POEMS - With Tongue In Cheek

[Lena & Harry Smith]

Good jokes, good poem Keith good question ... Where Do All The Tablets Go. ?? probably most of them down the loo.

[Lena & Harry Smith]

Here to Mrs Robinson stepping down, on the other hand... lucky lady, lucky teenager just goes to show, money talks all languages doesn't it.

[keithgood838]

ABSENT FRIENDS

Felicitations to L&H and Marian
on their each prolific score,
especially when viewed through the prism
of low profile Baz, Seamus, Frederick,
bonnie Anna et al of whom
we would wish to see more;
though not in the room
we trust they often peep around the door.

Keith

[keithgood838]

WORN-OUT WELCOME

Snow, snow, please now go,
your visit has expired,
the novelty has lost its glow
and we have grown a little tired
of having you under our feet,
around the house,
and mucking about on the street.
Following today's final flurry,
snow kindly leave us -
and please hurry.

Keith

[mariana44]

I think we all agree with that last sentiment Keith--we just could not phrase it quite as eloquently as you did !

[keithgood838]

Thanks Marian(a). I have just learned that The city of Hull
plan a series of celebrations this summer to mark the 25th
anniversary of Philip Larkin's passing. I hope to post an item
of the subject of the poet's work, which may appeal to your
appreciation of poetry. As the cliche would have it,
watch this space.
Keith

[ROBERT M.]

The snow will disappear this weeknd ............but will return next week

[keithgood838]

DONKEYS & LIONS

So once more the generals are retreating
to the redoubts of their respective bigotries,
thereby risking the fragile truce reverting
to scenes of bloodied, dispensable infantries ...

Keith Good

[Don Cooper]

POEMS - With Tongue In Cheek

[keithgood838]

My satirical verse entitled, Undergraduates (posted here 10 January),
is featured in the February edition of The Opinion, West Cork's prestigious
full-colour magazine. Of much greater significance, however, is a report
on the singing success of a friend of mine, Michael Lawlor, who has reached
the semi-final of the All-Ireland Talent Show, the equivalent to Britain's
Got Talent. Last year I made a present of An Evening With to the Lawlor
family who loved it.
Here is a little tribute to another equally esteemed friend of mine:

CLAIMS TO FAME

After fifty-three years of homage paid
at the Matt Monro musical shrine,
I mused the title 'longest-serving' fan
might be within this eager grasp of mine.

Until I discovered the accolade
rightly belongs to Ed Harrod, my mate,
when devouring The Singer's Singer
my awed gaze fell on page two-seven-eight.

Keith

[Marian]

Also worth a mention are the music reviews by Paul in Michele's Book. Well done Paul!

[keithgood838]

SENIOR MOMENT

I wrongly placed Matt and Ed's
military careers in serendipitous sync
(forgive this old-man's-folly fact).
The upside is that I can again wear
my service gong, I think,
with pride therein intact.

Keith

[keithgood838]

Marian(a)
You may remember I mentioned that the city of Hull were preparing
a summer celebration of poet Philip Larkin's work. He was the librarian
at the university and for 18 years occupied the top-floor flat at
32 Pearson Park (in case you didn't know, Robert).
In my opinion he and Seamus Heaney are the foremost poets
of the modern era, which also has a certain symmetry for me because
I have a foot in both camps, in more senses than one.
I don't claim fully to understand every Larkin poem, however I enjoy
trying to figure out the multi-layered meanings contained within
the more difficult ones. Also I have never quite worked out why
I like his work so much when I consider the verses are almost always
written from a pessimistic perspective counteracted as Andrew motion puts it,
'by an ineradicable faith in human and individual potential'.
I guess it is because Larkin's work is strong on symbolism and insightfulness
into how 'we live and move and have our being'.

PHILIP LARKIN
(1922-1985)

In his deft hand
a pen became a wand
and routine rituals such as
Church Going, travelling by train,
Days, the toad work, care-etched faces,
Ambulances, The Trees, Hull
and other unspectacular places -
all became masterpieces
despite seeming mundane.

Songs of transcendent intellectuality,
muse-magic in each
while keeping their feet rooted in reality,
preferring the shade, yet talkative,
within reach ...

Keith Good

'What are days for?
Days are where we live,
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.'

'Closed like confessionals they thread
loud noons of cities, giving back
none of the glances they absorb.'

'The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said.'

'A fishy-smelling pastoral of ships
up streets, the slave museum.'

[keithgood838]

I feel blessed indeed to have Michele as my muse,
the driving force behind my collection of Matt Monro verses.
Last time the inspiration was provided by The Singer's Singer;
here the wellspring was Michele's deep and abiding affection
for every member of her extended family of Matt Monro aficinados.
The composers of the original song, I Love You Too, are Pat Ryan
and Jimmy Jacques:

WE LOVE YOU TOO
(an adaptation for devotees)

Birds that are born to sing love you,
spring's bluebells ring out, 'We love you',
we your wider family, love you too.

Weeping willows sigh, they love you,
breezes passing by, they love you,
in lesser Eden, we love you too.

Thank heavens you came along
with heartfelt songs and performances divine,
we were enriched from the day you came our way
and made our rainy days fine.

Fellow singers defer to you,
even music critics love you,
'after all the years' we love you too.

Repeat chorus

People round the world still love you,
Time too has lasting love for you,
and most deeply, Matt, we love you too ...

Keith Good

[keithgood838]

The following tribute is an adaptation of the song,
This Is The Life, by Charles Strouse and Lee Adams:

THAT WAS THE LIFE
(Mickie Monro 1933-2010)

That was the life, that's where Shangri-la was,
that was the life, the girl was there.
That was the life of love and music rare,
the girl arrived, she breathed that air.

Wine and hors d'oeuvres savoured by candlelight,
headwaiters hovered out of sight.
Modest means called, then welcome luxury,
concrete-clad faith had she.

Las Vegas lights and royal command nights,
birthday gifts like Mercedes cars,
feted on tours of globe-encircling shores,
moon-like on nodding terms with stars.

Top of the heap, no clamber on the climb,
doubly blest with deft family,
bliss was life as a top troubadour's wife,
a love song life had she.

Keith Good