I am not a poet – I write prose. However I have always written poetry. Let me explain.
I use poetry to express a thought or feeling. I write first draft and that’s it. I might revise a word here and there but generally my poetry writing is all in rough draft. A poet will spend ages redrafting, agonising over a word, a cadence, a meaning. I don’t do that. So anything you see here is WYSIWYG – warts and all.
Barry Silsby, 2020.
Poppy Day
Dear Dad,
Serving your country,
You went through North Africa,
Libya, Iran and Iraq
As we know them today.
You WERE the original D-Day Dodger,
On a spree in Italy.
Where you developed pneumonia,
Attended La Scala rather than the brothel,
Jumped from a plane,
Stole a pig for Christmas.
And, incidentally, fought your way up through the spine,
Always in the front line.
Later,
Having married Mum with an emergency licence,
Thank you for that, by the way,
(And No, I was born, the eldest, three years later)
Was en route to Burma,
When the war ended.
Eventually,
You came home.
All you ever told us
Was about the good times,
The laughs and Camaraderie,
The nose thumbs at authority.
Though at times you shuddered for no reason.
I cannot think of what you went through,
But I thank you for it,
As the nation does,
Once a year.
But most of all,
I thank you for being my Dad.
All my love,
Barry.
My father entered World War 2 as a volunteer, ended up as Battery Sergeant Major in the Royal Regiment of Artillery and was in. action for the entire war.
Lady Astor in Parliament referred to the army which had fought at El Alamein and invaded Italy as ‘D Day Dodgers’ following the Normandy landings. Typically the aforesaid ‘Dodgers’ made a song about it which begins-
We are the D-Day Dodgers way off in Italy,
Always on the vino, always on a spree…
Eagle eyed amongst you will see that I have edited the sixth from bottom line which read “As the nation pretends to,’. I have thought about this deeply. I still think too many use grief to their own end, but there are millions more who show respect and I will not denigrate them.
Feeling whimsical today so…
Irish cats are Guinness coloured,
Scots cats wear the kilt.
English cats wear bowler hats
While the Welsh walk with a tilt*
*My dad always said the Welsh had one leg shorter than the other – comes from walking on mountains.
(More than half of my family are Welsh. I think we can laugh at ourselves, can’t we?)
I seemed to be on a nostalgia trip in the Covid-19 era and so I unearthed this one written when I was remembering being 16.
For those younger than I, ‘scooters’ in those days would now be referred to as ‘mopeds’, ‘Bulmers’ was a cheap brand of cider.
And for those unfamiliar with the UK Littlehampton is a small fishing port on the south coast of England and the nearest sandy beach to Brighton.
Littlehampton…1964
I remember the summer when I was happy
and the tree of life was green
with envy.
Riding the surf-line on our scooters
we built bonfires on the beach and toasted marshmallows.
Listen to Dylan and the surf
making half-love between the dunes with clumsy inexperience
stoned on Bulmers.
Swim raw in black-white-rolling-seas
and hurry back
shivering
quivering
huddling
cuddling in the friendly fire-warmth.
Then home to parental security
and nothing mattered the morning after.
Barry Silsby
This next poem was was written in 1970 entitled ‘Biafran Dream’. It could have been reprised in any year from then on, just changing the region in the title. I suppose today it could be called ‘Yemeni Dream’.
Dream
So there were kids,
Just kids,
You know what kids are like.
Only these weren’t.
No laughter, few tears,
Just a blank acceptance of life to death.
And in their eyes
A wisdom far beyond mine, or yours,
My well-fed friend.
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