Modified to suit Mister Fisher whose poems were numerous and humerous


My friend Mister Fisher was well versed in mythologies
And of what he read, he distilled and wrote
Great tomes in decorate italic
Though motifs as uncouth as a Cretan goat
But steeped in a past and as uncorded by reality ,
that dastardly new tradition
He wrote like Bullfinch, but with stumps for wings

But hey
They flapped so fast
They let him stand among the vaunted domes of heaven
And pierced his pen with bright shafts of creation
From the portals of his birdly brain
mister Fisher .. meandered slowly through the dark rafted vaults
And caverns of retrospection
Almost randomly it would seem he would raise the characters
From that umbering gloom and cobwebbed crevices
That were wedged in the dank dungeons and machines
Of his lithe cerebral mechanism
But most of all that pure sweet light of birth
Plastered them with hopes phantasmagoria

Here read what he and God have wrote
"
** The chorus of throstle like a wave upon the slow sands drawn
And spume of linnet spray, a-balance joys and pain of spring
Come sunlight fall on rain and sprig and lovers jig and prig
In forest deeps, deer covert, Guinevere admires her areolate golden ring
In crystal vapour'd isles by distant marshland herald bittern cry
Their long necks mirror majesty as buds of May present their perfect fan
And just above the ground the beetle scurry from grass green silk
And elfin prancer springs as horses laced by webs hitched unto the golden van
Hurry on the ecstacy of eerie woodland warblings and jangled bridle reigns
For cataclysmic twisted ivies thrust up from the ground and screaming hawks
Ascend from woodland prey to land atop the secret font of tinkling rivulet
Where Lancelot his lance wet with sweat, blood the gore of many conquests stalks
The prey of woodland beasts, fled fast thro' the rayed appariel hearts of oak or dene
Lays back, observes the tempest of the sky and variegated face of clouds gone by as such
Guinevere, the reign of dainty dentured lips, fires cherry pips into the air
And with arched back tries to catch them up her crutch
**

And this he told me...


I sent the manuscript off to various publishers


Where i suppose it lounged on a pile on a desk


Before she read the first few lines ...


The fields and fenestrations
Of Oxford or some other provincial British town.


She looks out of her first floor appartment
Out over the unbridled spaces of dreams

Round and round the Welsh saucepan
A brown and balding egg it swam
Eggy Deggy Dun **
The bird till now had never run


Cute and white and hot and dead
She smacked that boiled eggies head
With the little silver spoon
Which was warming in her mouth
The egg they say was dun


The egg comprised a thousand cells
Locked in each cell was a word
Contigouously they were ideas as embryos
Each embryo gave wing and off the egg shells flew
They say her bird has flown


Words, words, words,
And out they broke and circled like a thousand daft crows
All the wings of maturity in a fist.Unconfused
By conscience,she prodded lamely with black spears of understanding
And the dark ore of their flesh was bruised
And their dark rusty voices squawked


It filled her with distress and clamped her hands like walls around her self


She didnt comprehend their raucous melody - the chorus
Of the fields.Dressed in the tyranny of fashion she
Sent a note.It read "We thank you for sending us
Your work, but regret that we are unable to publish it"


Then die as senseless as a withered rose in aromatic pain
Fleur Whoeveryouare, you fucking stupid shit

Thats taking rejection like a man
I wrote and told the bart
The haughty fart




And now I am alone in my bedroom


I am thinking of Mister Fisher the elder
Looking out - fields and fenestrations
Out over the unbridled spaces
On my dressing table is a picture
A portrait of my grandparents on my mothers side
And the Book of Lore from Ireland come with giant legends
And who like them came from a small village in middle Eire
O'Connels land and drumlin country
With a history as old as any can remember


In that silent wasted land
Fit now only for flax and goats and grass and graves
Lies the shadow of Kierans fair city
The 30 generations of Erin and their famous legions
Among them the seven kings of Tara ,warlike
Sons who known the quiet calibre of death
Blow in swirls amongst the dust

It is bordered in a curve by the Boyne
A home to sturgeon, pollan ,charr and chub
But that once brought barges, slow drawn
By 30 thin men in rags straining against the flax hauser
Bringing the Welsh granite and the Seven Quorn
Used as foundation stones
That know the secrets of Niall's fortress
Which hide in the shadows of the place

And in the night
The silver night when the moon is full but
Held in check by a web of thin cloud
The bones of carpenters and kings rise in that vale
And sing in a great Irish chorus so loud
That the granite blocks shake
They chant the legends of defiance
And lament their passing away
But their memory lives long
It blows in airs and words and song


Effort turned to dust
A long ago, a distant past


And where was time




above is the unbowdlerised version pretty much original but modified
because my ex wife used to repeat the phrase eggy deggy dun as a piss take
and now realises that this is not a reflection of the text but the reader
hence i replaced the rest also