Here's a first offering to Poet's Corner from a Cwmparc gentleman.
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"The Craven" (with apologies to Edgar Allen Poe)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I
staggered weak and beery,
Over many a quaint and curious pavement
of forgotten lore-
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly
there came a tapping,
As of some one gently slapping,
slapping at my ear holes core.
' Tis some idiot ' I spluttered, ' tapping
at my ear holes core-
Only
this and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the
bleak December,
As each separate jabbing belter did its
worse upon my nose.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; missing blows
that were to follow
From this idiot without sorrow - sorrow
for my blood stained clothes -
From this heavy handed villain whose
name I'll never know
Nameless here for evermore.
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating
then no longer,
' Sir' said I, ' or Madam, truly your
forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently
you came rapping,
And so faintly you
came tapping, tapping at my shell like core,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' ---
here I let a right hook go;
Darkness there and nothing more.
Then I sat engaged in guessing, but no
syllable expressing
Who was the bloke whose fiery fists were
belting at my body core?
This and more I sat divining with my head in
bits reclining
On a doorstep hard and shining that a street
light gloated o'er,
A very hard and shining step that a
street light gloated o'er
Ingrained here for evermore
Not one word did mark our parting Christ I
thought quickly upstarting
Better get me into something like a far
more safer shore.
Taking heart with sorrow laden off into a distant haven
Cursing freely all the craven, there I simply crossed the road -
While the lamp light o'er him shining threw his shadow on the floor
Quoth
the copper ' better go'
And that fight is still a clinging and my
ears are still a stinging
When I think of that December and my meeting
with the floor;
And my mind has all the seeming of a boozer
that is dreaming,
Of the lamp light o'er him streaming as he
parted from the door;
And my doubt about that rozzer as
he stood beside the door
Shall be lifted - Nevermore.
by Ian Price
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*Treorchy.net sends many thanks to Ian - and do send us more!
and if anyone else would like to contribute to our poet's corner then e-mail your unpublished work to magazine@Treorchy.net
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