Harry's Game (or the law of returning diminution)

The hearing aids are turned down,

just a notch, for the noise

that accompanied his presence

will remain, long after the batteries

have expired.

No need to recharge memories,

for the law of diminishing returns

has been upended;

as he slips the clutch

and rounds Governor’s Bridge

for the last time,

not a shadow in site.

Quick to the heel

and fleet of foot,

the ever present

sparkle in his eye,

which we inherit

for a different reason:

Because just for now

as the Kohima sun goes down,

we lucky few rejoice

that he gave his today

for our tomorrow.

(In memorandum ‘Henry James Fraser’)

John H Davies

26^th VII 2018

Gratitude in a veil

I have an inkling

you know the gratitude,

that you are owed

and not always given.

I may not have the means

to express my debt.

For eons of etiquette

prevent the modern day

gushing of emotion

so awkward for you and I.

And yet, we learnt to embrace

our brave new world.

And while we agonize

over what to say

and not to say,

I say this:

There is not one soul

in my small microcosm of existence

as you;

no greater champion of support;

no finer guardian of friendship;

no shirker of the truth;

and no person who,

despite time’s distillation of

old conventions, would not

speak the unspeakable.

And so I do

now.

John H Davies

8th V 2018

(For TF - Serengeti)

Marangu

They climbed the hill
to Marangu
un-noticed, yet born
in dust and hard knocks

and centuries
of birth and death
informed
and un-informed

and today forged
of a new life:
A swaddling babe
damp to the underside

of a dutiful embrace.
A beaming mother
glad of the attention.
Proud.

And later
not much later
the boy who fed it
didn’t understand

why it foamed
at the mouth
after he fed
the meal

and wondered why
so many climbed
the hill to see
his still sister.

They locked up
his beaming mother
thinking it better she
were dead

less bother they said
as they descended
the hill
from Marangu.

5th XI 2015

War Memorial

It stands alone
On a forgotten fork in the road
Amidst a patch of unkempt grass
That many pass without a thought.

A simple monolith of local stone
In want of some repair
For time has worn away
The names of those
Whose passing gave it birth.

But once a year
A modest group arrives
To stand in silence.

Two frugal minutes.
Yet that moment still
Invokes the infinite

Which is the lives
Of those who fell

Unfulfilled.

11th XI 2007

▶️Watch me recite this poem

Sabbath

The lure of Sunday
Alluded him, if he was honest,
Church long since forsook,
And in that void
A shadow took residence inside his head
While most, he imagined
Lolled in bed, or watched tv
He struggled desperately
To fill each second
With something useful,
Something worthy. That
People might think:
My god, he keeps himself busy.

Bed Fellows

Sometimes the memories

bump into each other

as you are trying to sleep.

It’s awkward

because the person with whom

you share the bed

has no notion

of what’s going on

inside your head

nor should they.

Steal away through the net

and hope you won’t offend.

Perhaps a drink

or read a book;

send an email, connect

until it goes away.

Discussion for another day.

The days get farther apart,

but the memories still bump

into each other

as you are trying to sleep.

It’s awkward.

John H Davies

20 X 2014

Brother (an elegy to Down’s syndrome)

I knew you not,

you, who time forgot,

while society denied

your opportunity to be

those things you might have been.

Much easier to have you hid away

and brought out on a rainy day

one Autumn, much like this:

My father brought me to the place

where you were kept.

“Wait here in the car” he said, and

(me, expecting you to come with him)

returned alone.

And then your stooping image

was gently led

into our field of view

along a covered walkway.

We sat and watched, as at some zoo

and I, unprepared,

had not the slightest notion

what to do, or say.

And nor I think did he.

And all too soon you’d

reached the end,

and soon your life.

But I recognised you.

And looking back,

I contemplate the fear

that held me in that moment,

wondering what might have been:

had I alighted from the car

and walked across

and touched your arm

and looked into those eyes

that could not see.

I doubt you would have

recognised me,

despite our shared craving

of them, that turned their backs

and to this day

smile awkward smiles

and look the other way.

And I regret my reticence.

7^th II 2014 

Birthday Present

What can I give you,
now the gift of giving
is altered, and poverty
but a state of mind?

If I were an architect
I would build you
a house of glass walls
and old timber floors.

If I were a king
(for I am not wise)
I would lay jewels
at your feet.

When I am a shepherd
(with your help)
I will bring you
the first lamb.

But for now,
because I am who I am,
I give you
these words.

John H Davies

28th III 2012

String theory

All I remember of her

is a sound of peeing

from the next door room,

an urgent stream followed by a grunt,

and a mysterious glimpse of white string

between her legs;

and afternoon tea at The George

during term; and her tears

as I sang in chapel. Welsh lamb

served in leopard print.

Panic at the smallest event

when driving; a joke about a duck;

and my baby nose immersed

in her warm, wet mouth.

But that's all.

John H Davies

25th IV 2010

Butterfly

Tiny specs of yellow

against the blue and disappointing sea.

A grey sky and a calm day;

almost millpond.

We hadn't worried about our cargo

as we returned on the falling tide.

And half way home,

a mile from shore,

a long way;

the butterfly crossed our bow,

skimming the homely miles;

rebuffing our last port of call.

Lapping and disappearing

into the reef.

No perch.

Yet what vigour;

what heart

pumps this dainty thing?

Wings of lace

to some purpose.

Radar and spark,

on a futile wind.

John H Davies

1^st X 2013

Elysium

The candle’s flame

reflects in a screen

of reproduction quartz;

a fair impression of clockwork

without the languid

reassurance.

She sleeps.

Unaware of my escapement years.

I slip between the gap

in the mosquito net

searching for a pen

and the solitude

of reminiscence.

Old friends revisit me

in Facebook vignettes

but do not wait

for the have-beens.

Rather nows, unpressured

here in slumber,

yet still I sweat

over words,

hoping she will not stir.

Simplicity diminishing me

with grace

and only the faintest

trace in that smile,

enticing me to share

and leading me on.

John H Davies

16^th IX 2013

Lunacy

I saw the moon;

an early crescent

squinting through the palm

last night

and was comforted,

because I always look

up

when things down here

don’t quite add up.

And tonight

it has processed

or regressed,

depending on your aspect.

Because although fuller

now

it is on a lower arc,

reminding me that

our potential is waiting for us.

For it will dip below the horizon

soon,

unobserved

until another night

like this,

when I will look up again

John H Davies

10^th IV 2013

▶️Watch me recite this poem

Serial Waitress Phone Number Getter (Part I)

The gentle sting of his hand,

a diminishing slap on my arm,

was what remained

as I leant against the urinal,

and thought of him heading north.

The last image,

a hopeful embrace

with a foxy chick

who was never going to put out,

and I was disappointed

and pleased in the same moment.

And in the morning

when he returned my scabby

shaving brush,

we discussed the border

in conspiratorial tones,

as she passed

in a cloud of perfume,

and we shook

as if it were the last time,

as we usually did.

John H Davies

12^th V 2013

▶️Watch me recite this poem

And so, Salaam !

And so, Salaam!

to the latest member

of our happy clan,

gathered here

to welcome you to this:

our brave new world,

or perhaps

to welcome

brave new you

to this old world.

And truth be told

it will be you

who teaches us

in your bold

innocence;

rooted as you are

in bonds of love.

For as an old man said

in some old book:

‘A little child

shall lead them…’

in the realm

of the Holy Mountain,

as the waters

cover the sea.

Tread firmly then

and lead us with

this single step today,

and seize each day

as if it were your first.

And you will forever

live in us

and we in you,

Karibu!

Welcome! Slange!

And so…Salaam!

27th XI 2012

John H Davies

As it fades

‘Write me a poem’ he said

as we sat at a bar

beside the Nile.

And with his charm

and assurance

he built the walls

that my father

had failed to build.

Why me, I shall never

understand, for

in desperation

one hot day

he was called.

And a sigh of relief

echoed through the wadis,

as young men

called for ‘Mam’

and tears of banter

belied the task

that few will know.

And the fruit

from the trees

would recur

in his dreams

friend or foe.

Because it will not fade

in some old pub,

when the regulars ask:

Did you have a good day?

‘Legend,’ he will reply,

and avoiding the smoke

he thinks of friends,

of Kathryn and the kind.

John H Davies

5^th XII 2012 

Comfort

It’s hard to tell

Sometimes,

When you’re immersed

In that other place,

Whether I’m the cause

Or just the foil

Whose purpose is to spoil

The ugly thread

Unraveling with monotonous

Familiarity.

Did you intend

The little snipe

Which would offend

From others’ lips

But which from yours

Is as foreign

As another tongue?

And yet

Deep down I know

It’s just the overspill

The ebb and flow

Of pure integrity

Mixed with the fading signals

Of your youth

And this truth

Comforts me.

5^th V 2009 

Day Dream

To dream was to survive.

In my dream, which I could initiate

at will, I’m tending a smoking pile

of damp leaves. It is a dark,

late Autumn afternoon, and a fine drizzle

covers my hair with a delicate lace.

Now I’m entering a friendly

kitchen. No sound, save a low

womb-like hum, perhaps the aga,

and a girl with a wistful smile

coming towards me

in the warm light and drying

my face with a towel.

Twenty five years on, as I

mowed the lawn in the rain,

trying to unstitch a persistent

melancholy, you came out

and placed a coat over my shoulders.

And I knew I’d survived, and that

dreams really did come true.

John H Davies

29^th VIII 2010 

Rethinking incarceration

Send me back to gaol.

I’ll forget about the noise.

Give me two bowls of rice

and a trim figure, any day.

Lock me up again,

I won’t complain

of when I might be freed.

For now I see a freedom

hidden in that captivity.

No fears about recession.

The only crunch, the crunch

of cockroach underfoot.

Tomorrow I’ll wake

without the thought of how

I’ll pay the mortgage, and

this evening someone else

can remember to lock up

and switch out the lights

as the world and I spin on

in selective oblivion.

9^th IX 2010

John H Davies

Bee hives

On a breezy day

We diffidently

Climbed the hill

On top of which

Stood forlorn

The remnants of a cottage.

“Let’s go inside!”

The youngest cried

And I, more cautious

Eyed the broken roof

And grown-up practicality

Delayed the chance

That we might further go.

But ever closer drawn

We carefully trod

The scores of guardian nettles

Where once there was a lawn

And beat a wary path

Towards the door.

And as we neared

I thought I heard

A low but steady hum

Of which the others weren’t aware

Reassuring, yet of danger it forebode

And far we were from any road.

Once within the crumbling walls

The humming grew

And looking through

A broken window

To a hidden yard the other side

We spied a dozen hives

Absorbed in timeless industry.

The noise we now all recognised

And rooted to the spot

With studied nonchalance

We each looked inward on our fear

Ignorant of the ways of bees

Yet held firm by the wonder

Of this ancient sight and sound:

Watchers from another world. 

Without a word

We left. No debate

And naught to expiate.

Happy to have happened

On that secret place

Where we’ll return one day.

10^th XI 2007

Irene

Irene didn't know he wasn't

her real father

until she needed the birth certificate

for her first job.

Her mother explained as they walked to the mill:

He wasn't my real dad…

but he was a good man.

They left the kids at home

on Saturday nights with three pairs of socks

on the kitchen table, and a note:

‘This pair want washing

and this pair want darning

and this pair want washing and darning.’

They used to call her the Little Mother

she overheard years later

in the queue at the grocers.

She said it felt she was never wanted,

but always needed, and now at 86

she was neither wanted nor needed…

but he was a good man.

9^th XII 2009