WELCOME TO POETRY CORNER

THE DESERTER

We’d been in the trench a lifetime, it seemed,

then we were joined by new recruits.

Most of them were very young,

still getting used to their army boots.

‘How old are you?’ The Officer asked.

‘Seventeen, Sir,’ came the reply.

‘Don’t you mean eighteen? Eighteen, son?

No harm done telling a little white lie…’

Thousands were recruited this way,

their secret safely shared.

Who knows how many were underage?

Nobody knew and nobody cared.

This lad, only with us for about two weeks,

complained all the time he was bored.

Showed me a photograph of his girl

whom he loved and truly adored.

A beautiful girl! He missed her so much.

‘How long do you think we’ll be here?

How long do you think we’ll be stuck in this trench?’

How long? - Well, that wasn’t clear…

The German trench was a hundred yards.

Our orders were: ‘Just say put.

We’ll let the enemy make the first move.

Top Secret: So, keep your mouths shut.’

Then out of the blue, a change of plan.

‘Tomorrow, the Hun we’ll defeat!

He’s nearly finished, chaps! On his last legs!

When we attack, he’ll soon retreat!’ 

It was pitiful, now, to see the lad…

No longer bored, just scared.

No comfort to him, knowing how

his fear was widely shared.

The night before seemed endless, now,

him sobbing by my side.

Of course, we’d heard about The Somme,

the thousands there who had died…

When we attacked, went over the top,

we thought he’d been killed that day,

but they found him hiding in a barn,

less than a mile away.

Sunday. The battalion stood on parade,

watching the lad made to stand all alone,

regimental insignia and cap torn off

for all to see – disgraced and disowned.

Soon, the Council verdict was read out aloud.

‘To be shot at dawn,’ it said. 

Lots were drawn in my platoon

for the six men to shoot him dead.

Tied to a post, he refused the blindfold,

stared ahead, with eyes full of tears.

There’s no escape. His face won’t fade.

It haunts me down the years.

He was just a young lad who’d lost his nerve.

‘Died in action.’ The telegram would say.

I heard his old man joined the army too, 

to avenge his son, make those Germans pay.

Historical Note.

306 British Empire Army soldiers were executed for desertion in WW1. British policy changed during the war. Initially, next of kin were informed that the executed had died in action. 

Informed or not, next of kin would soon discover the nature of the death. When they did not receive the pension for those killed in action. Shell Shock, now known as Combat Stress or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder was prevalent in many cases of desertion.  

After nearly 90 years, following many long campaigns, all 306 men were pardoned in 2006 by Labour’s Defence Secretary, Des Browne. 

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A NEW POEM EXCLUSIVELY DEBUTED AT WATFORD WRITERS ON 24 APRIL 2023:

A BASKET INSTEAD OF A TROLLEY

Her children? Grown, flown the nest.

She spends far less on treats.

No crisps or burgers needed, now.

No chocolate eggs or sweets.

Shopping through the Tesco aisles,

she hears their voices, still;

‘Mum, can we buy a lolly, too,

with our money from Uncle Bill?’

She sometimes hears her husband, too;

‘Let’s stay in tonight, make love.

Buy another nice bottle of red.’

Is he watching from above?

Two years have gone, since he passed on.

‘Don’t forget my paper,’ he’d cry.

‘Can you get four cans of Speckled Hen?’

Is he drinking beer in the sky?

Christmas lurks again. Quite soon…

The world excited and jolly,

as she weaves her way and goes to pay

from a basket instead of a trolley.

Melville Lovatt, Copyright 2023

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TO THE MAN CHOOSING NAMES

Play the game. Don’t choose my name.

I’m not ready to join you, yet.

Why, yesterday, I swam a mile,

climbed a steep hill for a bet! 

Some people say, I don’t look a day

over fifty, not seventy-five!

My teeth? Fixed at great expense.

My hair, though grey, still thrives.

I’m still creative, don’t forget.

Can still write a poem or two.

Someday I may write another play,

and perhaps a monologue, too! 

Whichever way you roll the dice,

I’ve still something to give.

Thousands want to go with you,

so why not let me live? 

And you should know, before you go,

I’m ‘quite active,’ know what I mean?

So, play the game, don’t choose my name.

Not until I’ve run out of steam?

-----

TRAFFIC JAM

His boss was on the phone again.

‘Where the hell are you, now?

Why are you stuck on the motorway,

when I told you to go through Slough?

I really must remind you, John,

This simply will not do!

You’re bottom salesman, yet again…

We expected more from you…’

Relax. He told himself. Stay calm.

Don’t let this stress you out.

But the traffic jam went on for miles…

Play something soothing! How about

some Schumann? Chopin? Brahms? Or Grieg?

No, James Galway is the ticket…

Oh, why couldn’t he be brave and tell

his boss just where to stick it?

Two cows appeared, now, in a field,

to laze in the sun all day.

Oh, you lucky cows! He thought.

No energy bills or mortgage to pay…

In fact, they had no worries at all,

taking their afternoon kip…

Was he envying the lives of cows?

For God’s sake, get a grip!

His phone, again. This time, his wife,

who thought money grew on trees.

Financially, once more this year,

she’d brought him to his knees…

‘I’ve ordered a new kitchen, dear,

at a super bargain price!

Our ‘old’ kitchen is very tired…

This new one’s really nice!’

Somehow, he conceded now,

His life hadn’t gone to plan.

Worth the fight to get it right?

To be a ‘successful’ man?

Perhaps he could just disappear?

Abandon the car and run?

Re-invent himself in Spain?

Start a new life in the sun?

James Galway’s flute was silent.

The cows were fast asleep.

A buzzard circled up above,

The cars began to creep. 

-----

(17 Feb 2023)

Three more poetic offerings from Dancing For England published by TSL Books

WORDS

Sometimes you arrive so fancy free,

so perfectly formed, so rhythmically right.

‘How could you fail to trust me?’ you ask.

‘I’m yours. Not just some fly by night.

Look here,’ you say, ‘I’m all you’ve got.

Shakespeare knew this. Hitler too.

A force for good? Or evil? Which?

Decide before the night is through.’

A shaky premise! You know full well.

The choice so simple or so stark?

Between your good or evil stance,

the world is neither light or dark.  

‘Trust me. What’s your problem?’ you ask.

‘You know I’ll never let you down.

I’m here to do just as you wish.

Are you a writer or just a clown? 

I’ll sing and dance, do whatever you want.

Paint pictures of a beautiful bay?

Or, should you want something in between,

You know you only have to say…’

Words, please go. I’m weary, now,

of your taunting, slippery, fragile ways.

Tomorrow, we’ll dance together again,

on and on to the end of my days.

TO POETRY

I loved you dearly, when I was young,

reading three volumes of poems each week.

In the barren desert of a northern town,

you quenched my thirst. You let me speak. 

But I couldn’t follow down the darker lanes

you were leading me through. A voice said, ‘No!

What will you write if you go through there?

More claustrophobic tales of woe?’

Already, I’d written myself into a corner,

imprisoned behind the blank sheet wall.

I had very little more to give.

Whatever was left, you demanded it all.

So, I abandoned you, but you wouldn’t go.

You refused to be rejected.

Your shadow lingered over my plays.

Now you’ve fully returned, unexpected.

So many years after our first affair…

Will we do better, this time around?

Am I better equipped to cope with your ways?

Has a love, almost lost, been re-found?

SEPARATION

Each has lived alone some thirty years

since the day they parted without any tears.

Yet she still hears his foot on the stair

and he still smells his youth in her hair

and she still sails the seas of his eyes

lying shipwrecked on the shores of her thighs.

-------------------------------------------

Following on from Melville's entry in our Flash Fiction competition in November 2022, he has provided a poem to accompany the piece; and welcomes your feedback on the whole business of adapting a piece of work from one genre to a different genre:

------------

A SENIOR MOMENT

It had to be here, in Morrison’s car park!

Where did he park it? Concentrate!

Was it over near the trolley shed,

or further away, by the exit gate?

The trouble was, a thousand cars

all looked just like his own.

Relax. Stay calm, he told himself.

Its not just you - you’re not alone.

A Senior Moment, that’s all this is.

He’d coped with much worse in his life…

But how long had this search gone on?

He wondered - should he phone his wife?

No! Don’t do that! She’ll get alarmed.

She’ll only fuss and fret.

He had to sort this out, himself,

not make her more upset.

Then suddenly, the solution came!

Simply click on his ignition key!

His car would flash a guiding light;

take him home, in time for tea.

But no key from his pocket came.

Memory flickered from a darkened wood.

He had left the car back on his drive,

thinking the walk would do him good.   

--------

DANCING FOR ENGLAND

His wife and he both agree

she tends to know what’s best. 

She states precisely what she wants.

He adheres to her request.

Amazingly, she knows the words 

he’ll speak before they’re uttered.

Her telepathic powers ensure

he’s muted - mind uncluttered.

But tonight their roles will be reversed.

Tonight they’ll rock and roll.

They’ll do their horizontal dance,

himself in full control.

She’ll dance to his tune, no mistake.

They have a fresh understanding.

Wednesday - they’re dancing in front of the fire.

Friday – the kitchen or landing.

Having lived through many ups and downs,

they’re enjoying this time best,

now on a re-discovery path

since their children flew the nest.

She decided their long relationship

lacked sparkle, was losing its fizz.

This new routine was her idea

but she let’s him think it’s his.

So off they go to fight their foes;

Ageing and the passing of time.

Two tiny pills aid both of them

plus one small glass of wine,

and soon they’ll be dancing, almost as if

their youth never slipped away.

Dancing for England twice a week,

the enemy kept at bay.                                               

--------

HER LAST COMMAND

It was never meant to be like this.

He thought that he’d go first.  

His health was never as good as hers…

Early evenings were the worst 

when fragile light gave way to dark  

he felt so much alone.  

Was it really worth him going on?  

‘Course it is!’ He heard her groan.

‘Get off your bum. Don’t sit and mope.

Try the internet to date.

It’s no betrayal, now I’m dead.

Meet someone else - It’s not too late.’

On hearing this, he ventured forth

to obey her last command.

Against all odds, to his surprise,

he seemed in great demand!

Why women flock to an older man,

He was never really sure.

Could his house, now mortgage – free,

add to his allure?

He’d found a new spring in his step

‘til her voice pricked like a pin;

‘STOP enjoying yourself so much!’

He knew then, he could never win.

-------

OUTSIDE OVERDALE

After the crematorium service,

mourners mingled outside in the cold,

shared fond memories of the deceased,

ancient anecdotes…many re-told.

Then I spotted Uncle Frank

who I hadn’t seen for many years.

‘How are you, Uncle Frank?’ I asked.

Now tales of woe assailed my ears.

‘To tell you the truth, I’m not too good.

Sharp pains shoot up my back.

My eyesight’s isn’t all it was…

I really feel I’m on the rack.

My legs are aching all the time.

Arthritis plagues me, night and day.

I can’t stop running to the loo.

My Athletes Foot won’t go away…

and now I’ve stomach trouble, too.

Having to watch everything I eat…

I can’t say I enjoy my food...

I’m on a diet of Shredded Wheat...’

Now, Uncle Frank’s wife, Henrietta,

said---having listened, standing near---

‘In view of all these ailments, Frank,

I think we’d better leave you here!’

Melville Lovatt. Copyright 2024

Note: Outside Overdale will be included in my second poetry collection,  

Reasons to be Cheerful which is due to be published in 2025.

---

A.I.

As Ms Jones marked her students essays,

she felt something strange come to pass;

Mark Evans, the worst essay writer of all,

was now suddenly top of the class.

Though he couldn’t string a sentence together last week,

his writing was near perfect, now.

An amazing improvement had taken place,

but Ms Jones was left wondering, how?

The light outside had started to fade.

She shuddered, lit her last fag.

Would Creative Arts be a thing of the past,

now the Genie was out of the bag?

(April 2025).  

NOTE:  

A Senior Moment; Dancing For England; and Her Last Command, are all taken from Melville's book of 74 poems entitled Dancing For England. Available from TSL Books.  

MELVILLE at the WATFORD FRINGE - OCTOBER 2022:

 Poems1- https://youtu.be/QV04FcJ8t7Q

Poems 2- https://youtu.be/Y5cjDnY72Dk