Paul’s Blog – Page 5

Freedom

Post author By paulre
Post date 10 July 2020
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Freedom (Jan 1939)

Thank God in England we have got free speech
Free thought, free will, and no dictator roars
Shouting his vain ambitions in our ears.

Freedom of speech, of thought and will, we’re proud
Of having them and pity those without.
Yet we don’t talk with strangers or exchange
Opinions – if we have them – save with friends
And they don’t listen. We are free to think,
But what time is there now-a-days for thought
Have we not cinemas and clubs and books,
Have we not wireless for the leisure hour?
And is the loafer, propped for hours on end
Against a lampost, heartened by the thought
That he has freedom to do what he wills
Although maybe a little handicapped
By empty pockets and no chance to fill them?
Yes, we are free in England. Can’t we make
A better use of freedom while it lasts?

Margaret Taylor Jan. 1939

Tags 1939, freedom, Meg, poem

Meg poem

Promise

Post author By paulre
Post date 10 July 2020
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Promise

Great was my wonder when my first poem
In ordered lines of print met my proud gaze,
And greater grew my wonder when they said
That it was good, and I must write again.

With trembling eagerness I took my pen
And thrilling with the knowledge of my skill
I vowed I’d show them what a poet they
Unknowingly had harboured in their midst.

The muses flocked around me as I wrote
And freely flowed the stream of limpid words
Until a thing of perfect beauty shone
From the close-written page before me. Flushed
With pride and triumph now I quickly made
A neat unblemished copy of my work
And after one last rapt admiring gaze
I folded it and sent it off to those
Whose praise had been the inspiration of
This new-created glowing masterpiece.

Impatiently awaiting their reply
I pictured the receival, opening
The reading, passing round, and better still
The praise they would be giving it and me.

At last, and not till four long days were sped
A letter from them lay there in my hand,
And I just looked at it and let it lie,
Content to muse on what it must contain.

Then with a throbbing heart and shaking hands
I drew the letter from the envelope
And slowly opened it, and let my eyes
Begin to feast upon the honeyed words.

But, with a sickening, hollow heavy thud
My heart stopped beating and stood still. My eyes
Read on, and yet my brain so slowly worked
That that first sentence drummed upon it twice,
Three, four, five times before I really knew
My eyes were truly reading what was in
The letter I had longed for for so long.

‘Dear Meg’ it said, ‘your first effort was good
But this one’s tripe, and we think just a spot
Priggish and insincere, but you show promise.’

Promise be blowed, if this is writing poetry
The only promise I shall make will be
Never to try again
   Never
      No
         More!

Margaret Taylor

Tags Meg, poem, rejection

Meg poem

Death

Post author By paulre
Post date 10 July 2020
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Death

It is with gentleness Death’s fingers close
The wrinkled eyelids of the old, and veil
Their eyes grown dim and weary.
‘Tis with stealth
She steals upon a child, tearing him from
His mother’s heart, and leaving it to bleed.
To Age and Infancy Death is not cruel
But Youth she tortures – Youth whose heart yet bounds
With hope and courage. There is no sadder sight
Than Youth with Death’s reflection in his eyes.

Margaret Taylor

Tags death, Meg, poem

Meg poem

Without Words

Without Words

Between close friends I’ve seen the quick sly glance
of understanding pass. I’ve seen eyes dewed
with suffering unconcern when at a dance
A young girl stands alone: proud maiden wooed
With eyes that spoke more clearly than lips dared.
The passive, wandering glance of invalids
And wide unblinking stare of a child scared
By tales of ogres that the mother reads.

All these I’ve seen, but all forget when you,
You tiny scrap of life, whose warm caress
Brings joy upwelling, tears upwelling too,
Look up with love and faith undoubting – Oh!
Would that I knew you ever would look so.

These I have seen. But I recall how you
Looked at me when we kissed or the first time,
Exultant, gaily, lovingly it’s true,
But with a lordly look your eyes met mine,
As if you owned me – metamorphosis
From supplicant to tyrant with a kiss!

Margaret Taylor

Tags Meg, poem

Meg poem

Animals

Post author By paulre
Post date 10 July 2020
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Animals

Sometimes it seems that animals
By instinct taught to live and die
And even dumb, insensate things
Like trees are happier than I.

Time does not tyrannise them; space
Confines them not. They do not dread
The future nor regret the past;
No mourners leave, when they are dead.

But Nature compensation gives
However blessed may be their lot
Yet my small joys enjoyment bring
(Whereas) their pleasures please them not.

Meg Rugg-Easey

Tags animals, Meg, poem

Meg poem

Cows

Post author By paulre
Post date 10 July 2020
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Cows

Sometimes I’m envious of cows
In sunlit grassy worlds at ease,
With peace to ruminate or stare
For endless hours at hills and trees.

I’m sometimes jealous of the birds
Freed from earth’s gravity. To be
A lizard lazing in the sun
Seems oft the happiest life to me.

At other times I’m more content
With weals and woes of human lot.
What joys are mine enjoy’ed are.
Their pleasures please them not.

Margaret Taylor

Tags Cows, Meg, poem

Meg poem

Almond Blossom

Almond Blossom

Three Almond trees have blossomed in the square
And all this week their palely-tinted flowers
Have hung in wondrous clusters, gently swaying
With every little breeze, and dropping showers
Of tiny snow-flake petals to obscure
The dusty pavement stones. And I have passed
And as I passed looked up to wonder at
The glory of these clusters ‘gainst the sky.

There have been many others this week who
Have raised their eyes to see the laden boughs
But more have passed, with down-bent heads and missed
The joy of seeing Nature’s freshness triumph
Over the dingy, time-worn city street.

And as I watched them from my window here
Hurrying past, unconscious of the joy
They might have had by merely looking up
I wondered if those people spent their lives
Missing the beauty that is freely shown
To those whose eyes are looking out to see,
Whose minds are not too stagnant to receive
Fresh thoughts, new wonders, great discoveries.

And yet, I reasoned, if they miss the joys
Yet there are many sorrows they miss too,
For to be blind to Beauty when she beckons
Is to be deaf to Sorrow till she weeps.
Thus we must choose to joy or sorrow keenly
Or lose them both in dull indifference.

Margaret Taylor

Tags Almond, Meg, poem

1938 Meg poem

Reflections

Reflections (1938)

‘Tis women’s way –
Or so they say –
To beautify or rectify
Their varied physiognomy
Regardless of economy.

It may be so,
But this I know,
At Telegraph and Times they laugh
Neglected quite they let them lie
And daily to the Mirror fly

Margaret Taylor 1938 (Age 24)

Tags 1938, Meg, poem

1935 Meg poem

Anatomy

Post author By paulre
Post date 9 July 2020
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Anatomy (1935)

I’ve donned my erstwhile snow-white coat, my gloves,
I’ve bagged a stool, and joined the other seven,
And now we’re sitting round a thing that once
Was all a self-respecting corpse could wish.

But what’s the good of stuffing my poor head
With facts and figures, measurements and names
Deep-delving oft in many-pag’ed tomes
Searching the mysteries of anatomy

When at the moment when I need them most
They all take wing and fly away, or start
To twist and twirl, to writhe and wriggle so
A tangled mass of most untruthful facts
Remain where ordered knowledge once held sway.

For half an hour – a very long half hour –
The constant stream of questions has gone forth
And answers, not so flowing, been returned:
Answers that made their authors blush in shame,
Or glow with humble pride. O would that I
Might get the question that my neighbours have.

But they can always answer and I get
Instead a most unfair conundrum,
And after meditating on it well
I give up and earn another frown,
And all the facts give yet another squirm
And settle down more jumbled than before.

But slowly, slowly that large minute-hand
Climbs upward jerk by jerk until at last
It is eleven, and we rise, released
And tally ho! for biscuits, coffee, peace.

Meg Rugg-Easey 1935 (Age 21)

Tags 1943, Meg, poem

1943 Meg poem

The Thyrotoxic Lady

The Thyrotoxic Lady (1943)

The lady sitting over there
(with proptosed and unwinking stare)
Is thyrotoxic. It’s not hot
But note that she perspires a lot;
And if you chanced upon the sly
To knock her knee as you went by
(I recommend you take the risk)
You’ld find her knee-jerks rather brisk.

If you sat next to her, and dared
To take her hand you’ld think her scared
For ‘twould be trembling; her pulse rate
Might rise to dizzy heights; a state
Of palpitations in the chest
Would come upon her if you pressed
Her fingers – be not over-bold
Her feelings cannot be controlled.

In fact it is because her nerves
Are so on edge that all the curves
Of female form have worn away
And left her thin and far from gay.

Though she (it cannot be denied)
Eats like a horse, something inside
Must take all value from her food,
It never does her any good.
(Only her neck’s circumference
Enlarges fast at her expense).
All told, the thyrotoxic state
Is one, I fancy, she must hate.

Published in “The Lancet” 1943 (received £5 !)

Tags 1943, Meg, poem