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Archive for June, 2010

When I produced a booklet of Jack’s poems to distribute among family and friends before embarking on this Blog I included this poem as the last complete poem. I do not believe it is by Jack although it was in the file containing his own poems. Maybe it is one that he came across somewhere and admired. There are certainly similarities with his own style and subject matter. It appears to be by someone calling themselves Ban-Druidh and the best that I have been able to discover is that this is a Scottish-Gaelic term for a pagan priestess. Clearly this is  somebody’s “nom de plume”.

I have been unable to identify this person and am including the poem now incase anybody out there can throw any light on identifying the author. I apologise if I am infringing any copyright by including the poem here and would love to know more about the poet.

My Kind Of Place

Oh, give to me a coastline
Of Nature’s rugged splendour,
Where towering cliffs and jaggged rocks
Hold back aggressive seas.
A windswept gale and battle place,
A not so well frequented place.
A place where one can dream.

To wander in the cliff top heather
And feel the distant coastline beckon,
The distance lending magic to the scene.
What lies beyond? A sandy cove,
Or perhaps a booming waterhole,
I have to go and see.
A wild and rocky tempting place,
A full-of-life yet empty place,
A place to sit and think.

Sitting in a sheltered cove,
Squeezing sand between my toes,
Looking at small houses huddled close.
Boats pulled up beyond the tide,
Fishing nets hung out to dry,
Lobster pots, fish boxes all around.
Perhaps an old-time smuggler’s place,
A cosy, dozy, cuddle-you place,
A place to live and die.

Not for me a promenade,
A concrete,stone and brick facade,
With a deck-chair littered beach between high tides,
Entertainments by the score
Await the flooding of the shore,
To bring the people thronging through the doors.
A hard and glossy sort of place,
With a crowd induced hypnotic pace,
It’s not for me.

So give to me, I will say once more,
A time and tide washed sculptured shore,
Where sun and sky, rocks and sea
Seem slowly to envelope me.
And for a short and thrilling span
I leave behind men’s pygmy plans
And see as if for the very first time,
With the joy and wonder of a child.
A place so old, yet always new,
A place for me and perhaps for you,
My kind of place.

Ban-Druidh

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Can any family member or friend of Jack’s throw any light on the clock referred to in this poem as I have no knowledge of it? The poem has not been previously published.

The J and B Clock

The old clock stands against the wall
Its mellow face in light subdued,
Faithfully it chimes the hour
And finger-tips each moment new,
It ticks and tocks, the pendulum swings
For that is just the way of things.
Time goes on the same old pace,
Although at times it seems to race
And then again to almost stop,
But not the old grandfather clock.
It just tick tocks.

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I regret that due to other circumstances I have not been attending to this site as much as I should of late. I hope to rectify this now by adding another poem for you. Poem For Spring was written around 1989 and I am a little late adding it here as it is now summer (hopefully!).

Poem For Spring

The cradling warmth of Springtime’s sunny days
Brings out a deluge green of varied hues,
Raising hope like buntings on the breeze,
Fruitful gala of budding and renew.
Light-hearted and capriciously she comes
With childlike truth to soften wintered minds,
Stirring impish seeds of dormant childhood
So joyously across the bridge of time,
Giving off an aura of excitement,
Expectancy of something in the air
Which attunes all natural creation,
Transforming misty notions into flare.
This, this is the womb of expectation,
Here lies the root, the origin of care.

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