WELCOME TO VIRTUAL DODO ELEVEN – MAY 2023
Welcome to the 11th virtual show from Dodo Modern Poets. This programme
takes our tally to around 280 performances and contributions since launching in
April 2020. We thank everyone who has contributed, enjoyed and supported the
shows along the way.
While finalising this show we learned of the sad death of our dear and
beloved friend Emile Sercombe, a brilliantly gifted poet, artist,
muralist and teacher. Pete and I have known Emile since 1980. We met through
London-based poetry workshop Worthless Words, a regular event set up by Emile,
Pete and others. A separate tribute will
follow soon. Meanwhile we are delighted to include two poems by Emile in this
show and poems by Pete and I dedicated to Emile.
The latest event begins with two exceptional featured acts, Camilla
Reeve and Joseph Healy
CAMILLA REEVE
Camilla Theresa Reeve (camilla_reeve@yahoo.co.uk) is a writer,
independent publisher, and Trustee of the
Cambrian Community Centre in Richmond. Her five poetry collections are Travels of
a Spider, 2006, https://palewellpress.co.uk/Books-History.html#Travel-Spider; Travelling
East by Road and Soul, 2009 (from flipped eye publishing) https://palewellpress.co.uk/Books-History.html#Travel-East; Raft of Puffins,
2016, https://palewellpress.co.uk/Books-Nature.html#Raft-Puffins; Tales from Two
Cities, 2018, https://palewellpress.co.uk/Books-History.html#Tales-Cities; and What I
Tell Myself At night, 2022, https://palewellpress.co.uk/Books-Health.html#Tell-Myself.
Camilla is a long-standing member of the Wordshare Poets and She Voices
writing groups and enjoys performing live. Her young adults futuristic fantasy,
“The Cloud Singer”, 2016, https://palewellpress.co.uk/Books-Nature.html#Cloud-Singer, is about global
warming and she is working on its sequel. In 2016, after 30 years in IT, she
founded Palewell Press, an independent publisher focusing on books about Human
Rights and the Environment. Many of the publisher’s 60 books were written by
refugees.
Palewell Press(http://www.palewellpress.co.uk) is a founding
member of the Changing Wor(l)ds Network of cultural activist organisations
supporting and disseminating
radically marginalised voices in literature. Together with Latefa Narriman Guemar, an Algerian-born Research
Associate at the Centre for Migration, Refugees and Belonging, Camilla hosted
‘Homeland and Exile’ – biennial panel discussions at the Poetry Café, examining
the refugee-exile experience through literature.
JOSEPH HEALY
I have been writing poetry since I was a teenager in Dublin, hugely influenced by the literary city where I grew up, where virtually every second person was a writer of some sort. In 1982/83 I organised the first poetry readings by openly gay poets in Ireland and toured the country encountering huge opposition and homophobia. The well-known poets John Hewitt and Eddie Linden were involved. I moved to London in 1984 and have been writing poetry since. I have been involved in my trade union as a shop steward and also as a leftwing political activist outside the Labour Party. As such my poetry deals with issues like Brexit and Covid but also with the imminent destruction of the planet. Irish history and landscape have also been a major theme in my poetry. I am a regular contributor to Dodo readings and have been involved for a number of years. Poetry has never been more necessary than now as an antidote to the grim unrelenting reaction of the society driven by short-term thinking that we live in. I am also a member of the Irish Literary Society.
Anti Capitalist Resistance
https://anticapitalistresistance.org/
Left Unity
https://leftunity.org/
We hope you enjoy the
show and welcome your feedback.
Patric Cunnane
PR Murry
DODO MODERN POETS
07769 7770222
SUE JOHNS
STUART LARNER
ZOLAN QUOBBLE
WENDY YOUNG
TEXT
Emile Sercombe
T.S. Eliot Goes to the Doctor
Doctor doctor
what can I do for you my man?
I don’t feel
Don’t Fret my man
I’m just the same
it’s normal
I’m the urban spaceman buddy
There is nothing new here
except your mobile
Imagine our poet just last month maybe
perhaps despite him saying there is nothing
here in Margate
hears that there’s new art down by the strand
rises from the shelter by the toilet
and wanders over to the Turner and
despite its severe yet lightweight presentation
(“A greyish Russel and Bromley shoe box darling”
he’s said to have said to Nancy Astor)
enters the gallery through the opening glasses
politely accepts a programme but avoids the lift
“a servant vehicle” and carefully ascends the
stairs
and turning takes the door that’s straight ahead
and guided by some whim or intuition enters
where amidst some precious Turners he
staggers as though stabbed
by the installation
of the artist
Tracey Emin
The bed she’d slept like a ravaged throne
tossed and twisted like some stormy sea
the coverlet puffed and rumpled
grey the sheets and stained so odorous
to take your breath away
whilst around in in array disorderly
amongst the flotsam lay diverse
scraps coloured tat and underclothes
I could go on but I could not
it was nothing? Was it not?
Yet do you know
As I left in haste and some distress
what I thought?
this abject stuff
who let it out?
Was it I that started all this mess?
February And The Poet In Margate Says There Is
Nothing Here
Février est dur
bien sur
très dur
ah oui
Rien
rien
Says:
Oft then when on my couch I lie
in restless or in vacant mood no
blooms burst on my inward eye
only migrant daffodills
cut untimely from their beds and
stuck in jars
oblige
but
this month from Thanett a-comme in reveraunce
doubty gens of ilke race and classe
from rames-gat and herne baye
and alle hamlets in betweene and outer
(to Margate where was penned wastelande)
and lay sweete flowres in a shelter
And they to Dreamland go on helter skelter
bumper cars big wheel and dipper after
grow fat on fish and chips and alcho pops
dent the cars and fight the cops
unknowing some wordsmith geezer
at the shelter might find therein
or not
a metaphor for recent slaughter
But he turns his back on Dreamland
and cant believe his eyes
sees Tim Spall pretending
to be Turner on the sand
But they the others travel on to westward cross
a hard concrete place that’s unforgiving
where no cattle at the end of day
trudge homeward slowly o’er the lea
no jocund daffs do play no tugboat with tin
trays
puffs by westminster bridge or children play
and where profit and loss and going to shops
is all the day
to see nothing no-one but talk infanticile
whilst the traffic comes and goes
sometimes fast but mostly slow
on the mobile
friends or lovers baby brothers
mothers bosses butcher baker candlemaker
soldier sailor friend or neighbour
safe from warmth or touch or smell or glance
safe from feeling
speaking into a black hole where where alls
smooth and spun
where nowt gets in and nowt gets out
PR Murry
4 EMILE
Like a suspended blade
That has to descend
The news came,
And your name cannot now be called
So that you will hear.
Instead, it will be inscribed
On the certificates, the obituaries
And the programmes.
You were a wonderful man,
A man of many aspects
Shining out through many facets
Like a diamond.
Shining out through words and paint
Onto paper canvas and walls,
Giving generously to all and for all.
And those of us left behind,
Must try to continue to create as best we can,
With your memory in our minds.
Patric Cunnane
POETRY AT THE CORS HOTEL
For
Emile
The
poets perform-
French
windows for a stage
Reading
to a willing crew
As
waitresses pass through
October
in Laugharne
Where
Dylan Thomas lived
The
Cors Hotel a favourite place
To
savour a gentle boozy pace
A
new adventure begins
Down
from London, these upstart bards
Set
the night alight, with energy and words
Later,
round the bar, pints are sunk
Weed
passed round, job well done
Tomorrow
they can see the sights-
Tonight
they’ve set the world to rights
The visitors to Laugharne in October 1996 were Emile Sercombe, Berni Cunnane, Sue Johns and Patric Cunnane
Ann and Tony Pattison
Express steam train to Winchester
Written 1965
This is the engine that runs on the line
Driver and fireman to keep her on time
Guard blows his whistle and shuts the door
Open the regulator and let her roar!
Gleaming brass and shining green
Hissing steam, a sight to be seen
Pistons moving, crossheads gliding
Big ends revolving and coaches gliding
Over the points, there’s no waiting
Sixty-five and accelerating
Coal on the fire, steam up full
Running at 70 and still there’s plenty!
Eyes on the water gauge
Eyes on the oil gauge
Eyes on the air gauge
Eyes on the line!
Eyes on everything, running on time
Speeding through stations, nearing destination
Into the tunnel, smoke everywhere
Close up the window and hold your breath
Two minutes later, out into fresh air
Distant signal shows yellow
A touch on the brake
Gently we slow, and passengers wake
Cases reached for and tickets appear
Winchester City drawing near.
Station buildings can now be seen
Paintwork smart and windows clean
A little more brake and shut off steam
Quietly she enters, only seen
The perfect halt, an excellent driver
A minute for a rest, a very quick breather,
This is where we leave the train
Driver and fireman take her on again,
Guard blows his whistle, and she roars into life
The road is clear, the signal green
Hissing steam, a sight to be seen!
Yan Li
Untitled
You are a daffodil by the lake.
I am a lotus in the mud.
No matter where we grow,
Wait till we bloom.
You are a hawk in a cage.
I am a cock in a shack.
No matter where we claw,
Loud you shriek I crow.
You are a phoenix in the sky.
I am a whale in the ocean.
No matter in air or water,
We love our space.
You are a soldier in battle.
I am an inmate in jail.
No matter where we are taken,
We long to be free.
But you are no soldier. Nor I inmate.
Nor phoenix. Nor whale,
Nor hawk. Nor cock.
Nor lotus. Nor daffodil.
Just thoughts passing through.
Dumb in exile.
A lost mother-tongue.
None of us talk.
Speak. We try. With hands.
John Hurley
COLLATERAL DAMAGE
Rocked in Neptune's cradle
For her final hours
Now discarded on the beach
No mourners
friends or flowers
Just another nameless person
A lifeless broken reed
Deposited like jetsom
Fleeing terror and mans greed
Some where this little body
A mothers arms did enfold
As a dodgy ferry foundered
Caused by owners lust for gold
It is called collateral damage
This child without a stain
She’s like truth another casualty
Hope the warlords can explain
Will fighters claim a victory?
Do they care who they betray?
Why do Gods mills grind so slowly
Does he listen when they pray?
Still the refugees cross water
Knowing its dangerous and wide
And we have a compassion by pass
To bodies washed up by the tide
We all came out of Africa
Is this just a repeat?
Has our meddling there caused havoc?
Or could it be the heat?
We have learned nothing from the past
If anything wer’e
madder
Still a case of blow you Jack
Let us pull up the ladder.
Kevin Morris
How Sweet and Sad Was the Bird.
How sweet and sad was the bird
I heard
As I stood at my open window.
When I go
To the pub to meet my friends,
We will pretend
That there is no end;
Or at least hide for a while
In the smile
Produced by drink,
Which makes men think
That all
This will last.
But I shall recollect the bird’s call
As I stood at my open window
And know
That all
That sings must pass.
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