Poetry.

UNDERBELLY (A Shakespearean sonnet)

The postcard, boasting palm-lined, paradisiacal, sun-drenched sands doesn’t lie. 

Rather, like wallpaper, it camouflages the mouldy plaster of truth; 

pavements barely visible beneath seas of sleeping feet and hands

and bodies of stupefied menfolk and their skin and bone women. Youth

and dreams distant memories, replaced by exhaustion and sickness from 

long days, years, inhaling the pervading stench of decomposition;

a price paid for rifling through the garbage of the wealthy. Equality, none 

existent in the baking heat and monsoon rains, redefined here: submission or malnutrition 

Summer sees the palm-lined, paradisiacal, sun-drenched sands of the postcard disappear

beneath sweaty white skins, turning red then brown; fair game for the disowned skin-and-bone 

children selling homemade trinkets, keepsakes, mementos; a souvenir for the 

medium-rare, flaky tanned, to take home for their mantle pieces from dalits; no slum to call their own 

But wait!; free bags of rice for the stupefied, the skin-and-bone; and sweets for every girl and boy?

Of course! It’s election year; time for the well-fed to seduce the hoi polloi 

*

Women in men’s clothing. (Free write iambic)

Immortalised in sepia a century ago, you stop the clock. 

In silence your eyes, locked like guided missiles on the lens, 

tell your stories defiantly in the dim light of cordite-dusted windows,

lips sealed, airtight. For a heartbeat you hold your breath

denying the toxic, explosive odours penetrating; at least until 

the flash captures a snapshot of history.

The biscuit coloured drills of your men embrace you by proxy

like a new skin protecting the feminine you in your filigree collared blouses  

as you step up into their harsh world as munitionettes; 

a quintet of unsung heroines. Skin and hair stained yellow, 

as will be your newborns, from doing your back-breaking bit

in the absence of your entrenched men doing theirs. In hell.

For now, no longer Anne Crawford and her friends, but Canary Girls.

They gather round you Anne, protective like chess pieces around their queen; 

bishops behind, rooks to your flanks; they who 

know their place and yet, though you lead, you are all the same. 

Sisters-in-arms of one hundred years ago never forgotten, 

protected always between the covers of your leather bound album. 

*

His daughter’s daughter’s daughter. (2024)

Blessed is the man she calls Papa; his daughter’s daughter’s daughter,

who loves all the abracadabras of the magical tricks that he taught her.

The raspberry sound he makes when she takes a good pull on his finger and grins; 

the look on his face when he knows she has cheated at snap by her smile when she wins

Dressed up as clowns on their strolls into town with one step of his she takes three

while visiting places with smiles on their faces before heading back home for their tea

Blessed is the man she calls Papa; his daughter’s daughter’s daughter,

who gets her own way at the end of the day as she knows he’ll do anything for her

*

FROM EVERY HOME A FLAG WAS RAISED (A poem for Gibraltar, 2023.)

The Old Town stands so proudly with her history and mystery

watched over and protected by the Castle of the Moors.

A labyrinth of wonder are her backstreets and her alleyways

ingrained so deep in secrecy behind her old closed doors.

Sunrise over Catalan Bay bids farewell to Levanter

as another day awakens flying reds and whites and blues;

so ever-present a reminder of the fight against oppression

that since yesteryear has challenged people’s rights and peoples views. 

Though faded now from days gone by, the painted steps are clear today,

still rising up defiant from when people had their say.

Not colonized nor compromised, not patronized though demonized,

Gibraltar she identifies that ‘British’ she will stay. 

In the peaceful Alameda lies a beautiful tranquility

so naturally enchanting it can take the breath away.

Just a heartbeat from Trafalgar where Horatio keeps vigil

over Mariners who served him on that legendary day.

Along the promenade of Rosia looking down toward El Quarry,

a pod of dolphins welcome those, who call to say hello.

In another world, a mile away, the Med Steps are utopia;

a stairway to a vista for all of those who choose to go.

*

Not standing still a new world ever mixes with the old,

with the Windsor Bridge and Skywalk complimenting Irish Town;

while the Mad Monk on the Main Street so frequented by the sailors

sees the guard forever changing, as the eastern sun goes down.

As hist’ry still unravels in the depths of Gorham’s Cave,

and the lighthouse at Europa shows the sea-farers the way,

mischievous macaques waste time confidently at play,

knowing while ever they are resident, ‘British’ Gib will stay.

*

In a melting pot of culture, creed, religion or of race,

whether Casemates, the Piazza, or St.Michael’s be the place, 

for a while among Llanitos, who are welcoming with grace,

it is a privilege to spend time in their fascinating space. 

High above the Upper Town lies a captivating view,

just a stone throw from the tunnels occupied in World War Two.

where Her Majesty surveyed the Bay in nineteen fifty-four;

while from every home a flag was raised, a cheer from every door.

*