'Sullivan the Poet' 'Bronze Bell Jack..'

'Bronze Bell jack'... This current project will be the 3rd of Sullivan the Poet's collections of his poetry in paperback; under construction now it is enthusiastically anticipated and scheduled to be published around the middle of 2012...

Selected Poems...

In the interim: Selected works will appear below in their turn to give readers a sample, an 'appetiser' if you like, of the forthcoming volume. Culminating in the eventual publication of the completed illustrated collection...

'Bronze Bell

Jack..'

*

‘Bronze Bell Jack..’

“Oyez! Oyez!” Swing that bell; Fit to wake the hounds of hell,

Shame the harlot, scold the whore; Shoot the bolts the cat house door.

Rouse thee daughters, stir thy sons; Fright the soldiers leant their guns,

Charge the turnkey tend his cell; “Five the clock and all is well!”

“Oyez! Oyez!” Night shades’ knell; Sound you loud the day’s revel,

Ring the trawls in down Bins Lane; Safe and home the periled main.

Fire the gin stills, tack the dray; Shout the pilot boats away,

Call the sunrise cast her spell; “Six the clock and all is well!”

“Oyez! Oyez!” Crack that shell; Dress the ‘queens’ all sweet to sell,

Urge the fishwives lade their carts; ‘Fore the monger’s man departs.

Bring the Cap’n to his door; Three bright coins the Southside poor,

Send them scatter all pell mell; “Se’m the clock and all is well!”

“Oyez Oyez!” All in fell; Soldiers ‘stride the citadel,

Set the cannon sound the hour; Booming ‘pon the western tower.

Merchants’ windows flung hard wide; “Raise the sails boys – swift the tide!”

Row boats bobbing ‘mongst the swell: “Eight the clock and all is well!”

“Oyez! Oyez!” Hear them yell; “Rag and bones now – Buy or sell!”

Hobnail boots on tradesmen’s feet, Spark the hard flint cobbled street.

New Street, South Gate, Friar’s Lane; Shirk the piss pots’ amber rain,

Pinch of snuff took ‘gin the smell; “Nine the clock and all is well!”

“Oyez! Oyez!” Fond farewell; Sweetheart clung a serge lapel,

Tippy toe upon New quay; Weeps her sailor long to sea.

Ring the excise man ashore; Pistol bright and sabre sore,

From his duties freshly fell; “Ten the clock and all is well!”

“Oyez! Oyez!” Mademoiselle; ‘Neath her white lace parasell,

Prim the licquor merchant’s arm; Half a guinea buys her charm.

Bows and scuppers, bilge and keel; Cross her palm and she’ll reveal,

All within the Ship Hotel; “Le’m the clock and all is well!”

“Jack Boy! Jack Boy!” Still that bell; Take a draught your throat to quell,

Rest your bones a moment more; Here, aside the Dolphin’s door.

Take some meat Jack, bread and ale; Hang your bell upon that nail,

Cast an arm about your Belle; “Take your ease Jack… All is well”.

'The Silent Thief..'

It crept in soft ‘pon velvet feet,

a yesterday to steal;

A birdsong day all summer scents,

fair seasoned and genteel.

So small a day it scarce was missed,

one rain drop lost the brook;

Two dozen hours from all a life,

so easily mistook.

And in its stead did leave discard,

a fogged and dull lit gloom;

All hid behind familiar doors,

a strange and empty room.

I missed that one day not so much,

nor yet the next it stole;

A dirty day all damps and blows,

that scarce but left a hole.

Or bare the next, if truth be told,

or was it one before?

When sly it took a friend’s kind face,

from out an unlocked drawer.

And with it neatly enveloped,

all fastened with a bow;

A sheaf of happy memories,

once held and treasured so...

Til ‘fore I knew each other day,

or least I felt it so;

Fell silent ‘hind a rust hinged door,

through which I could not go.

No care to how I threw my locks,

or latched each window tight;

Another precious jewel was stole,

with each new morning light.

As if I held all of my life,

within these helpless hands;

Which day on day, try as I might,

slipped through like time’s cruel sands.

And so; I roam these labyrinths,

each crueller than the last;

In search some brightly open door,

to window on my past.

Dark corridors within my mind,

all tortured twist and bend;

And wooden troops dressed arms apart,

these doors, on guard, extend.

On, on, to twist each hard seized knob,

test each reluctant key;

To beg a bright familiar room,

that still remembers me.

With arms outspread to take me in,

all fold in its embrace;

Oh! Let me hold between my hands,

one full remembered face.

To know the hearth that embers there,

and bathe within its glow;

Beg gaze upon my grandchild’s face,

and breathe “I love you so..”

Or would that every kindly soul,

that smiled with love on me;

Might not, all gaoled, ‘hind dead-locked doors,

forever strangers be...

When in that demon’s maze I found,

all in his khaki suit;

My dearest love made young again,

my daring young recruit.

Rose young from under Flanders’ field,

and home the dreadful war;

Come steadfast ‘cross these work worn years,

to free my mind’s locked door.

So know you when I sightless stare,

my senses, thoughtless, flown;

Though lost your vale of tears my love,

that I am not alone...

'From These Shores..'

(Composed especially for the 2010 thanksgiving ceremony

at the Mayflower Steps on Plymouth, England's historic Barbican...)

Step softly sir,

lest your careless and unmeasured steps

echo loud and shameful down the vast and

vaulted halls of this nation’s arrogant history;

Or stir awake the sleeping ancestors

of a thousand savage Anglo Saxon tribes.

And you be judged.

Step gently lady,

lest your footfall crush the frail and fragile

bones of this bravest and noblest of bloodlines,

forged in the white hot furnaces of war and rebellion;

Or debase yet the memory of the countless

brave laid all beneath this ancient bless’ed soil.

And you be judged.

Step lightly child,

lest this cold and star hard Devon

born granite sense your fear and mock

loud your callow and tremulous paddings;

Or carve indelible in its immutable grey stone

your tremblings in the sight of all peoples.

And you be judged.

Step wary Pilgrim,

lest you stumble and let fall the undreamt

dreams of a nation; as yet unborn and untested

by the cold and unforgiving trials of all the ages;

Or forget; forget the nation and the peoples that

gave you birth: Child and infant nation both...

Lest you be judged... And found wanting.

'Asses 'n Glasses..'

Plush pile beach balls,

hot air zepp’lins’

pastel shades of pink and blue;

Slowly drifting,

bobbing , rolling,

round and rebound bouncing through;

Hauling each,

all hops and draggings,

pink and white paint loose laced ‘boks;’

Gondolas on

white tip hawsers,

squeezing Disney Piglet socks.

Fat feet, flat feet,

kick the cat feet,

drifting aimless fro and to;

Ride the currents,

shop door thermals,

in amongst the heaving tide;

Candy lipstick,

blowing kisses,

to the rude boys passing by.

Grab a Big Mac on the High St,

fries and full fat cola side;

Pull a chubby back of BK’s,

trappin’ on a Friday night...

Man made, man’s maid,

fake tan orange,

puffed and powdered, primped and preened;

Stick leaf insects,

stalk and wobble,

high on six inch Primark heels;

Google bug eyes

made by ‘Gucci,’

shoplift TK’s bargain counter;

Last year’s knock offs,

down the market,

from some “Ello darlin’ stall.

Tattoo chested

dumb ass workers,

hip hop bees in angry swarms;

laughin’, peerin’,

lechin’ leerin’;

pleadin’, needin’ what you got;

Sell their souls,

for just a handful,

trade their last spliff for a blow.

What’s the harm a bit o’ puff man,

Just a toke to load the pistol;

Sniff o’ coke to light the fuse bro,

steamin’ on a Friday night...

Fire fly maidens

flash and flutter,

bright amongst the dirty drab;

Reflected in a

night club doorway,

pavement pizza, spit ball, beer spill;

No neck monkeys,

in tuxedos,

guard the red and crack tile steps;

Let the genie

out the bottle,

drag me, shag me, grant me three.

Council flat and

five months showing,

car boot buggy on the stairs;

Give me babes man,

more babes, your babes,

black ones, white ones who’s to tell;

Who the dads are,

whose bar, whose car,

whose coin in the wishing well.

In the back some loud ass cruiser,

roll cage sticking in your back;

Puntin,’ gruntin’ bad hair bad boys,

pokin’ on a Friday night...

Stolen lives on

dark street corners,

up against the outhouse door;

Breathed in borrowed

hours and moments,

swimming weak against the tide;

Dreams and visions

come to nothing,

pissed against a bar room wall;

Back street bozo,

gangsta dreamer;

doing five to seven hard.

Someone’s bitch to

slap and tickle;

in the sweat soaked prison yard;

He was gonna

drive a loco,

follow in his granddad’s steps;

Buy a two up,

two down palace,

raise a kid to call his own.

Bought a shooter, for a monkey,

swagged it in his belt for show;

Rolled it, strolled it, filled his pockets,

blaggin’ on a Friday night...

Lives left passing,

in a heartbeat,

glassed by chance’s coin ringed hand;

Take the scars girl,

low rent bars girl,

keep your good eye on the crowd;

Take what’s offered

and be grateful,

try to catch yourself a man.

Fat and fifty

in your apron,

biker chick tats fading now.

Not a great look

grandma’s chapter,

blue and red on sagging teats;

Crap decisions,

heaped like pancakes,

cold now, old now, rain like earth;

Pitter patter,

what’s it matter?

Scatting; On your plain pine box...

'A Triolet to Tragedy..'

Bloom you, sweet rose, within my very heart,

each blessed thorn let bleed this aching soul,

made wretched by this veil that bids us part.

Bloom you, sweet rose, within my very heart,

and there, in life, defy this death’s dark art,

until the cru’el years shall make us whole.

Bloom you, sweet rose, within my very heart,

each blessed thorn let bleed this aching soul...

'Astalk the Peal..'

In crystal streams,

all babbled bright,

where gem set currents jink and play;

Beneath a blackly velvet night,

quicksilver wolves do languid prey:

Half shadows ‘neath their liquid skies,

all phosphorescent twinks and sparks;

They patient scan,

with coal black eyes,

that firmament in watchful arcs:

Where sinuous they dance and glide,

each fluid as that rushing flow;

All flash and fin to scorn the tide,

their rhythmic sambas,

to and fro:

Assassins each in nature’s dance,

all stationed fast in shadowed swifts;

Fierce ivoried against the chance,

to seize upon *Tamara’s gifts.

Their hubris plump and dappled brown,

in every haughty,

silvered scale;

Dares each the river prince’s crown,

its sceptre,

mace and holy grail:

Flailed ocean bold and riptide strong,

how dull must these poor currents play;

How drear the river’s gentle song,

how meagre spreads this stream’s buffet:

Pale each the otter,

pike and mink,

laid ‘gainst the monsters of the deep;

Where fate comes slash toothed,

in a blink,

and death itself dares not to sleep:

Thus arrogant they wolven lair,

their palates jade the bounteous brine;

Until the plumpest,

brightest fare,

dares tempt these denizens to dine.

Oh Salmo Trutta; pompous *Peal,

how poor you know the river’s wiles;

How fur and feather,

silk and steel,

each cunning craft the eye beguiles:

Or deep within its hackled wing,

all velvet bodied whipped noose tight;

There lurks unseen an acid sting,

a silver barb’ed lethal bite!

Know you the nought the lissom wrist,

that flicks and loops its silken leash;

That soft as down the surface kissed,

to tempting lay its dread pastiche:

To dance,

upon its master’s whim,

a tantalising roundelay;

And turn and twirl and soar and swim,

to lure you join its dread ballet.

When boastful beast, in prideful flight,

like mercury you flashing strike;

All thrash and foam shown moonlit bright,

as breach you fierce as any Pike:

And in that instant reckless seal,

Hell’s bargain, ‘neath a Cornish moon;

against your life swift, careless Peal,

to cast the reaper’s dice...

Too soon.

To leap and splash your fierce gavot,

as ‘cross that silvered floor you prance;

Each step,

each forced resentful trot,

stings taut the line that bids you dance!

To turn your last,

and slap and spray,

against death’s ballroom’s star shot sky;

‘Til spent and humbled,

banked you lay;

Served false a fickle, steel tailed fly...

*Cornish Goddess of the rivers and streams

*Cornish name for Sea Trout

'In Silk and Steel..'

(Written specifically for the McMillan Nurses charity anthology 'Soul Feathers')

In silk and steel, their darkest arts,

Stoop surgeons all to weave;

Their pagan spells in blood and flesh,

Upon this fragile bloom:

While yet this tender, gentle form,

No moment’s soft reprieve;

Or let its torment’s daily yoke,

To light the deathly gloom.

No god give day, no morn, no hour,

Lies placid with its kin;

No docile night passed free the stings,

Those sharp and silken bites:

Nor solace brings the gut churned day,

For ‘neath that pallid skin;

All drip, drip, drip, a devil’s brew,

Cruel every cell ignites!

Oh! Frail and sickly, feeble child,

So small a life to spare;

Each trembling beat but bare a pulse,

All breath a titan’s trial:

No lock or curl to drape your brow,

Nor lash to shade day’s glare;

But torments set to test the saints,

To spiteful gods revile.

And yet; within that fragile shell,

So feeble, fraught and small;

There beats a heart, though troubled sore,

That will no quarter give:

An iron will in velvet guise,

As hard as granite spall;

That will not cede one paltry inch,

Within its fight to live.

A warrior soul in tender flesh,

Ribbed through in brightest steel;

No easy meat the Reaper’s blade,

Nor yet so meek or mild:

This battle joined lays far from lost,

No hand upon this deal;

Oh fearful shade, seek prey elsewhere ,

You shall not have this child!

'Shite Hawke..'

All up and up and up away,

some tear eyed, terrored child’s ice cream;

A flash, a slash, in white and grey,

too late a fearful Mother’s scream;

Mongst fellows all in flock and fray,

its shrieks cruel mocking echoes seem.

All up and up and up away...

Under footing, skipping, dipping,

crabbing, grabbing, round your feet;

Screeching, cawing, ankle nipping,

squabbling round a tyre squashed treat;

Waste bin raiding, black bag ripping,

chip and fish wraps strew the street.

Under footing, skipping, dipping...

Flail and feather, beak and talon,

airborne thugs they swoop and plunder;

Foul spit guano; squirt by gallon,

polystyrene trays asunder;

Comes the filth foot feathered Mallon,

asbo gluttons; wreaking havoc.

Flail and feather, beak and talon...

In sweeping, squawking white rained clouds,

all scudding ‘bout the town tip’s skies;

As musket smoke in grey black shrouds,

in screeching wisps and puffs they rise;

To whirl and shove like angry crowds,

above the filth, the stench, the flies.

In sweeping, squawking white rained clouds...

The greedy, raucous town tip gull,

Its snow scene gifts decked every boat;

All hawking, puking, perched ahull,

to stretch and shrill that gaping gloat;

Oh! Would the gods took mind to cull,

set wring each yawning, carping throat.

The greedy, raucous, town tip gull...

.