Categories
1944 Meg poem

A Poor Exit

A Poor Exit

We came down the steps to the
waiting ambulance slowly. The ‘sick-on-
leave’ had the paper parcel containing
his small kit tucked under one elbow
and I supported the other.
  Ten minutes ago the street had been
deserted. Now there were twenty or more
children circulating noisily round the
ambulance, fingering the sides, poking
the tyres, and even attempting to let
down the steps at the back (a feat
not to be accomplished without practice.)
It was Saturday, a school holiday,
and here, it seemed, was a heaven-
sent diversion. I did not blame
them, but I prayed that none of the
smaller fry would camp beneath it
before we moved off.

A Poor Exit

   The chattering diminished as we
descended the steps, the spotlight
focussed on us mercilessly, and for
a minute there was quietness. Then
a stage whisper inquired whether ‘that
was a lady doctor?’  ‘No’ The
reply came from a sturdy circa-6yr-
old, evidently in authority. ‘No, she
is a soldier.’ In support of his
authority I hid my stethoscope
behind my back as I advanced.
 ‘She’s a – – – she’s a – – – General’
he went on, a little puzzled and
probably wondering why so important
an officer should visit so unimportant
a place. ‘She’s got three pips and
a crown, she must be a General.’
   By that time I had climbed
up beside the driver and was
eager to be removed from the
range of further speculations. As
the engine started a tousle-headed
imp of insatiable curiosity emitted
a shrill pipe ‘It isn’t three pips
and a crown, Tommy, it’s three pips
and a button!
   And then we departed – a poor
 exit I thought.

Margaret Taylor 1944

Categories
1943 Meg poem

Inspections Advice

The Sapper’s Lament

Said the S.M.O. to the J.M.O.
With a frown “Now, did you say
Four hundred skin inspections are
Too many on one day?
Now listen, I will tell you how
Inspections can be done
Efficiently and only take
Ten seconds for each one –
Nearly four hundred in an hour.
(Don’t shake your head I pray
I tell you it is simple if
You do it as I say.)
Teach them to follow fast in turn
And glance as each goes by
At hands, axillae, chest and back
Their teeth, then turn your eye
In rapid survey o’er the girl.
If any should look ill
Or if they have symptoms to air
Tell them to wait until
The end, then you can spend what time
You have, or like, on each.
Oh, inspections are mere child’s play if
You practice what I preach!”

Margaret Taylor 1943

Categories
1944 Meg poem

Titles

Titles (Jan 1944)

The A.T.S. with one accord
Say ‘Ma’am’ when they address her
But though this is an ugly sound
It does not much distress her.

The men, uncertain, call her ‘Sir’,
‘Madam’ or ‘Doctor’. These
Alike she accepts with easy grace,
For she’s not hard to please.

E’en when a sapper, semi-sober,
Greeted her as ‘Kid’
She chuckled and forgave him, but
She turned a trifle red.

Margaret Taylor  Jan. 1944

Categories
1939 Meg poem

Freedom

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

Categories
Meg poem

Promise

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

Categories
Meg poem

Death

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

Categories
Meg poem

Without Words

Poem Book

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

Categories
Meg poem

Animals

poem book

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

Categories
Meg poem

Cows

poem book

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

Categories
Meg poem

Almond Blossom

poem book

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