in all things I can. Grace cries as she has not done
for sometime. In her mind's eye she thinks of Clive
who died at Dunkirk the year before and who made
love to her before the bombing and his death. She
senses Philip kiss her cheek. And Iris's hand touching
her thigh. Now she wants to live, last year she wanted to die.
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 3:42 AM UTC
Philip has come
to the hospital
and taken me out
to the St James Park
near Big Ben;
(I was already dressed,
one of the nurses
dressed me).
We're near the pond
and ducks and swans,
he says.
I gaze to where he says
and see only blackness
through my blind eyes,
but I hear people
and voices and ducks.
I'm in a wheelchair;
he is sitting beside
me on a bench.
I feel his hand take mine:
how are your legs?
He asks.
The leg stumps
are painful,
I say,
they are some days
more than others.
He strokes my hand.
What are you doing
at the Foreign Office?
I ask.
Can't say,
hush hush stuff,
he says,
what with the War
on and that.
I turn to where he is
trying to give
an impression of sight:
do you really
like me?
I ask.
Of course I do,
he replies,
wouldn't be here
with you otherwise
would I?
I suppose not,
I say.
I feel his hand
hold mine gently.
Clive was like that
holding my hand.
But that was before
we had ***
and before he died
at Dunkirk.
Not just stringing me
along are you?
I say suddenly.
I wouldn't do that,
he replies,
what makes you think
I would or am?
Just wondering what
you see in a blind woman
without legs,
I say.
I think I love you,
Grace,
he says,
from that first time
I saw you.
Love me?
I say surprised,
staring through
blind eyes at him,
gathering each
of his words
into my mind.
Yes,
I do,
he says,
his voice more certain.
How do you feel
about me?
he asks.
I am unsure
and look away
into another darkness
and say:
haven't thought about that;
I have been in such
a state with the blindness
and losing my legs,
I haven't thought
about anything else.
He says:
of course you have;
I didn't mean
to cause you more stress.
He is silent
and I hold
his hand tighter
not wanting him
to go off.
You are kind
and have been
so helpful to me
and I should have thought
about you,
and I have,
but feelings are such
complicated things,
I am in different world,
I say.
I shut up
and I feel him
kiss my cheek,
and he says:
it is fine.
We sit and I hear
ducks and people
and his hand
stroking mine.
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 3:39 AM UTC
Dunkirk 1940.
Clive died there
on the beach.
I remember
the last night
we had together
before he went off
with his regiment.
I had given
my maid
the night off
so we could be
alone together.
We made love
a few times
then talked
then slept.
After the War Grace
he said
we must marry
and settle down
and have a family.
But he died.
I lay here now
in the hospital
blind and
without legs
and left only
the memories
of Clive and I.
Anthony and Guy
visited today
they said Philip
had gone on business
for the government
and would see me
later in the week.
I sat in wheelchair
as they spoke outside
in the afternoon sun
trying to picture
Anthony as he spoke.
I'd only met him
a few times before.
Guy was his usual self
boastful humorous
full of his
upper-class jokes.
Now they have gone
and I am here alone.
The memory
of Clive chokes.
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 7:52 AM UTC
THE SOLDIER
Billy Clark was seventeen
When he went off to war.
He kissed his mum and dad goodbye
And walked out through the door.
He kissed his girl at the station
And wiped away her tears.
He said that he’d be back again
If it took a thousand years.
He headed for the trenches,
For Afghanistan.
Gallipoli, The Falklands.
Beirut and Vietnam.
He set off for Dunkirk,
Agincourt and Troy.
Passchendaele would make
A man out of a boy.
A million Billy Clarks
Have gone away to war.
Old men sit and shake their heads.
They’ve passed this way before.
He was in the thick of it
Right from the very start.
But Billy was a brave boy
With a patriotic heart.
Billy fought his hardest
But he was in a fix.
These were guns and tanks he faced
Not childhood toys and sticks.
Now, Billy was no coward,
But he was scared as hell.
No boy should have to bury
His comrades where they fell.
It took a thousand years
For Billy to return
And still the burning question is:
When will we ever learn?
When will this crazy world unite
And watch each others’ back?
When media screams the headline:
‘GREEN MEN FROM MARS ATTACK!!!!’.
A million Billy Clarks
Have gone away to war.
Old men sit and shake their heads
They’ve seen it all before.
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 5:00 PM UTC
We'd danced until late
and the went off
to some restaurant
Clive knew
and later a club
still open
then Clive walked me home
as we stood outside
looking at the night sky
I said
do you want
to come in for coffee?
you have coffee?
he said
yes a friend
got it for me
I said
all right
he said
and we went in
and had coffee
and the we ended up
in my bed
after ***
we lay there
and he said about
after the War
we could marry
Grace Grace
are you awake?
a voice says
to my right
I stare where
the voice sounds
yes I'm awake
I say
looking through
blind eyes at darkness
can I have a look
at your leg stumps
and give them
a wash down?
the voice says
who are you?
I say
Nurse Rogers
I've been away
back today
yes of course
I say
sensing her pull back
the blankets
and lift up my nightgown
and unbandage the stumps
I feel her cool soft hands
against my skin
it is ages since Clive
did that to me
rub my legs after ***
sometimes before
I muse
as she removes the bandages
and rubs the stumps
how are they?
I ask
they are looking all right
clean and no sign
of infection
she says
I want it to be Clive
doing that
but he died in Dunkirk
and lies elsewhere now
sleeping the eternal rest
so they say
I muse
tears coming to my eyes
am I hurting you
the nurse says
no no
I say
just memories coming back
of some one I loved
who died
o sorry about that
she says
so much death these days
what with the War
and bombing
we had a lot in last night
when they bombed the docks
I say nothing
I pretend it is Clive
touching me
his hands moving
about my legs
and thighs
I sigh
and wipe my eyes.
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 3:46 AM UTC
Over the water I fly
So be it
Through these wings I see them
Boys to become men
Men to fall old
Eyes to close for a countries fight
Never to return
Lest we forget
Billowing stacks of fumes fill me
Thousands upon thousands of mini islands
Floating away from their mothers womb
Dunkirk's morning is ready
Sand from the beaches in a foreign
Glistening
Waiting
Offering a hope that there is a tomorrow
Lest we forget
In the after much blood has been spilt
To many decisions have faltered
Yet come my demise from the great war
My purpose came
I know what these wings hold
I know how they fly
I know how they care
For the next
Lest we forget
Now as age creeps upon me I look back
I see the failed,fighting staled to a shortened breath
Redden eyes become my flooded floor
A storm rages within me for the loss of our past
For the waste of lost future
For the pain that I've seen
For the wars that I've witnessed
For the love of pure greed
LEST WE FORGET
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
I am in a wheelchair on grass
outside the hospital
I hear birds sing and distant traffic
I stare into the darkness
trying to fathom my blindness
my toes feel itchy even though
my legs have gone
and the stumps well bandaged
hello Grace
a voice says from my right side
Anthony?
I say
is it you?
yes Grace it is
he says
I sense him near me
I reach out to touch him
he takes my hand
Donald said you were coming
I say
did he?
Anthony says
I hear someone else come
and place something
on the grass nearby
this is Philip
Anthony says
hello
a voice says
a hand take my mine and shakes it
how are you?
Philip says
rather lost
I say
any news about your eyes?
Anthony asks
they think I will always be blind
I say
o so sorry
Anthony says
I hear them sit down
and whisper things I cannot fathom
look Grace I'll be honest with you
if Donald told you
I was thinking of marrying you
then he got the wrong end
of the stick
Anthony says
I look toward the voice
and stare at darkness
I see but as you yourself
never told me about marriage
then it doesn't matter
I say
(Donald said Anthony said
he was going to ask
but I say nothing)
who would want
a blind legless woman
for wife anyway?
I say more bitterly
than I intended
it's not that
Anthony says
it would be out of pity not love
he says
I mean not the love
necessary to handle such
he adds
Clive may have done
but he's dead
I say
killed at Dunkirk
there is silence
I look away from the voice
and look downward
maybe you will find
that someone
Anthony says
after a few moments of silence
maybe I will
I say
a hand touches mine
I'm sure you will
Philip's voice says
and are you the expert
on finding matches
for blind legless women?
I say coldly
look Grace I must go
make a telephone call
Anthony says
and he goes off
it is quiet for a moment or two
how would you like
to go out for a meal somewhere?
Philip says to my left
like this?
no in a dress
and with make up
he says
who would want me
in their restaurant like this?
I say
I know a place where
we would be welcome
he says softly
and you would want me
like this there?
have you a dress and make up?
he asks
no my house was bombed
I lost everything including
legs and sight
I say with a sigh
maybe I can buy you a dress and clothes
if you tell me your size?
I have no coupons
everything has gone
I say
I can arrange that
I work for the Foreign Office
he says
why would you want to?
I say
I admire your courage
he says
I look toward the voice
I tell him my size and other things
then sit quiet looking
into the darkness again
Anthony returns and sits and says
look sorry about the short visit
but I've got an urgent message
must go
he says and he kisses my cheek
and goes again
I'll do what I can Philip says
and he kisses my hand and goes
I am left alone
with bird song
and itchy toes
which are not there
and I sit
and sigh and stare.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 6:14 AM UTC
Too much of a fool
Forgotten and misplaced
Troubled until bled
Where is my bed?
The cushion increasing sedation
Upon my relapse
Frail
Almost skeleton
Reminds me of Auschwitz
Though I'm not a Jew
Or a so-called "deviant"
I'm recast
Believing in the brew
Gulping up the stew
Ready, set...implode
Film is shot
Grainy and poor
Full to the brim with fish
Smelly and grimy
Waiting for the director
To bail from comprehensive casting
His retort is strong
Like a solemn wind
Quiet until the storm
I quit
Remember the time
Forced to sing
I hate acting
Forgetting
Contemplating
It is my curse
Unforgotten desire
My Dunkirk of woe
When will it end?
Upon my cross
Submission without *******
Freewill intact
Instinct going into purgatory
Left to wait for the call
I have to run
Hide
Devise an escape
Hollywood calls
Controls
Beckons for my crouch
Billy Wilde is my name
Focused on terror
I fail to be Brando
Feb 1, 2018
Feb 1, 2018 at 11:49 PM UTC
outside, the out building
we talked of the war, swallows overhead.
avoided the cockerel neatly on the lawn,
admired the rhubard flowering,
a dunkirk conversation,while sun shone.
even small boys mourn commentary
repeated, the small days of their lives.
they were brave men,
it is a good exhibition.
sbm.
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
As I turn my blind eyes
to the sun(I feel its warmth),
I think of the Degas paintings
that Clive took me to see
at a London gallery: the
colours and the figures and
the shades of blues and pinks.
Now it is just a memory, and
as I sit here in the hospital
grounds in the wheelchair,
I have a sudden panic knowing
I will never see again, never
see a rainbow or see a blossom
or see the sunrise, and know
that Clive will never come again,
not since his death at Dunkirk,
and that last kiss, that last time
of making love, and I know I
shall never make love again,
and feel with my hands to where
my legs used to be, and feel
the bandaged stumps, and feel
them there, my fingers moving
over them. The sun is still warm
on my head, and when I turn my
face to the sun, I sense a kiss from
a while ago, and will I kiss again?
I ask myself and I want to know.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 7:53 AM UTC
Voices around me
and I try to sit up
and it isn't easy
I have to balance myself
so that my stumps
are just so
or I'll fall back
on the bed
my hands steady me
in the darkness
I try and feel
just where in the bed I am
searching with my hand
while my other hand
steadies me
I make sure I'm not
too near the edge of the bed
and wait listening
a nurse comes
I hear her clothes swish
did you need something Grace?
she says
I reach out to touch her
a call of nature
I say
is the commode this side
I can't remember or see?
she touches my hand
other side Grace
since my blindness
I lose my direction
I say
wait there a moment
she says
and I hear her go off
I sit balancing
at the side of the bed
staring into darkness
hearing sounds
I sense the need to go more
and begin to panic
here we are Grace
another voice says
and they lift me between them
to the other side of the bed
and arranging my nightdress
they lift me onto the commode
and sit me down
and arrange me so I'm comfortable
hold onto the handles
at the side
a voice says
call us when you want us back
another voice says
I hear them walk off
the shush of the uniforms
and steps of their shoes
I sit and listen
and stare at the darkness
and try and think
of something to distract
my mind from the business at hand
I think of the last time
I saw Clive before he left
to join the army in late 1939
how we kissed
and that last time
we made love in my place
and Sally(my maid) was out
as it was her night off
and it was wonderful
and we lay there afterward
and smoked and talked
about the war and after
and what we would do
now what would he
have said or done had
he not been killed at Dunkirk?
the last time I had *** that was
I muse on that
and feel depressed
and want to see again
and walk and dance
I get choked up
and suddenly
I am aware where I am
and why and quietly
softly I cry.
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 1:53 AM UTC
After being washed
and dressed in fresh nightclothes
and my hair brush
I am wheeled out
into the sunshine
outside the ward
and sit here listening
to the sounds about me
and smelling the flowers
I cannot see
and feeling an itch
in my toes which
I do not have
all alone?
a voice says
to my right
Philip?
Yes
the voice replies
how are you?
I turn and face where
his voice comes from
coping about
I say putting out
a hand to touch him
and feel his hands
and he takes mine
and kisses it
how was the red dress?
Beautiful or so
I am told
but I tried it on
and it felt beautiful
against my skin
and the new underwear
I say shyly
not knowing
if he blushes or not
he holds my hand
for a while longer
and says
I'm glad
sorry I couldn't be here
to see you in the dress
but I had been called away
work business
part of the War effort
he says but says no more
I see
I say
the nurse helped me
with the dress
and other items
I've never been so intimate
with some one
I can't see
the nurse I mean
she dresses me
and washes me
and all that private stuff
I add
I'm trying to arrange
a date for me
to take you out to dinner
he says
but the doctors
are uncertain yet
but it will happen
before you outgrow the dress
with being too well
looked after and fed
we are talking
about hospital food here
I say and laugh
and he laughs
and it reminds me
of Clive and how
he made me laugh that night
after going out to the dance
and he tickled me
to nigh wetting-point
and told me this joke
which had me in stitches
then we made love
and as I think about him
and the love making
I clutch out and grab
Philip's hand
and hold it tight
and want at that moment
for him to make love to me
no sight
no legs and all
just to have me
but I say nothing
just stare into darkness
and put on a smiling face
I say
maybe soon they'll
let me go out with you
he leans forward
and he kisses my forehead
with his warm lips
and says
yes hope so
you've been here
on the ward
for quite a while now
since the bombing night
Clive died at Dunkirk
I say suddenly
tears fill my eyes
Philip holds me
and I sense his body
close to mine
and I wish I had legs
and could get up
out of the wheelchair
but I can't and sit here
being held and kissed
and it's Clive
and legs
and sight
and life free
that I miss
and is missed.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 2:16 AM UTC
Moon tideless
mud ***** at
rubber booted cocklers.
Crackle of *******
crustacean lifted
by ***** slipshod
Raising fractal shells
in practice old as man.
Listless boats loll
sealess, same little
boats, fishers of men
dunkirk.
Migrant birds ebb
and flow from africa,
struggle for land.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 5:27 AM UTC
Just when you think
your mind has accepted
a situation, it betrays you,
and asks: why have you
lost your legs and are blind?
And how will you cope
and gives a picture
of many mornings,
when you will wake up,
and see nothing again,
never see a sunset or sunrise,
never walk or dance again,
and it brings you down
and depresses you.
When I wake up
this morning,
that is how it is,
that numb darkness,
that disorientation,
that lostness.
I hear footsteps
on the ward,
near my bed.
Morning Grace,
how are you
this morning?
Who are you?
I ask.
Sister Wellings,
come to see how you are,
she says.
Depressed and fed up,
I say,
putting on a grumpy face,
staring towards where
I think she is.
Not surprised at that,
she says,
I'd be depressed
and fed up, too,
if I lost my legs
and was blind,
but you are a fighter,
Grace and will
overcome this just
give it time.
How much time?
I ask.
I sense her hands
move the bed covers back,
and her fingers
feel along
the bandaged leg stumps.
As long as it takes,
she says,
I was on a ward last month
where we had soldiers
wounded at Dunkirk.
Did you?
I say,
my boyfriend died at Dunkirk.
The thought wounds me,
and I almost choke
on the following words:
we were going marry.
O God, how sad
and now this,
she says,
as her fingers
take off the bandages.
I feel her hands
move over the stumps.
They're healing well,
she says,
soon have
the bandages off completely.
I recall Clive
touching my thighs,
and his fingers moving over
where she moves now.
Then what?
I say,
can I have artificial legs?
Of course,
I expect in time,
she says.
I try to imagine
walking on legs
not mine,
trying to balance
and trying to imagine
Philip watching me
and wondering what
he would think then,
and would he
then just be a man
amongst men?
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
Have you found a new mythology.
The ones we knew died off.
Hammers, thunder, nails,
Multi-limbed gods of gold,
And phoenixes have turned to ashes on my tongue.
My eyes don't dilate, my throat closes.
Once we were blessed, but now,
John A. is a white supremacist.
Not since Dunkirk and Troy have wars worked miracles.
A Hard Day's Night and Help are formulating a following
Surpassing Jesus (John, Ch. 1. Verse 1).
Look to the Walrus.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
Out stretching
Out reaching
The callused, bleeding hands
Of tightly gripping on.
The permantly furrowed brow,
Weathering a face which has seen too much.
The innocent eyes try,
But are clouded over.
His everyday grows like a plane
flying over
Dunkirk dawn
Guns drawn.
His green home
Of west is best
And his voice would flow
With a carefree blow
which has blown
to fragments.
His streets turned red
When in November they would tred
To remember
Those who bled
Now they are only spotted
Every year dearer
Washing away.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 3:40 PM UTC