Poems by Roger Turner

The following one won 3rd Prize in the East Riding of Yorkshire Poetry Competiton in 2010.

Pellitory of the Wall  ©

You are not beautiful at all - 
a dusty, harmless, dull green creature                 
nestling quietly in the corner - 
Pellitory of the Wall.

And yet you seem to be a small,
almost-unnoticed messenger,
a step into a leafy future, 
Pellitory of the Wall.                

No one sees your soft seeds fall;
your tiny stems, as they take root, 
are almost trodden underfoot
between the pavement and the wall,

Fleabane of Canada, lank and tall
ubiquitous but alien,
is usually your companion - 
Pellitory of the Wall.

But if we do no work at all,
forget all tidying and weeding, 
then, on the summer wind self-seeding, 
comes Pellitory of the Wall,

with Willowherb and Pimpernel,
Scented Mayweed, grey Fat Hen - 
Nature's army flying in, 
seeking to recover all.

Day after day they grow more tall,
with buddleia, ash and golden rod,
until the town becomes a wood
and ivy covers every wall. 

But you are first, though low and small, 
to soften every scar and stain 
and make the whole world green again, 
Pellitory of the Wall.






Seashells ©

All my lovers were sailor boys,
the old lady said,
from Guadeloupe and Senegal, Belize
or Zanzibar, and in my cool, bay-windowed room on shuttered
nights or curtained afternoons, the rum-stained jesters
and ragged princes of sunburnt fields and forests
and cassia-scented towers, fed
among the fallen lilies.

And if they came again to me,
if in their hammocks
and swaying bunks their arms remembered me,
if the hardened hands that had held me came with a gentle knock,
they’d bring in their pockets the gifts I’d begged of them,
the beautiful cast-offs and cold-hearted emblems
of coral beaches and rocks
at the oceans’ extremity.

Frail figure now, and almost blind,
in my mind I see,
as I reach from my chair with trembling hands,
Francesco’s face, Carlo’s lips, Stefan whispering close to me;
and in my small, suburban room, I hold their shells
to my ears, and though names and faces and all else
fades, I hear the towering, tall, wild-
raging rhythm of the sea.




The lonely traveller ©

The lonely traveller on the Trans-Siberian
looks out on endless views of trees and snow.
The tunnels seem so long, the towns look dreary,
and stations soon like fleeting chances go.
Surrounded by strangers who crowd in closely,
but never able to communicate,
he longs to travel on a different journey.
The light is frail, and spring is cold and late.
Day after day through the dark pinewood forest,
stretching from Europe to the eastern sea,
sustained by hope, but always fear seems strongest.
The nights are long; he dreams that he is free.
But when at last he turns towards the sun,
he finds the flowers fallen and the summer gone.



Jimmy Mackenzie went to the beach ©

Jimmy Mackenzie went to the beach
and with him he took
a small ripe peach.

Jimmy Mackenzie went to the beach
and with him he took
a rug, a towel and poetry book
and a small ripe peach.

Jimmy Mackenzie went to the beach
and with him he took
a rug, a towel and poetry book,
a bat, a ball, a bucket and spade,
a beautiful blue umbrella for shade,
and a small ripe peach.

Jimmy Mackenzie went to the beach
and with him he took
a bat, a ball, a bucket and spade,
a beautiful blue umbrella for shade,
three children, a dog, his loving wife,
and all the prevous years of his life.

Jimmy Mackenzie went to the beach
and with him he took
three children, a dog, his loving wife,
all the prevous years of his life,
a gaggle of memories, a cackle of thoughts,
some sun and some showers, some ifs and some oughts.

Jimmy Mackenzie went to the beach
and with him he took
a gaggle of memories, a cackle of thoughts,
some sun and some showers, some ifs and some oughts,
the hands of his father, the arms of his mother,
the days he’d spent on the beach with his brother.

Jimmy Mackenzie went to the beach
and with him he took
the hands of his father, the arms of his mother,
the days he’d spent on the beach with his brother,
castles of happiness, pools of sorrow,
and - What was going to happen tomorrow?

Jimmy Mackenzie went to the beach
and with him he took
castles of happiness, pools of sorrow,
and what was going to happen tomorrow.

The sand was as gold as a harvest of wheat
he stretched out his hand and began to eat
a small ripe peach.

West Wittering, West Sussex