Poetry

 Pat wrote quite a lot of poetry. Here is a small selection, sometimes sentimental and sometimes rather irreverant.

21st. Oct. 1953
CORNFLOWER

A restless beam of the sun above
Chanced upon a lone cornflower
Who, feeling a new and gentler kiss
Unfolded, revealing a depth of love
Beyond the knowledge of mortal power.
Chance "warmth? - She gave her soul for this.

Wandering ray forever lost
In depths of an over deepaning.blue;
Shaft deep to root - Inevitably
Other flowers will feel the frost.
Yet thin cornflower shall bloom anew,
Sun-warmed until eternity.

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 "SEA FEVER"
One of Pat’s Favourite Poems (From her time working on the ferries)

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

By John Masefield (1878-1967).
(English Poet Laureate, 1930-1967.)

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PEE FEVER

I must go down to the pees again, to the splashing pee and the spew,
And all I ask is a tall bog and a flush to clear her through;
And the plug’s jerk and the blocked loo and the bum paper streaming,
And a grey scum on the basins, and a coach-load screaming.

I must go down to the pees again, for the call of the urine tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a load of pay with over-time to blue
And the cheap fags and the noggins, and the sex-mad crew.

I must go down to the pees again, to the lavatorial life,
To the U-bends and the ‘Ladies’ where the air’s like a fetid knife;
And all I ask is a bottle signed by a laughing man at Dover,
And a nosh-up and a kip-down when the short trip’s over.

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llth. Oct. 1954

ON GRAFTING

A wild rose never dies;
That is the law of Pan.
It lives a life of
Perpetuity;
The more life of man
In but the breath
Of a petalle blush,
Or the veloured caress
Of a dawn's mist.

A wild rose never dies;
Tho' fickle love may pale.
It deeply delves
Unfortunately,
With it's roots so frail.
Tho’ cruel hands do tear
Its living green apart
And sever till bleeding,
The sap runs cold.

A wild rose never dies;
Thus cruelly torn,
It lives a life of pain,
Tragically,
Inward grows the nagging thorn
Of sorrow. and love breaks
Like its withering shoots,
Yet never dying.

A wild rose nover dies;
Tho’ man my back it down.
Heavenly,
'Era many suns do crown
The day, a cultured rose
Is born and grafted
Now's the tree.

A wild roes never dieu;
See this rose so red,
Sacredly
My love, our love was dead.
Yet my love made the thorn
And your's the velvet finish
Like passioned caress.

A wild rose never diesj
That to the law of love,
Happily,
For the green leaves above
And the blood of love
Of red, red petals
Grows as this gardener knows,
On the root and in the heart
Of my loving, only passion

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The sea intoxicates me. When I am by it I am wildly happy and wish for nothing more in life than to be always in its near vicinity. It is the sound of it, the changing colours and life of it I love. In all moods from the calm blue, changing rapidly to green, restless and discontented and finally revengeful grey sea. I love to wet my face and feel the salt tang on my lips, the sweetest kiss of all the world.

I yearn to dive through the white breakers and then tired, to lie on the waves and be rocked, so gently and carefully in the arms of the sea. It is always give and take and one day I shall go home forever to the deep, deep sea.

How lovely it is to be alone and able to think without any fear of disturbance. To be able to dream ones dreams, enact them and dream them over again and not be in constant dread that someone may see you and think you are a little mad. Not understanding. It is not possible to always bear the company of other people, having to follow their stupid thoughts and listen to their ideals and arguments. To be entirely alone without a book, because even then another’s personality is forged upon you.
Subconscious and half forgotten thoughts come to the surface beautiful, ugly and sometimes insane thoughts. Ah! If I could only write down half the things that come to my mind, but then perhaps it’s better that I cannot.

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12th. Mar. 1954

THE TURN OF THE TIDE

I am again alone, like a far flung rock
Jutting in solidue in Atlantic storms,
Longing for fulftlment; of trees and noil
To give my soul a name
To be remenbered.

The sea carves with eroding skill
My heart from under me,
Until the life blood stains the surf
With ruddy ambition.
Unremembered.

It shakes small chips and flaking shale
Throwing it sandwards in heartless winds;
Each bit is beaten, prised off with pain
Begrudged by me ond lost
From remenbrance.

I am but rock eroding fast
In storme and winds
And icy blast,
Almost lost, could be grand
Will end as individual
Unnoticed grain of sand,
Unremembered.

The tide is turning late this eve.
The time has come to fight alone
And roaring from unplumbed depths
Volcanic force of hope is horn
To be rermembered.

The fire is burning deep within
Of unquenched amibition hope and love
That boils the sea to useless steam
And raises this rock
To be remembered.

Rise, Oh, fire and crack this skull!
Rise high and heat the greedy sea
'Til tortured, 'Leaves my fertile shore
Deep people, deep earthed;
Such cultured lands
Forever remembered.

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10th. Oct. 1954

DEATH OF A WILD ROSE

A wild rose dies,
Ripped bare 'til al1A that shows
Is the bitter heart of another rose
Stripped clear of lies.

A wild rose dies,
Cruel thorns strike deep to kill
The heat and soul - and sap is still
Never to rise.

A wild rose goes
Down the dark valley of endless Time
To pay the penalty of the crime
Of being a rose.

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by
Phyllis E. Thompson

There is no view at all except
to me
A high brick wall and trees beyond
That others see; for me
a tree.

Green and still, heavy with leaves
And secret shadows the summer through:
But, in the Spring a magic lightness
lifts it to Heaven
and every bud sings with the birds.
In happiness and praise
Green turns to gold.
And branches bare outline
Its beauty and simplicity.
Hard Winter's months go by,
My tree lives on, part of Eternity.

Daylight fades and twilight blue

Deepens the sky, enfolds my tree.

From Phyllis E. Thompson (Pat's mother), 40, North Barrack Road, Walmer.

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llth. Oct. 1954

YOU TOOK AWAY MY FEAR

You took away my fear
In it's place
Gave as love.
But when that love
In anger flew
You gave me fear.
Completely new,
It's paths do wind
And at the summit
This I find;
It is the same rock
As of old
I have the same fear

I see far below
The world like once
Did Christ.
I dare not climb
Down yet again,
But like some nun
In chastity remain,
Withdrawn from sun
To chilly cloisters,
Remote. You see,
I have the same fears

That fear lest I see
one face
That bleeds the heart
With cruel beat
And drains all love
To the town's sewer.
This you did to me
In rage;
Gave me the fear,
Fear of a place
Last I see
A hypocritical
Cruel , unbelieving,
Face.
My own creation.

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14th. Oct.
CODE D'EXISTANCE

When the warmth glided In your eyes
W fear melted To my surprise
Waking together on this morning
'Tis gone' When aa a warning
There is no answer if this be wise,
Only succuming to the love
In God's eyes - and your eyes
who am I to dare resist