Definitive

He struts the stage
Never to be King
Knowing privately that soon
He would not be here at all
His eyes were enclosed in puffy eyelids
His skin seemed translucent
Yet fat
To be or not to be
Quoth he on that stage
 
He looked down at us
His audience
This was not only Hamlet
This was Charleson
This was Ian Charleson
His last
Best
Performance
 
On the corner of the stage
He seemingly meandered
An actor, maybe twenty feet from my seat
There were lines, Shakespeare’s words to relay
But he simply drew a breath
Both he and The Prince
Took a moment
And in that silence
I shared, the audience shared
To be, of course, we shall
And then we will not
 
Let Fortinbras end it here
 

Trevor Maynard

in collection Grey Sun, Dark Moon, 2015, Willowdown Books,
ISBN 978-1-5170952-5-3

 
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Beyond the Writing on the Wall

Beyond the writing on the wall
There is brick and crumbling mortar
A sycamore stubbornly clings
Well, it took such a mighty effort to grow roots
Moss, on the other hand, seethes insidiously, in perpetuity
It survives even the most hostile of environments
 
Old Magic, the Goddess smiles
Mother Earth will ensure the wall will fall
But what will it reveal
A field of golden buttercups
Hawthorn caught up in infernal bine
Or land dead and polluted by indifference
 
Is there a clue in the writing
Is our future writ large
Bit like the dyslexic lovers we are
We only read what we want to read
And go hang reality, go hang truth
 
Doves, of all creatures alight,
Above the keystone and the founders plaque
weathered almost away, I read
“This have I, Wall, my part discharged so,
and being, done, thus wall away doth go.”
 

Trevor Maynard

published in Poetic Bond III, 2013, Willowdown Books,
ISBN 978-1-4923841-9-9

 
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July 14th, 2005

a taxi driver stood outside
his cab door open, squinting in the bright sun
eyes still beneath the glass of his spectacles
while ahead bus drivers turn off their rasping breathless engines
and people, emptied from offices and shops
stand statue still
in remembrance
 
a bemused motorcycle courier received rebuke
sliding down between the gridlock until a calm hand waved him still
its owner, a man in sweats and scarf, wore a shirt proclaiming that the Dali Lama “A Man of Peace”
was to be seventy years old on the morrow
 
so sad then that some still think death the way
when surely life is the path to
enlightenment and understanding
murder by any proof of history, is ignorant, intolerant, inhumane, and simply inefficient
 
all you need is love
says every individual of conscience
god is love
says every form of organised religion
individuals have created
listen we ask,
all those that would ever consider that
the ends justify the means are wrong
 
Eight hundred
hurt, maimed, injured, butchered, killed,
is wrong
hear our prayer
hug and kiss both friend and enemy in peace
please, no more violence, please
 

Trevor Maynard

in collection Love, Death, and the War on Terror, 2009, Willowdown Books,
ISBN 978-1-4452066-2-2

 
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Casualty of War

tumble down water of the weir
rushing to my ear, sixty-three years
             and fourteen days is enough for a life
             every night, there is salt on my lips
             vomit in the sand, blood splattering in the loam
             bullets strafing, mortars, grenades, noise
 
missing in action was something too uncertain
it sent my wife to the arms of another
it was six months before they found me
             not a casualty as such, more a deserter
             they arrested me, they did not shoot me
             a beating detached my retina, I was unfit
six months more, they released me
let me loose to see out the rest of the war
as a civilian, no fatigues, only fatigue
             many thought me a coward, a shirker
             some a traitor, or a spy, most felt envy
             hating me for living while their lovers died
 
tumbledown water of the weir
rushing to my ear, then a rocket
overhead, motor, motor, silent, whine
             one explosion, and one UXB, whimpering
             the boys came, did what they had to do
             mundane bravery, everyday courage lance corporal said “just a hunk of metal
poor workmanship” “slave labour” added the captain, pipe flaring red              they dragged me from the ruins
             my leg was broken, but I would live
             those that saved me did not see out the week
the war finished – VE Day, VJ Day
life failed to ignite, no passion it seemed
brain something or other, quacked the doc
 
             ‘Bulldog’ – a tugboat reaches the lock
             so, I decide to wait, avoid the do-gooders
             tumble down of water rushing in my ears
 
her lover died, a hero they say
so the enemy are not only evil
they are also the makers of heroes
             I took her back, it was the moral action
             their child became our child, an only child
             who did not understand why I hated her at five, she held my hand when I cried
called me papa; at ten she spilt my whisky glass
and I broke her arm, I just lashed out
             at thirteen, I divorced her mother
             told her she was not my child
             truth is always best; she scratched my face
at thirty, her own children find me difficult
 
they call me Papa Mike; at forty she told me
&#ldquo;I forgive you, but I will never forget&#rdquo;
 
             tumble down of water rushing to the ear
             nineteen eighty three, gulls soar and dive
             stood on the edge of Richmond lock and weir
 
tumbling, rushing, it became easier to drift
my ex-wife died, her daughter banned me
from the funeral – forgive, not forget
             if only that bomb had been better made
             I would now be one of the remembered
             a casualty of war, an innocent man but now, all I want is to forget, and be forgotten
forgiveness gives me nothing except pain
not even that anymore, simply numbness
 
             “Bulldog” did drag me out, but the sweet
             kiss of breath went unheeded
             my time I guess, I had hoped for drama some meaning, some blinding light
but all I felt was a sense of puzzlement
why had I not done this way back when
 

Trevor Maynard

in collection Grey Sun, Dark Moon, 2015, Willowdown Books,
ISBN 978-1-5170952-5-3

 
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