Issue 7
June 2001
Jan Peters
Jan Peters... likes to be freelance - working or living in one place for too long makes her want to be nomadic again. Strongly committed to fighting for a better environment, she has campaigned for years with various organisations. Relaxes by writing poetry (it's her ideal therapy) and, more recently, a nearly completed novel. Loves all aspects of Rod McKuen's work (and also his love of animals).
All work © Jan Peters
On the Road from Ventnor
The hills bend to the valleys
And whisper to them secrets
Of long ago.
Of sunkissed meadows and thickset woods
And strange people who passed through them in various guises
Whose lifetime lasted but a minute
While they go on forever.
‘Where are the cliffs?’ whisper the hills.
‘The cliffs that kept the enemies from
trampling over our velvet dresses?’
‘All washed away like us’
Reply the stubby remains of the petrified forest
Paddling forlornly and out of place.
Beaten down and ravaged
And then stroked gently smooth by the same hand,
The lines of age and ages showing clearly,
Making them beautiful in colourful compensation
For work well done.
You hills, you know the secret.
You whisper it to the valleys
Please, tell me someday soon if I listen carefully.
I promise I won’t tell a soul -
If souls there are, and that’s my search.
When the earth smouldered and then grew cool
You were here.
Accident or design who dealt your hand?
Was your making chance or choice?
The hills bend low and listen
Then close an eyelid slowly
As the sun sinks seaward
And the shadows fall around them.
First Inklings
The lonely heart toils slowly on its way
Midst torrid canyons, thorny briars and chasms.
The lonely heart might sometimes wish to play
But finds that playing alone is dull; fears banish spasms
Of mild delight when others linger near,
And are bridged by endless days of lonely labour.
The world in pairs winds slowly.
Sunday Sermon
Who are your friends then?
The ones who smile and press your arm
Once a week,
Assure you of their nearness at all times
To call on when needed in distress.
Who stand before all and reveal their innermost soul
Urging you to do likewise even to strangers,
Then preaching love and kindness
Step out of the building
Never to be seen again till next Sunday
Wearing their same speeches and faces?
Or the ones with whom you share your heart’s desires,
Who cry with you over weeks of work
Rudely ripped apart
And share the happiness of after-exam hours,
Hold hands together to await results.
Books lent, and borrowed, minds borrowed too,
Ideas thrown into the pile, contributed for all to use.
Hours spent in easy companionship
Discussing how to change our lives, and the world.
Similar tastes and views, and singularly dissimilar
Enough to keep the conversation high.
In a town such as this, uncaringness sets in
And it has been a delight to find a few
A precious few friends who deserve the name,
In whose presence it is a pleasure and stimulant to be,
Who care more than they should in these inhuman days,And who would change the world if they could.
Derby Day at Blackbushe
Well, thank you Derby.
You cured my sickness in one day.
Funny isn’t it how a stranger can do more
Than a host of familiars.
Do all saviours wear long hair?
Just one regret –
You were called away
Before I could thank you for releasing me.
One man released me from another’s spell,
Is that what it was, a spell?
I’ve been under it for nearly a year
And thought it was a lifetime sentence,
For he’s gone, and no one else fits.
But you, my beautiful Derby,
Beautiful, quiet, gentle touch Derby,
With your chickens, your goats and your herbal tea,
And a wife tucked into the background,
You restored hope to my heart
And made me like you.
Was it the day that made that sort of ending necessary?
If it was, then salutations to Blackbushe and Dylan.
For the day, the music, people, were so laid back.
Or would you still have mattered elsewhere?
What were you,
A spirit of the day or a spirit of my soul?
Whatever it was, I needed you.
You didn’t know that, did you?
The attraction was mutual, but I needed desperately.
Maybe you needed, I’ll never know.
All I found out was
I wasn’t repelled by a touch which wasn’t his.
You interested me as he had,
But not as a reminder of him,
No, for yourself, just you.
Derby, you vanished in the bright light and long shadows
To play your harmonica and mingle.
We’ll never meet again
So I have to tell you this way.
In spite of the hardships
My gratitude and devotion are yours.
Apologies before Exams
Full fathoms five my memory lies
Washed o’er by floods of two years’ tears,
The brain is rusting, functions not,
Confirming all the tutors’ fears.
I would that I could dazzle them
With knowledge, wit, and answers supreme,
But by the time I’ve finished with ‘em
They’re only fit to stand and scream.
Out, out damned spot in the microscope’s eye
I cannot tell if it be amoeba or blood cell!
Did Mussolini really sail on the HMS Beagle?
And Hitler write a revolutionary theory as well?
Is this a double helix I see before me?
When it unzips will all be revealed?
My nucleic acids are combining with my nuclear membrane
A completely new compound I think I’ve unreeled.
The quality of tutor John’s mercy is strained
It droppeth like his face upon my essay beneath,
Once more unto the margin, dear friend,
To pencil his comments with gritted teeth.
But of the wild Welshman what can be written?
How does he stand me, let me count the ways.
Two years of suffering my ignorance, what duty!
To him be all honour given, and praise.
To sit or not to sit, that is the question.
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows
Of outrageous examiners
And by so doing confuse them.
For the Welshman’s sake I’d love to pass –
But John and Mike can take their History
Right back up the Khyber Pass.
Even Steven
Aren’t we even yet?
I gave you my children
You gave me your life.
I gave you my limited understanding
You gave me appreciation.
I loved you
You loved me.
I left you for a day
You took me back.
You left me for a day
I took you back.
You asked me on my birthday to marry you.
I had to think about it.
You asked me on your birthday to come to church
I didn’t have to think at all.
I took pills
You took pills.
You cut your wrists
I cut my wrists.
So we both proved a point.
You gave me books on pregnancy
I gave you books on yoga and therapy.
I became well.
You killed yourself.