Yes..another poem! But have no fear mes amis, for this one isn't by the blogging magnate who operates this highly profitable blog. No. It's by my friend and former teaching colleague - Mike Trevorrow who now resides in south Devon - no doubt looking out over the River Dart even as I write - sipping vermouth and only vaguely remembering his working life in challenging Sheffield classrooms. But through it all, as this poem proves, he never lost his passion for language. It remains - a means by which it is possible to communicate tricky notions. Therefore, he is still - as the some of our pupils used to call him - Tricky Trev. I will be interested to read any responses to this poem and do not wish to prejudice your reactions with any thoughts of my own.
Understandable that with skins-wrapped feet
Throbbing with damp or icy cold
In this shrunken cowering cruel time
Man yearned for brightness and heat,
Promise that sap will rise, bud will unfold.
Gathering and feasting are fundamental
As burning logs, greenery a desperate sign
Pointing through perished air to a belief,
A dusty swelling defiance of winter’s temper
Unfurling as flags-in-wind to spring’s design.
Such goings-on from these sexy ancestors,
Such sport and hot-couplings under skins
That could not be contained, not tamed
By lord or Lord - to them a time of terrors
Which could defy the strongest of kings.
How clever then to vanquish all this green,
Not with clanging armies wielding swords
But with a baby whose symbolic life
Unsexed the hot and hungry fiends
Brought them to their knees with words.
But now that same anarchy, bewitched by guile,
Holds power still, turns back on us
As we use the baby as a shield to defend
Against our own greed. Full circle takes a while,
With our traditions, to sharpen way back into focus.
Some hope though that a spirit of giving,
And togetherness if only for a day,
Break through the chills of separation.
Tinsel’s only tinsel, but there’s signs of livingWhen it’s brought down from the loft again.