POETRY
LIFE LINES, my first collection, includes many poems which have appeared in newspapers, magazines and anthologies, been read on the radio, or been successful in competitions. They are concerned with war, religion, politics, science, nature, despair, hope, sadness, joy and other such matters affecting the human condition. The cast of characters includes John F Kennedy, Adolf Hitler, Ernest Hemingway, Professor Stephen Hawking, singer Eva Cassidy and others who have inspired my interest during a long and well-travelled life. Some of the poems touch raw nerves, others may tickle the funny bone, but all offer an interesting take on the human condition. See the Amazon.co.uk site to find the best price for the book, which is published by Lulu.
'Very enjoyable.' (Frieda Hughes, poet and poetry columnist, The Times)
'John C Bird is an excellent writer, taking the reader on a smooth ride with lines that draw you in and keep you there until the very end. Bird's metaphors are clear and beautiful - his command of writing is brilliant!' (Carolyn Franklin, American poet, whose work includes the outstanding collection 'Kissing Frogs in California')
Below are some samples from the collection. The first poem, STEPHEN HAWKING FRS, won first prize in a Writers' Forum magazine poetry competition. The HEMINGWAY poem was short-listed in the Housman Society poetry competition. If you wish to reproduce any of the poems please contact me first.
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STEPHEN HAWKING FRS
Bardic man of noble reason,
Infinite in faculty,
In apprehension how like a god,
Yet in form, in moving,
How shackled and bereft.
Frail master of the universe,
You seek God’s fingerprints
Among the teeming galaxies,
The coincidences of nature
And the enigmas of science.
You inherited Newton’s mantle
And tread the path of Einstein.
Rules, equations and formulae
Are your currency, a theory
Of everything is your goal.
You scorn the fate that condemned
Your genius to entrapment in
A stricken shell, decreed your silence,
But could not prevent your voice
Resonating across continents.
You speak to the common man
Of time and space and particles,
The beginning of our universe,
And fear its demise by cosmic
Accident or our lack of care.
Bardic man of noble reason
The universe is your laboratory,
Your destiny lies in the heavens,
But your fate is earthbound;
Humanity is your touchstone.
IDAHO DAWN
(Ernest Hemingway’s Suicide)
On that quiet dawn in Idaho
did you remember Montparnasse,
the cheery banter at the Dome,
good bread smells, spattering
chestnut husks and orange peel
on a garret fire in winter?
Did you see Gertrude’s peasant face
amid young Picasso’s glory,
embrace the barnacled Irishman,
scold the prince of bottled dreams,
weep for the mentor in his cage,
and rejoice in geniuses together?
Did you watch Joselito strut again
in the bloody sand at Cordoba,
savouring the triumph and the lust,
and run the glorious Gulf Stream,
crying hallelujah to the ocean kings,
drift free at dusk from Harry’s Bar?
Did you meet the healer by the lake,
watch the beginnings of a life
with a slash, a scream and a prayer,
and talk forgiveness, saying stuff
you should have said way back?
Ain’t love the damndest word!
On that quiet dawn in Idaho
what were your last thoughts
as you moved with hunter’s stealth
while your adoring Mary slept,
chose your best loved weapon,
and laid bare a writer’s mind?
THE PROFESSOR
Once he was an academic man;
Now he studies green flock wallpaper.
During daylight hours he sits transfixed
In his damp-resistant plastic chair.
Perhaps it is the fleur de lys, embossed;
French history was his speciality.
Once he wore a gown and mortarboard;
Now he’d go naked if they let him.
It’s not ‘Professor’ any more
But ‘pet’ and ‘dear’ and first-name terms
From kids who come on work experience
And supervise him in the lavatory.
One he enthralled crowded lecture halls;
Now he waits, incontinence padded,
Receiving dosages of Coronation Street.
He was seen to smile last Wednesday.
They thought it was something Dierdre said
But Matron reckoned it was flatulence.
Once he bestrode a famous campus;
Now he needs a care assistant’s help
To find his room along the corridor.
They used to let him go alone
Until Miss Philpott found him in her bed.
Fortunately she knew him long before.
Once he dreamed his name would be revered;
Now he can’t remember what it is.
Most often he is Bonaparte or Metternich,
Ignoble footnotes to a history man.
But nice Mrs Blenkinsop seems to understand;
For quite a while she’s been the Virgin Mary.
Once he published learned papers;
Now he puzzles over signs on toilet doors.
Yet in the green room afternoons
He silently gathers in the tricks,
And his regular partners rejoice.
Somewhere a candle flickers still.
GRAIN OF SAND
Conceived in nature’s cauldron,
forged by the restless earth,
prey to wind and tide,
melted in a window pane,
arbiter of passing time,
alone so insignificant
yet in union mighty enough
to change the world.
EDINBURGH
It’s where Miss Brodie enjoyed her prime
and beauty rubs shoulders with tenement grime,
where Stevenson roamed the Georgian squares
and Scott has that monument with all those stairs,
where Connery delivered the milk each day
before a licence to kill brought better pay,
where each night the castle gets lit up
like the Murrayfield crowd at the Calcutta Cup,
where you can take a rest on Arthur’s seat
when you tire of the throng on Prince’s Street,
where the east wind blows across the Braids
up the legs of kilties on parades,
where the Botanical Gardens are a rival to Kew
and the des. res. for fauna is Corstorphine Zoo,
where the world comes visiting once a year
for cultural treats from slapstick to Lear,
where Japanese tourists hunting in packs
sample the tartan and whisky macs,
where the Royal Mile leads down to a palace
almost as grand as that viewed by Alice,
where the locals, full of civic pride,
scoff at Big Brother up the Clyde.
There are few more magical places to be
even for Sassenachs just like me.
CHOCOLATE
Succulent sepia enslaver,
creator of a salivation army
unable to resist Satan’s gifts
wrapped in gold and silver.
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