The War Memorial

It's Remembrance Sunday here in the UK and round the Commonwealth. Sylvia Daly has kindly allowed us to share this thoughtful poem from her new anthology Before I Go...

THE WAR MEMORIAL

It says “For the Fallen” –
as if they had stumbled
in their haste to reach the enemy.
How silly they were 
to have lost their balance -
no mention here of chaos,
gore, carnage, slaughter.

It says “They Gave Their Lives” –
wrapped in cheap khaki, this
precious gift prepared by
grieving mothers.
Grand theft from
a generation that would
never recover from such generosity.

“Age Shall Not Wither Them” –
Their figures should be used
to scream
“We were abused!
Never do this again.”
Their dying cry,
breathing peace with their last sigh.

Be gentle

Sylvia Daly is one of our founder members. We're delighted to announce she's preparing a collection of her poems for publication this year. She also happened to have a special birthday this week. Here's one of her poems to celebrate.

Thoughts on Being 80 Years of Age

Be gentle with me please,

I can move but slowly.

Muscles no longer bunch in anticipation.

They need some warning.

Grip my arm lightly.

Skin bruises and tears.

If I was bound in vellum

the curator would wear soft gloves.

Give me space, I am not for jostling.

My compass directs but strong breezes

can blow me off course

capsizing me with tipped sails.

Feed me lightly, but with flavour,

my throat cannot cope with gristle.

My stomach rejoices to

fine, dainty delicacies.

Leave me not in the dark. I fear death 

and breathe easy in the light.

My terrors diminish

with the dawn.

Visit me less, I am leaving.

I cannot involve myself in your drama.

I am finite, and know it.

You think you are immortal

Sylvia Daly

Just [Click Here]

The Christmas season may leave us regretting an overindulgence in online shopping clicks - but what if it's a whole life's worth? Sylvia Daly's amusing poem on the subject has a sting in its tail.

Before we slink back to the mince pies, Weird Sisters wish you all a meaningful and connected winter rest and a peaceful New Year.

Just [Click Here]

A brand new home,

A garden gnome,

instructions read so clear.

To satisfy all your desires

just [Click Here]

To find a mate,

and fix a date,

Or kickstart your career.

To make your hi-tech life complete.

just [Click Here]

Visit your bank,

have a quick wank,

you’re a modern day Buccaneer.

No messy, human intercourse.

just [Click Here]

To war you’ll go

and fight the foe,

with drones the pest will clear.

You’ll kill with reckless disregard.

just [Click Here]

You’re now apart

from head and heart.

It’s not too late, I fear

to reconnect with all that’s love

Do Not [Click Here]

 A small child’s cry,

a woman’s sigh,

soul music to your ears.

To feel the pulse of humankind

Do Not [Click Here]

Shade, sustenance, beauty

Today is Palm Sunday. Many thanks to Sylvia Daly for this poem, which compares a Catholic child's experience with the reality of date palms. Love it.  

 Palm Sunday

How can I trust them again?

They gave me a dry,

dead spike of a leaf,

tortured into the shape

of a cross.

My childish fingers

unfolded the sharp, tough frond.

I struggled to see

the triumph of the day,

waving my acrid spear

in jubilation.

Older and wiser, I saw a real palm tree.

Graceful fronds arched with sensuous curve,

fruit hung in pregnant bunches,

all giving shade, sustenance, beauty.

My religion had killed this vision.

Twisted the beauty to fit the wish of

foolish, clever men, who choked

the spirit with their efforts.

How can I trust them again?

Sylvia Daly

The spectre at your feast

 This week, Sylvia Daly's poem hints at a different Christmas meaning - which seems appropriate, as this year it's definitely going to be a different kind of Christmas for us all. Thought-provoking.

P.S. Nevertheless, we wish you all a cosy, healthy and safe Christmas!

Christmas Visitor

I am the dark Christmas Angel,

the spectre at your feast.

Watching over celebrations

that change you to gorging beast.

Your God, reduced and captured

in swaddling clothes and stall,

gentle, safe, rendered harmless.

Offending none and pleasing all.

This is not the Christ of my world,

doe-eyed baby smiling sweet.

My Christ suffers, works for justice,

speaks with passion, acts in heat.

Is there a place for such as I

at this false, festive season

With myriad gifts, glittering trim

and drink to lose all reason?

Yes, I’ll attend your vulgar romp,

though not atop your burdened tree.

A shadow fleeting, movement quick,

a flicker in the eye, knows me.

Killing our young

Sylvia Daly continues the blog's theme of remembrance of war this week. To our mind, her use of the traditional sonnet form, her choice of language and imagery echo the startling, subversive poetry that came out of the First World War  - except here, Sylvia speaks as a woman and a mother.

 War Cry!

A Sonnet by Sylvia Daly

Why do old men send our young to make war?

Flag-waving, bugle blown patriot lies,

teaching them hatred and how to abhor

masks envy of youth in manly disguise.

Women face death every time they give birth.

Blood, sweat and tears and great pain all endured

to give another a life on this earth,

and then watch, as to death each son is lured.

The final insult, killing our young.

Rending the bond we have forged with our blood.

We’d defend to the death life from us sprung

by pruning old wood, not the sprouting bud.

The murderous scream of the mother’s rage

is strangled by warlords through every age.

Sylvia Daly

MRS WILLIAM MORRIS

This week, which coincides with William Morris's 124th Deathday on 3rd October, we're delighted to feature a humorous poem by Sylvia Daly. Its subject, Jane Morris (born Jane Burden) is familiar to us all. We've seen her in many a rich Pre-Raphaelite fantasy - a sulky-mouthed, thoughtful woman, gazing past us in a kind of dreamy, wordless sadness. But Jane has her own story. 

She was born in 1839 to a poor working class family: her parents were probably illiterate. After being recruited as a model by the artist Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who spotted her in the audience at a Drury Lane theatre, she married William Morris, the influential textile designer, poet, novelist and social activitist. She didn't love him (and later had a long affair with Rossetti). Jane had two children with Morris. She and her daughters went on to become pioneering textile artists themselves, reviving ancient techniques to produce exquisite embroidery. Credit for the women's designs was given to William Morris, of course - 'in the interests of commercial success.' Keenly intelligent and self-educated, she became proficient in French, Italian, music and the arts of conversation, her queenly air enabling her to move comfortably among the upper classes. She may even be the original Eliza Doolittle. 

In this poem, Sylvia imagines that Jane is getting bored with her husband's elaborate Arts and Craft-style interior decorations...

Mrs William Morris

(A villanelle inspired by

Carol Ann Duffy’s Collection

“The World’s Wife)

My small demand you cannot hear,

Acanthus leaves depress me so.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

Your art rules every choice I fear,

in many rooms I cannot go.

My small demand you cannot hear.

Whispering my request, I peer

in rooms where rose and willow grow.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

Night after night I shed a tear,

as friends your patterns bold you show.

My small demand you cannot hear.

I warn, there’s one who does not jeer,

he comforts me when my tears flow.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

It’s true, Rossetti grows more dear,

for he says yes, instead of no.

My small demand

 you cannot hear.

Magnolia walls, I beg, this year.

Sylvia Daly

My dreams of you were vivid ...

This ballad by Sylvia Daly is meant to be sung - yes, really - and the Weird Sisters once had the pleasure of hearing her do it. Remember the tune to Lili Marlene? Well, that's the one. We hardly dare wonder what inspired these lyrics. Could it be based on a true story?

The Novice Mistress

by Sylvia Daly

I went into a Convent, I thought I heard the call.

That’s when I first saw you, standing in the hall.

You glided towards me silently,

You welcomed me, and offered tea -

My Lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

Those weeks and months together, we studied canon law,

You were to me a mentor, and I of you in awe.

The love that I felt began to grow,

I was afraid that it would show.

My lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

My dreams of you were vivid, I knew not what to do.

If I declared my love, I would surely startle you.

Then braving your wrath at last I spoke,

I saw you gasp, I heard you choke -

My lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

The scandal was tremendous – you were sent to Rome.

They said it was horrendous and ordered me back home.

I left you without a fond farewell,

I missed you so, it was sheer hell.

My lovely Novice Mistress,

Please teach me all you know!

Standing by the lamp-post, near the Convent gate,

Waiting in the shadows for you to keep our date.

I’ve tickets for two to join the train -

We’ll run away, and love again.

My lovely Novice Mistress

Who taught me all I know.

EXTRAORDINARY QUEER

Sylvia Daly has kindly given us permission to share this poem. You know how coming out is often a challenge, always a relief? It's all the more so in later life.

No Ordinary People

I tried for many years to fit the

mould,

in dress and thought, in action to

conform.

Coerced my mind to

function, not

be bold,

be good, obey, blend in, not cause a

storm.

The effort was consuming, sapped

my will,

to squash emotions roaring

through my heart.

But thankfully I failed to make the

kill,

I took the chance to make another

start,

from soulless clone

to

technicoloured star.

The energy, zest for life was heady,

my soul felt it was rescued from

afar

to face the world, live life, I was

ready.

Don’t settle for grey lives you

live in fear.

Break out, and be

extraordinary queer.

Sylvia Daly

BY his Mistress going to Bed: a response to John Donne

The famous erotic poem Elegy XIX: To His Mistress Going To Bed by John Donne challenged Sylvia Daly to write the same scene from the woman's point of view.

A Response to Elegy XIX

by the poet John Donne

Oh, I am coming Sire, thou needst not fret,

On that my mind and heart are truly set.

But hold, you speak of tryst as if a tussle,

When needs demand thou service first my muscle.

My girdle is releasing tight-bound flesh,

Now resting from its bonds and choking mesh.

All draped in linen, hidden is my form,

To still the rush of awful ardour’s storm.

Cast not your mind on lewd arousing things

Dwell much on matters grave for earls and kings,

Let not thy hand move on to standing rod,

Before my maiden lanes your lust has trod.

And whence I move into our shared bed,

Direct your efforts firstly to my head,

To kiss and feed upon my swollen lips

As pollen for the bee from flower sips.

Then moving slow as hawk upon the wing,

Caress my neck, my shoulders, make flesh sing.

Your eager hand may then to clasp the part

That bondeth with a golden thread my heart.

Hold fast your ardour then and vision lest

Your seed escapes its cool and rounded nest.

Secure a blindfold o’er your lusting eye,

Until you hear my voice in passion cry.

Oh gently move into my hidden place,

And seek the grail all eased with frothing lace.

With care do part the seals that hide this prize

From brutish hands and dim unseeing eyes.

Work not to conquer this all-hallowed ground,

For maiden’s fern doth cover riches sound,

That those who brutish covet for their spoil

Will lose.  Victory needs not battle’s toil,

It takes not reckless act nor hero’s dare

To part the leaves of sweetbush maidenhair,

And massage gentle strokes the hidden pearl

Until my breath do pant and toes up-curl.

My cries will tell you when the deed is done,

The gasps that truly mean we are as one.

Then let your sceptre bring its kingly flood

With jet to cool our lover’s burning blood.

Into my secret place where pleasure lies

For both will know of ecstasy’s sweet sighs,

A paradise all shared, and double bliss

Not one betrayed by Eros’ Judas-kiss

Where taking all your pleasure leaves your mate,

Abandoned in hot, dull, frustrated state.

So, heed my words if you would all impress

For this receipt owes man his great success.

 

Sylvia Daly 

 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 

Sylvia says, 'I have rather careered about for most of my working life, which means I can...clean a chimney, pluck a pheasant, teach typing, extract honey from a hive, play the piano accordion, write a poem and a song. From a long line of ne’er do wells, am carrying on the honourable tradition. Oh, yes, and am learning to play the viola. Originally from the East End of London, came to Brighton via Wales, West Cork, Hereford, Eastbourne, Worcester and Ramsgate and am loving it. Old now, grave beckons...bring it on.'