1. John Beal
A poet. Nothing Less.
John Beal would like nothing better than to be called a poet, nothing more, nothing less. He would say he doesn't need any fancy words or hype. If you like his work, he would thank you sincerely, and if not he would understand, it's his work, so not for everyone. He doesn't write every day, no set routine, working for a living stops that luxury, but inspiration is an odd occurrence, and so he does try to have pencil or pen and paper with him if it strikes. If he is without pen or paper, you may find him in a quiet corner desperately trying to memorise, and most likely failing, a few lines which had come unbidden from out there in a place beyond conscious thought he named some years ago, rather self-consciously, Astralia, a cross between deep time, dream time, collective unconscious and subconscious, somewhere where everyone's myths exist and occasionally rise from like fungal flowerings in the real world.
Poems
Doncaster Road
I have walked this street for fifty years, steady progression, procession, changes in time - the past, now softly remembered with brother and sister, buying bubblegum from the fish-tank slot-machine with half pennies, breaking the hard surface with a crack, breaking times arrow and heading back, to Mr Smith's sweetshop, Dennis the Butcher, Oxley's Grocer across from New Masons who would serve you a jug of beer through a hatch and call it off licence. We walked this road with fear of mods and rockers, skinheads and worse. We crossed to the park where Clayton's memorial and gazebo stood proud, as we wound down to the church hall for school on Sunday. While walking the road now brings back wistful pipe-smoke scented memory, of strange carven heads visible dimly through archway. I see the cars rushing by, metallic hurry. And pedestrian traffic grows thin, seasons process and winter leaves hang bereft in half light. The latter day shops exchanged for grooming parlour, Majeeds and e-smoke emporium whilst chippy aroma still clings to Hirst Gate's far corner, S Windell appears above opposite shop, though that proprietor has long since gone to distant premises. So on through the seasons adrift without reason, to embark upon times when this road is still there yet it's walls no longer share my footfall, echo ringing instead to the drone of living traffic unstopping, un-looking, just constant, abiding, and the engines - electric are all now so silent, that a pin dropped in empty alley would be heard over miles. Would be heard over the silence of the grave. <<<
Adwick Road Corner
The wind sweeps down from The Peak's thin grassed moor Bypassing Sheffield's towers to hit this solemn corner Driving right through Shivering its bones and biting the marrow Eclipsing the heat of the sun Shining wanly through crooked drizzle cloud While across the fields the avenue of trees Stand stark, oppressing Old Denaby's horizon Slipping down the slope from the farm and woods Where munitions of war lie buried still Testament to the little canaries who would sing in choirs and play football on Sundays So long past now that this wind remembers them not But hits the sandstone wall with brutal force Dismantling it grain by grain Each disappearing as a magician's puff of smoke After the main event When this wind cut dishevelled town in half <<<
Castle Hill
By Castle Hill I falter, and halt my weary step. This lonely traveller, sojourning life’s’ uneven path and spiral round the empty moat. My foolish, widdershins path I tread, to end alone and silent, still on green laths I make a bed. And silent as the deserted streets, I watch the stillness of night descend, and coat a pillow for my head, I watch the golden orb beetle to the end. And silent now, and still as death, the night moth watchmen flutter as firefly lamps trail tree to tree, and the verdant parkland grass motionless dark blades stand proud and still, sentries to morpheus’ realm. So Soft the breath of dream begins, the park land distils a brew, a heady mix of yesteryears, and visions, long since true. The bailey stands beyond the trees, a sentinel, fearful design. wooden structure upon the hill a castled homeland mine. Dancing flies sing silent, in the tranquil air, like sparks they fly from midnight fire ascending to the stars. And watchmen march beyond their giddy whirling jig, spears aloft at sentry post eyes alight with fear and hope. Now parkland entrance where cenotaph speaks of eternal sleep, of soldiers killed in fear and dread, on Flanders fields, poppy-blood and seed. Morpheus, deepens endless night, adrift, a dream, asleep, a killing field, a silent hill where fear marks time with valour. Unholy hour, a midnight chimed from church spire not foreseen in endless searching realms of death, a dream, an endless dream. So from the hill of dreaming souls, march forth a hopeful band, to clash as armies across the moat all fighting for this land. See shadows cross the blades of grass, as church-bell peeling stills, so to echoes of pasts forgotten tongue, the night air once more thrills. The silent guards are vacant now as all from castle trod, and daybreak finds them, camped upon New Angles sod. Battle ready, poised for war, await the skirmish screams, as dervish descends and hewn limbs blend, with foot-sore, trodden mire. And cenotaph, spire trophy bold, now stands erect and still for millions died in battles depth, cut down in prime, in trench holes, silent night, now still. and on and on this battle goes, fight hand to hand, swords flash in light, blood arcs from slaughter wound. So softly gathers earthen mound. the dead-eyed warriors of old. This night of fever dream descent upon the wings of flies, the million-fold dead arise again, a battle-hardened few. No Agincourt, angels tread a bowman’s weary path, across this battle vista, seen no ghostly man or wraith. Yet on through night as battles rage the echoes of the past, flit through and betwixt each other phantoms entwined, as dual strife unfolds. The arrow piercing aching heart, as bullet fane would do, and fall to dust men of the park, by banks of Somme and Don, whilst battle rages on. Hope chest maiden’s wait, forever waiting now, for soldiers foot fall sounds no more when battle whistle and trumpets call, as off once more to fight, with axe, sword and bow, or bayonet, grenade and shell. Dreadful these conflicting tools, no man should know well. Eyes ablaze with fear and dread, as insanity prevails. Axe swings sacrificial arc, and disembowels. Entombing clay accepts, visceral entrails. So on and on, again they fight, this dark unhallowed night, Angle ‘gainst Angle and Brigantian, sword, arrow and axe, soft, subtle flesh does bight. And from this heated battle scene, I raise my weary head, the sweat upon my brow, a testament to the dread. A night spent hopefully serene, in arms of Morpheus lain. Yet still I hear the clashing blades, and the anguished, ringing cries from the slain. My eyes accustomed to the night are surely tested by, the early dawn lights gloaming, and daylight aurora flies, so from slumber, on and on I hear the battle din, my aching limbs and weary bones are cold as death, as sin. Yet under canopy the flies, still dance their silent song, as I recall the sparks did fly, from battle campfire, benighted long and midnight chimes, the lonely hour when all the earth was wrong. <<<
Lapwing Land
Steel cold sky shoal Pinions flickering Black and white breeze Slowly wheeling, enfolding Turning, dipping, ascending Acrobats, yet no high wire For these peewit performers Plovers ploughing the sky Adroit in splendid confusion Amassed to dazzle the eye Which aches to see Such wondrous acts Coalescing while abandoning reason, Being with the air With each tranquil beat Of wing and heart Perfect synchronous rhythm Above these reborn green fields Sloping down to temperatures Colder by degrees Than the soft cloud-lit summit Of Sticking Hill Where wheeling over winter wheat They cry the eternal Shiver of the moment The frost coloured air Igniting the fires Of their soul-sky <<<
Grief shall take them
Grief shall take them When summer flows through golden gates leaves take leave and fates' white teeth in winter bites across this Dreamland spell where grief shall take them While seasons turn transformed across Astralia's boundless realm ever beside psyche's in-turned helm via hidden paths between moon and sun arriving in green where grief shall take them Once more we walk sunken leys seeking ever these our truths through land soaked seasons ever dreaming of death's embrace behind sight sore eyes where grief shall take them Giant-sized garden gates sun-soaked laughter holidays reverenced by mind's eye lanes once taken by you and I this is the place where Love shall take them <<<
Cusworth – Canzone
We took ourselves along eager paths where sunlight dispelled mental walls and as we walked descending paths thoughts unbidden trod meandering paths as if the smell of fresh mown grass led thoughts to spiral stranger paths away from these terrestrial paths where winded, we took a moments rest taking a moment to view the rest of once majestic garden, before continuing paths through mind’s eye imagined glory now faded gold, a tarnished glory Looking up at mansion glory viewed from Cusworth’s weary paths it shone like new in sun bright glory a sudden vision of man-made glory as light reflects from window and walls of Georgian frontage, ghost of former glory bright sandstone sparkling nature’s glory mirrored in dewy moistened grass where footfall leaves dark patched grass and even rain cannot destroy the glory that shines on hill in splendid rest where ghosts of former owners lay at rest And while the ghosts in daylight rest we view the grounds in all their glory whilst sitting on grass we gently rest and gentle clouds too seem at rest as all stand still, not crossing paths children too now take their rest it seems as if all life is at rest beneath these ochraceous walls these still splendid, candid walls where not even echo disturbs our rest as fondly we lay idling on grass in reverie, lost to scent of grass That sparkling dewy morning grass which takes footprint from our rest as once we pick single blade of grass and gently chewing on this sweetest grass we survey the valley in sunrise glory as each ray of sun caresses grass and each dewy tear falls from grass to make their way to hidden paths below the red and black footed paths of lady huntress awakening in grass whose appearance is like jungles’ thick walls a miniature vision of mansion walls <<<