Richard Westcott's poetry

  As it's April, the 1 st being of course All Fools' Day, here's a foolish poem. And why not be foolish, at least occasionally?   Life is too often too serious. Many might suggest Jabberwocky as one of the best known and loved foolish poems. In fact, it's a slaughter poem which shouldn't be funny at all, but what with its crazy story, made-up words, galumphing rhythm and compelling rhymes, the whole poem whiffles merrily along. That the poor old Jabberwock was decapitated and two other fearsome monsters are left rampant, or should I say frumious, and it looks suspiciously as though everything otherwise seems to return to what it was before all this happened – none of these are allowed to spoil the chortlement. The hero – for such he has become – enjoys the warmest of welcomes from a proud father, who declares it to be a frabjous day! Actually, frabjous is where I started.   A friend in our poetry workshop suggested the word as the topic for our next meeting...

  Coming back to an old work place can be startling, especially if it's been abandoned. Abandoned not just by you, but by those who might have followed. Forsaken for good, even if circumstances had made it impossible to continue. It might not help much to remind oneself that part of the reason for all this was that the work was inefficient, clumsy and had become outmoded. Maybe worst of all would be to find amongst the ruins and abandonment an entirely inappropriate new clueless set of incumbents who could never have understood how hard we'd tried? But perhaps after all, that might be consoling. A comforting realisation that all has not been wasted, that new uses have been found for what we've left behind – in short, that life goes on. We hope. The Forecaster   This was where we lived and worked – a weather station way up north – Wrangel Island, to be precise Kolyuchin – north of Chukotka.   We made observations, carefully measured the various meteorolo...

    I find myself posting this poem at the end of January – the 27 th , Holocaust Memorial Day. So much has been said, dwelt upon and shown – absolutely rightly – about this particular eightieth anniversary. I offer here a description of a solitary player of music at that place – music, the most abstract of all the arts. It could be suggested paradoxically that the abstract may not represent the worst way to approach the most real, most grounded of events. I don't know. I do know that February, and life itself, lies ahead, for which I give thanks. Perhaps it's best that no more be said now. Double Sarabande in 9/8 from Bach’s Partita  No. 2 in D minor for Solo Violin   Before he began there was silence. Now as he follows the lines the Sarabande accompanies him.   He proceeds with care placing his feet upon those old sleepers sunken and soaked avoiding the ballast and cinders.   The quavers are harnessed in triplets rising and falling as t...

  For this first month of a New Year, I thought I'd do a first of my own, with a second.  What I'm trying to say is that this time for the first time I'd offer you two poems. I'm happy to say they're both quite short. Actually they are a pair anyway. A pair of chairs. Van Gogh's painting of his own chair is probably better known than that of his (for a while) friend Gaugin's. I've always found that humble little empty chair backing into its corner with the box of onions and simple tiled floor nothing less than poignant.  Gaugin's chair however with its arms is slightly grander: here we have not one but two light sources, a couple of books and what looks like a carpet. But neither chair is upholstered – they're both essentially basic, sharing certain similarities. Seen as a pair, they make suggestions about friendship – about welcome, suitability and preparedness; while at the same time, they both speak of absence – not just temporary, but al...

A recent visit from our grandsons brought startling explosions, destruction, fire and noisy deaths into our normally peaceful domestic setting.  Yet their video game(s) went on merrily enough – somehow no one seemed any the worse for it.  This little picture card is certainly a dramatic image, with its striking colours and  powerful composition, complete with the hero's portrait in the bottom corner. It's one of many that Liebig – a forerunner of Oxo, extracting meat essence – included free with their product, from 1875 to 1940. Les Gloires de l’Aviation Militaire Belge Willy grins, safe in his bubble while all around the clouds explode as if all this were nothing at all to do with him. Improbably a grey balloon deflates in flames – Bien Meilleurs! The sky is full of drama. Thirty-five of them I read – that’s quite a bag – no wonder he is smiling! His biplane banks, the pram wheels spin – he’s off to find another. Reproduction interdite – you must not...

  Henry VIII Painting by Hans Holbein, c. 1536 Oil on wood 28x19 cm. The vain man prides himself inordinately on his appearance, accomplishments and possessions. In this our modern world, vain men strut and crave attention, seeking to gather and reinforce power and influence, no less today than in times past. This very month, one specifically comes to mind, whose characteristic attempts to exploit the above as he tries to establish his own form of monarchy, may remind us of an earlier tyrant. They share behaviours of course, including shrewd political opportunism, a brutal tendency to throw erstwhile helpers to one side, and to treat women (and marriage) ruthlessly – in a word, to bully. But first and foremost, it's that obsession with personal appearance that most strongly links these two.   Look no further feast your eyes on my well-clad breast bejewelled jacket golden pendant chain and collar all interwoven garnets for kingship saphires and other...

  Which beginning of time [the Creation] according to our Chronologie, fell upon the entrance of the night preceding the twenty third day of October in the year of the Julian Calendar, 710 [i.e. B.C. 4004].   The Annals of the World (1658), p.1 Archbishop James Usher 1581-1656   Yes, anything, even time itself must start somewhere, somewhen – a beginning at a point in time is not an easy calculation   when nothing was and something is, with so much yet to come. All of which we now know well – us who had our own beginnings.     Time began on the night before the twenty third day of October four thousand and four years BC. Do not ask what may have occurred   in those earlier blackberry days. October's a month of beginnings and ends. The swallows have flown.  The fieldfares are here. My sums are done.  Now to make a new start. I spent some time – time again! – searching for an appropriate picture to precede this poem...

  How do you persuade visitors to come and stay in your hotel? Well, here was a tourist gimmick – a truly extraordinary stunt – that got people on board, so to speak. And it worked, in a way. In fact, not a single person ended up on this fated boat, the real crew having jumped ship at the last moment, leaving pretend people from old stories. Oh yes, and a motley un-consenting cargo of captured creatures. Let me tell you more…     Niagara Falls, 3.00 p.m., 8 th  September, 1827   The bears swam ashore before the ship hit the Falls so they were alright.  I'm told the dog did the same and the geese – at least, two of them survived the drop as did the cat. The foxes I'm not sure about while nobody speaks of the racoon.   As for the buffalo – well, he was penned and crushed by a falling mast.  Perhaps that instant death was best, being spared from the heart-stopping fall, though exposed to the din and the terror of those still on board   except fo...

  It was no more than a small fluffy bundle on the floor of the barn, a little way from the box up in the rafters above. But picking it up and turning the light body over, I had to extract a ferocious talon which kept catching on my jacket. Even after death, the killing kit of this ancient predator retained power. The owlet was newly fledged – wings feathered, though not yet at full length, tail short and stumpy and white down still present all over. However, the sharp hooked beak, huge black eye and grasping feet all seemed ready to fulfil their functions. Up close to this owl, I remembered an encounter with an adult bird high up on a beam.  Having walked into the dark barn, my eyes needed a moment to adjust. Looking down on me, a pale facial disc was slowly turning like a spotlight, apparently taking everything in. I felt caught, even trapped, although it was only a bird assessing me.   In the owl's eye I may not have been a small rodent, but the riveting stare st...

  Poetry shouldn't always, really doesn't have to take itself too seriously. It can be playful: enjoying words – their sounds, how they can alter depending on what else is around, their different meanings, even their meaninglessness... Yes, the word play reminds me of the close association of poetry with music: music is played, poetry is spoken and sung – perhaps also played? I found myself playing with a particular word, saying it out loud in different ways ( ways – more of that presently) tossing it up in the air, catching it, flipping it to see what might be on the obverse, until the word itself turned into something else altogether. I was left with no more than a sound produced by a widening of the mouth – a sort of smile – and an amused realisation that words can do so many different things, yet are as simple as that. Join me then on an exploration of the word Ways. No, that's beginning to sound a bit serious – this is more of a wander, a light-hearted wonderin...

  The Nightingale has to be one of the most celebrated birds in poetry and song – we'll come to the toad by and by – so one approaches this over-poeticised bird with a certain caution. But it was when I heard it for real, I have to say I could understand why it's inspired so many poets and composers. The nightingale doesn't come to us here in Devon, so it was extra special for me to hear it outside my daughter's house in Essex. I was struck by the flow of the song, its sudden silence and then resumption; the power and urgency.  Perhaps that's why we attribute of all sorts of emotion to this bird's song. But, at the end of the day – or night – it's just a bird singing. Still, I found myself, well if not exactly inspired, at least moved to make my own response, to write a poem. The Song of the Nightingale Time for a moment’s pause in my performance. Silence can speak as strong as utterance – restraint produces passion in the gaps – the gap...

  As with lots of good stories, there are many versions. Basically this one's about a pair of Wiltshire yokels raking a pond for kegs of smuggled brandy.  They feigned lunacy when surprised by the excise men, saying that they were trying to rake out the full moon which was reflected in the water.  Their ruse was successful. The officials had no trouble in deciding they were lunatics, so left them to their raking. Interestingly, the Lunacy Act of 1842 defined a lunatic as someone ‘afflicted with a period of fatuity in the period following a full moon’. I suppose any time falls into the category of a 'period following a full moon'.  As for fatuity, that might include all of us on certain occasions, not least since it's not stated how long 'a period' is.  Perhaps then we're all occasionally lunatic... Be all that as it may, on this occasion the lunatics (I've put inverted commas round the word and taken them out several times) outwitted the sober and sane, ...