32. John Deighton
Dramatic performer and long time writer of novels and short stories, relative newcomer to writing poetry.
Doncaster based wordsmith, John Deighton is part of the Read to Write group at Balby library. He hasn't been writing poetry very long but has had a fair crack at novels and short stories. He enjoys drama and is doing the rounds reading short stories in live performances. He is currently performing selected Ghost Stories of M.R.James. He used to have a full head of hair.
Poems
The Jon Brown Fight
Jon Brown’s goal was to ruin my school life He tried to make every day hard I knew what I had to face. Trying to avoid him would never work, In a schoolyard you cannot get away or hide the pain. Jon enjoyed inflicting pain, He must have had a bad family life. He was a big lad, fat, easy to run from, get away He loved contact sports on ground that was hard He was in the lowest set, hated work, He looked clever in glasses and had a kind face. That morning at school we came face to face Me, Jon and his cronies. It was a pain I was in a bad mood and wanted to work Get on with my lessons without this in my life. A confrontation would be hard, I ducked into the toilets to get away. They followed me. There was no getting away, This was a problem I had to face. Jon laughed and pushed me against a tiled wall. Hard He dealt a stomach punch. Real pain. I doubled over, joking to save my life, Jon took off his glasses. It wasn’t going to work. The Irish rage coursing through my body began to work I chose not to run away. I stood and gave Jon the punch of my life, A right hook, to the chin, crumpling his face His whole head whipped away, I had a fist full of pain. Jon fell, untidy and hard. He lay crying. Now he didn’t look so hard It had been quick work There was no winner, with both of us in pain. The cronies parted, I walked out and away. After the fight I never again came up close to his face We both got on with life. Teenage years are a pain, most find them hard, they scar you for life. No matter how much you work you can’t chip away the past’s rock face <<<
St Ives
The menace brooding in the deep blue, Muscles moving under liquid skin. I knew it of old; I knew it moved towards me. In soft silent shapes until it reached the shallows Where it raised into its true form. Holding, holding. The wind tore at its outer edge. Holding, holding. Its head bowed to me. Holding, barely holding. It fell. A crashing of cut glass over my feet. As it inhaled, It drew back. <<<
Killykeen
I woke again from that dream the one where I’m back at Killykeen. The van has the smell of dried nets and pipe smoke. My turn to drive and yet I don’t complain. I want to be away; five men in a transit van in search of prey. I swing around a sharp left and then past all the cottages with their lawns grassed to the lough. Into the forest and into the shade of that curtain of wood and along the unlaid track. The trees are so dense that there could be a deer watching white van man a spit from here. Breaks in the trees entice us with a snatch of silver lough and over grown brambles scratch along the van. It eggs us on. We all have the wish to be on the bank where there is always fish. Around a bend and then another and the car park is there. We all leave the van and breathe in the fresh air and the space of the two loughs joined by a neck of water. I am so aware that I am just a speck on this vast planet. Still in awe, we now unload the fishing tackle and stagger down the road, carrying hopes of having a famous day in our favourite place. I pick the swim that I will stay and be part of the countryside. I stand and I take a deep look into the magic waters…and I wake. <<<
Dawn Rider
It’s 5 am. The winter’s razor wind shaves my cheeks. It’s pitch black so I go slow, My bike’s light cuts deep into the abyss. I ride on, down by the the railway track And it starts. I feel so alone on this hack. The rails start their Hendrix intro Whining and distorting the track. The locomotive breaks through All violence and thunder and wind and sparks “Come on Feel the noise!” The monster’s appearance attacks my body With its size and vibration and course, Pulling the clattering carriages That find me with their flickering cinematic light, Carriages that go on and on and on. Electric discharge perfumes the darkness. Whilst I am reeling from this, it has gone, Leaving the only witness to the dragon. <<<
The Land
Perhaps it was the door to the wild untouched year on year in the estate. An expanse of clay not defiled by the plough, where the urban hesitates before the wilder side of God’s hand and sparrows are braver than man. Or did Mother Earth push her way into the ashes of a gardener’s dream? That wild woman’s blunt foray dead centre of the suburban neat seam. No room for roses or potatoes in her heart. No cultivated crops to cart. <<<
How Keenly Now I feel the Cold
How keenly now I feel the cold, spring hasn’t come from its shell and I am happy I am growing old. Parting lovers release their hold with terse goodbyes and no wishing well, how keenly now I feel the cold. They rush to their next flame of gold with a passion only a moth can tell and I am happy I am growing old. Lust not love has them hooked and sold, losing interest in this bagatelle how keenly now I feel the cold. They won’t believe a lover’s scold or try to stop the carousel and I am happy I am growing old. Hurts of the young are devolved to others’ faults and love’s ocean swell. How keenly now I feel the cold and I am happy I am growing old. <<<
Little Glass Vase
The little glass vase was mine, in the window of my time, borrowing sunlight to shine, a needy friend to my eye. It held flowers by and by, big red roses always cry, begged for mercy when they’re dry and when the colours faded. Years go on, then it’s hated, relevance has now jaded and so it’s relegated to a cupboard for its sin. I remember it again and rescue it from within. My grip slips on its smooth skin, it fell and now is gone. I knew its fate all along, memories of hurt drag on. Regret will never be done of losing a vase of mine. <<<
I remember being bullied. Wrote a short story, may turn it into poetry. Loved getting the feel of some of my own experiences through your words enjoyed the read thank you. M
good descriptive language. Wish to hell I’d punched the living xxxx out of my bullies. My big brother told me only yesterday how he’d sorted one lad and even got praise from the head mistress. They say we regret violence…🙂