Romany's Ramblings

Delirium

And being numb is something close to happiness, I think
At least for me: it seems a heartbeat since my nostrils held the stink
Of broken bodies, spent shells, the clotted earth
My mind was sharp and spiked; as new and wounded as at birth
Yet here I am, the sodden ground seems melted all away.
I’m warm here; I’m safe now, moulded to this clay

And the pain that I was nursing, holding close and for my own
Seems, now, to have left me and in its place I’ve grown
Something like contentment; something close to a smile
I think perhaps I’ll stay here, just enjoy it for a while
I was so tired and frightened, always wishing to be gone,
Perhaps this is to be my journey, perhaps it won’t be long
Until I see their loving faces or feel their warm embrace

I would never have believed I could be happy in this place.


S. P Oldham.

This has all been done before:
The shrouded morn, the baleful twilight
Those with a lighter touch than mine
Have washed water-coloured Autumn
Limpid, pale and muted across the page,
Leaving more behind than
Brush strokes.

Who can say he has not seen the
Blanket of leaves, red and gold or
Abandoned brown upon the ground?
Who has not relished the wisp and crunch
Of heartless footfall on fallen treasure, whilst
Turning blind senses from the dark and
Sliding rottenness beneath, seeing only the beauty
In death?

You have stepped out swathed in
Scarves and gloves, swaddled in coats,
Become a sweating skulk, desperate for air
Only to be wrapped more tightly yet in the
Dank coldness; the determined chill of Winter’s breath.
She is but a pace away, you know; waiting,
Draped in patience, adorned with her
Dazzling smile.

An infant, cradled in a world as warm as Summer,
Fresh as Spring, has not seen these things.

Yet look into those new eyes;
Can it be the child knows, even so,
That the seasons thrive and fail,
That day and night are inescapable and
That Time alone dictates?

All else, beguiling, beautiful and poignant it may be
Is embroidery.



S.P. Oldham.

Christmas in the memory appears
Soft-focused and sweeter for the years,
Though I know I never owned a bonnet,
Or a Yule log with scented herbs upon it,
That we never once sang carols in the snow
Beneath a streetlamp’s gentle candle-glow,
That we never went wassailing – I’d recall,
Or went out to pick fresh holly for the hall;
I’ve never worn a cape or velvet gloves,
Or even seen a brace of turtle-doves,

Christmas, nonetheless, when I remember
Comes back to me all golden-edged and tender

A true Victorian Christmas seems to snare
The holiday we miss, though we weren’t there,
Perhaps it’s simply just the way
It always seemed to snow on Christmas day,
Or that a carol was enough to bring good cheer
And fresh hope, for the coming year.
Maybe now there’s just too much to wish for
Do we long for the simple days before?
Now that we are all spoiled for choice,
Is it simplicity that would have us rejoice?


All I know is that, for me, when brought to mind
Christmas shines as something warm and kind

In a dream I never lived, in soft detail
One image, above all, will prevail;
You and me and all who we hold dear,
Snugly wrapped, bonneted and near,
Flakes drift down to settle on a scene
Which lives in memory, but has never been,
Captured there, beneath the glassy stars
In a moment that is forever ours,
We stand beneath a streetlamp’s gentle glow,
Amber-edged and singing carols in the snow.


S. P Oldham.

You need not ask of others where the time goes,

Or seek to find the answers elsewhere;

Time lies sleeping in the cradle of your eyes,

Or silvering the contours of your hair.

It nestles in the softness of your body,

Whispers softly round the memories in your mind;

If you look close, you’ll see that time has never left you,

But it can be so very hard to find

 

Some people speak of how time has betrayed them,

Swapped age for youth when their backs were turned;

Or caught up with them, forced them to abandon

Dreams and hopes that they grew tired of, and spurned.

They speak of time itself as of an enemy;

Some dreaded, apocalyptic foe,

Yet time gave all, though sometimes none too fairly.

Time can be deceiving, this we know.

 

So search no more for time, for it lies waiting

In endless patience, like a mist upon the skin.

Until we can bear no more of its burden;

Then the clock stops, and endless time begins.

 

 

 

S. P Oldham.

 

Shall I, instead

Hold the sun in my pocket?

Step over mountains,

To tie-back the clouds?

Capture a wave, and

See that Autumn

Follows Spring?

Wrap a river

Around my shoulders,

Drink from the desert,

Harden the molten heart

And try again?

 

Might as well colour the wind, my friend;

Might as well colour the wind.

 

 

 

© S.P Oldham.

 

 

 

Cascade.

I saw you shimmer through the veils

The dusk-drawn curtains of the night;

I saw you scarlet, saw you pale

I watched the moon blush in delight.

 

Through flawless, perfect, rose-quartz walls

I saw your shadows join the hour;

Beneath and through those rainbow falls

Vermillion-kissed in a purple shower

 

Of shades of pleasure, depths of wine

That challenge even your sultry heart;

I heard your thunder, strong as mine

I yearned to find your end, your start.

 

Ever mindless, you caress, you tease,

Your tendril fingers search and find;

You come, you go, just as you please,

You leave my salty tears behind.

 

No matter, I will watch you yet

As you fade to pink, to foamy creams;

I will close my eyes, I will forget

I will drift away, in damson dreams.

 

 

S.P Oldham.

 

 

 

Introduction (I think this piece needs one!)

This is a humble little homage to the Levellers; men who intended to right some of the wrongs of their time (1649.) Originally part of the New Model Army, they sought to satisfy what appear to be reasonable complaints and, in protest, stopped their intended march to Ireland, at Salisbury. Their officers left them, and there was no single leader.

On the evening of May 13th they reached Burford in the Cotswolds. They naively trusted to the word of Fairfax and Cromwell as Roundhead generals that they would be given safe passage until all possibility of settlement by negotiation had been exhausted. Not so; they were attacked unawares during the course of a night, during which event one loyalist and one mutineer was apparently killed. 800 mutineers escaped minus their horses; their own personal, and expensive, property. 340 prisoners were taken.

The only building in Burford large enough to accomodate these prisoners was the church, into which they were all duly ushered. One prisoner, and the man who 350+ years later prompted me to write this little poem, was one Anthony Sedley. He engraved his name in the stone of the ancient font thus: 'Anthony Sedley 1649 PRISNER.'

On the morning of 17th May, three men were lined up against the Church wall and shot as suspected ringleaders, and as a warning to all. The damage to the wall by musket (or whatever was used) remains today.

I saw and was deeply interested in all of the above evidence at the Church of St John the Baptist in Burford on Saturday, and found it totally fascinating and quite moving. Quite an intro for a humble, imperfect little poem, but at least you know it was written from the heart.

Romany.




Levelled Men.

And there you’ll find an ancient name, carved in stone that’s older still
Yet all the waters that blessed life, from the depths of that crucible
Could never serve to wash away the sins of earthly, worthless men;
Nor cleanse their souls, or purify, that they might begin again

A man’s name is still held here, in safety and in pride
Though neither church nor God could protect the ones who died;
As if in supplication then, the spire reaches to the skies
A granite invocation to be worthy in God’s eyes

For it was His name they stole, and His name they defiled
But they feared Him when He raged, and they scorned Him when He smiled
They took three men and stood them against the old church wall;
In righteousness they watched them; in justice saw them fall

Levelled men; they made them equal with the mud, the earth, the soil
Then buried them; interred all trace of their dangerous toil;
But like stigmata, the church bears the scars of that day
From the shot that made examples of the men who dared to say

That all was not even; that man’s weary plots wore on;
Those men are not forgotten, though their tired bones are gone.
They left a mark more than the musket, more than a name scratched in despair;
They paved the way, though it was overgrown and lacking its due care
They left a legacy that neither politics nor power can besmirch;
Left their spirits and their signatures in the care of Burford Church.

S. P Oldham.