Lunch on the Thames

Sump Two

Already soaked to the skin
Arrived via crawl and creep
To the dark water glooping
Where water and rock meet
On ammo box down you sit
Prepare for dive, sort out kit.

Neoprene hood on head

Weight belt made of lead
Spit in face mask; squeaky clean
Deep breath, grab rope so lean.
Wade out, cold water seeps in
Pull rope taut, ready to begin.

Submerge beneath the rock
Focus on white line
In the water green
Flakes of rock hang down
Hand over hand in green gloom

Helmet bumps on rock
Line white, slack, stop
Keep one hand on the rope
Pull taut and again
Move through the green
Tunnel, specks hanging
Like dust in warm ray
Yet this is cold
Head emerges, water drains
From helmet - top of mask
Air - Light shines on
Walls -
Bottom of mask
Still water - Pull
On rope to end of pool
Hold bolt fixed to wall.
Success is an air bell.

Martin Delemare

16^th October 2007

River Yare

Tengo

I have dived on the broken wreck of the Volnay

    Mindful of the explosive still in the shells
I have explored dark sumps under the Mendip Hills
    Holding my breath and the rope equally tight
I have eaten succulent crawfish and scallops
    Taken fresh from the Cornish sea
I have walked on crunchy Scottish sastrugi
    Feeling on top of the world
I have paddled down the rocky Ardeche
    In the midday sun and sudden thunderstorms
I have been becalmed off the Isle of Man
    Hearing coasters rumble into the night
I have ridden my motorbike with the Hastings boys
    Roaring down the Seven Mile Lane
I have searched for mushrooms out on the marsh
    Listening to pewits call overhead
I have eaten paella on the Spanish border
    And supped Rioja warm from the glass
I have jumped from the wing of a tiny plane
    And felt the lines run out of the pack
I have banged a gong on the Chinese hill
    On New Year’s Day in Suzhou
I have loved in the heat of a summer night
    And thought that she was the only one
I have drunk anis dulce in Matienzo bars
    With bottle tops embedded in mud floors
I have fought till the blood ran from my nose
    And wished I had not been so rash
I have landed big pike from the River Rother
    Careful of their long, vicious teeth
I have laughed with my family sat round the table
    Sharing the Christmas fare
I have toiled till my back ached and fingers bled
    Picking potatoes in the sun-baked field
I have caught flapping chicken in the smelly shed
    Sweating in the summer heat
I have sat in the snow with numbing brain
    On the remote Yorkshire moor
I have abseiled down shafts in Derbyshire mines
    Thankful that the rope was strong
I have climbed the cliffs of the Avon Gorge
    And dropped my heels to stop the shake
I have rejoiced at the birth of daughters three
    Listened to the owl’s hoot in the morning
I have fished for mackerel on Dungeness beach
    Watching super tankers glide up the Channel
I have eaten cherries in the Kentish Weald
    Swilling home brewed wine from bottle
I have smoked Ducados on the limestone hill
    And watched the smoke drift away on the breeze
I have kayaked in waves off Flamborough Head
    Battling clapotis and foam under the cliffs
I have lit fires on the Irish shore
    And drunk Guinness cool from the gun
I have marvelled at sparkling stal bosses
    And delicate straws in Belgium caves
I have been benighted on Heather Terrace
    Shivering in that icy Tryfan gully
I have watched barges on the River Rhine
    Carry their cargoes under Cologne’s bridges
I have eaten kebabs from the Yugoslavian spit
    Watching oxen carts work the fields
I have slept in a Swiss barn during the autumn
    Woken by cow bells tinkling in the morning
I have played chess on the boat to Crete
    Surrounded by travellers, chickens and goats
I have tasted pizza in the restaurants of Venice
    And taken the boat out to Murano and Burano
I have mourned the deaths of both family and friends
    Spoken last farewells and saddened words
I have lived as well as any king or emperor
    Who ate wild boar at the royal feast.

Martin Delemare
15^th December 2010

Fiscal Cliff

Await that dreaded hour in fear

That hour of twelve long bells
Each in your own private hells

At midnight cometh the long drop

Millions to vanish, all in a jiff
The dark hour of Fiscal Cliff

He does not stalk all alone
But struts boldly down the street
Beside that villain Pecuniary Pete

He laughs at our futile abacus

At our whimper, tear and sniff
That swarthy spiv, deadly Fiscal Cliff

Martin Delemare
2^nd January 2013

On the beach

                  Clinker Built

Hugged the chilly shingle shore lapping

Through the dense, morning fog chugging

Passing groynes, poles, posts and more

Particles cold to the beard clinging

To the bowler and balaclava we wore.

Rotting clinker built boat, Seagull engine puttering

Dirty fuel and feeble spark, Seagull engine spluttering

Split gunwales, rusty rowlocks, diving bags,

Pungent petrol vapour and greasy, oily rags

And boards sun-bleached soapy light

A frail craft heading for the Isle of Wight.

Stopped beside the stone sentinel round

Marvelled at this relic of Napoleonic times,

Listening for the modern dangers that abound

Nostrils flared, ears keen, eyes peeled.

No wave slap, no seabird squawk, not a sound.

A hoot!

Hark!

Distant warning.

Thick fog obscured view, a thick curtain

Held us in our own damp wraparound

Suppressed little marine world, certain

We were not safe; oh so vulnerable

From the Argonaut, juggernaut, tankernaut

Cyclops blundering along busy sea lanes distraught.

A vast grey tonnage above us loomed

Towering high, like a telephoto zoomed.

Dragged aside, made ragged our foggy veil, flimsy

Bulbous nose thrusting through the dim sea

Ghosting a furrow through the Solent.

Engine started, we turned from the bow wave

Only to turn again, our little boat to save.

Waited in that tanker’s wake.

Out to Bembridge Ledge we started to head

A section of the journey that held our dread.

Martin Delemare

12^th October 2011

The Old Lady from Bodiam

There was an old lady from Bodiam

Who wheeled a sheep around in a pram.

When she tired of this ewe

It went in a stew

So now she’ll be buying a lamb.

Martin Delemare

26^th October 2011

Marrakech

100 Watt

What no bulbs of a 100 watt?

What no bulbs bright and hot?

This supermarket is no good to me

I want instant light, don’t you see?

No, I don’t want curls.

No, I don’t want swirls.

I want bulbs of a 100 watt

I want bulbs bright and hot.

Not low energy slow murk

Stumbling about like a burk.

I want bulbs of a 100 watt.

I’ll go round to the corner shop

They buy bulbs, not this rot.

No low energy bulbs with mercury

They buy their bulbs from far Turkey.

They buy bulbs by the job lot

They buy bulbs bright and hot.

This supermarket is no good to me.

What no bulbs of a 100 watt?

I want instant light don’t you see.

I want bulbs bright and hot

I want bulbs of a 100 watt.

Martin Delemare

24^th November 2011

Midnight

Crop Spraying

Evening air was often filled with sound

So full so rich, Merlin engine roared

Across our sky, Spitfire homeward bound.

But this was something new to see

Dropped over hedge, dropped over tree

Flew under power lines and things

Streamed white fluid from its wings.

It sprayed the crops that did grow

Down in our marsh, up on our hill.

It was no wonder that in later life

Many folks, old and young grew ill.

Martin Delemare

14^th October 2008

Extract from "Marsh Quarter"

    Billy’s Song

I had a leg, I had a leg

In days long gone by.

In those conflict days, I had a leg

But I was far too careless

With my legs I was too reckless

For I took my legs off to war.

No boat upon the water, nor in the air on wing

But on land for slaughter, fighting for the king.

Battle raged, smoke’s black drift

Bullets whined, shells rent and rift

I fought whole and frail that bloody day

Shrapnel flew; it tore my leg away.

I knew that peace has price, has cost.

Now I just say, my leg was lost.

Martin Delemare

1^st March 2009

Extract from "Marsh Quarter"

Diggers

Dig it wide, dig it deep,

Extra work for extra cash.

Heft that pick, shoulder that shovel.

Amble through the headstones grey

Watched by heathered hills,

Watched by carrion crows.

Dig it wide, dig it deep,

Extra cash for extra work.

Orders were clear and crystal

But rocks were hard and rough.

Day job called and glue-pot pub.

Time passed, tock ticked off.

Needed work and needed time.

But day arrived not fine

Undertaker inspected and frowned.

Line of weepers wound across

The ancient bone yard toward

Their handicraft covered green.

Words said and soil scattered

Coffin lowered, respectfully slow.

A hitch! All ushered rapidly away.

Anger boiled as diggers were

Summoned back to fresh grave

And angled coffin stuck so fast.

No, not up! Need exhumation order.

Dig it quick, keep it neat.

Extra work to keep the cash.

Standing on the lid they hacked,

They chopped and scraped away

Till at last it slumped

To find its drunken rest,

An idiosyncratic plant.

Thin faced and bulging eyes

Rapid tongue told them plain

No more work, nor cash

Not here nor circle wide,

No graveyards for this pair

Of moonlighting, apprentice diggers.

Martin Delemare

16^th May 2007

Extract from "Los Muertos"

Hammer and a Match

Chips all brown and crispy
Sizzling in the bubbling fat,
Fish wrapped in golden batter
Sitting in the cabinet, safe and hot.

Steam on window coldly beads
Queue shuffles slowly round the room
All served up by jolly lass
All heated up by natural gas.

Owner’s wife watched the cash
She counted in the tubs of lard,
Sacks of spuds, trays of fish.
She knew the cooker old,
She knew those pipes of lead.

Routine to descend cellar steps
Armed with hammer and a match.
Ran flame along those pipes of lead,
Watched the little blue flames
Leap for freedom in the dark.
Such glee was soon cut short
As wielded hammer struck its blows
Bashed shut each and every tiny hole.

She dare not breathe a word
To her upright husband, greasy.
Just took a hammer and a match
To keep those dancing blue flames
Back in their proper place.

Martin Delemare

3rd November 2010

Early Irene

Early Irene stands the market
Surrounded by vegetables; colour and shine.
Stands under the clock, tick, tock
Headscarf tied tight, apron just right
Feet snug in wellies, hands rough,
Tongue rougher to lash the lads
Keep them in their place, just so.

Spuds, cauliflower, carrots and swede,
Fennel, pepper, parsnip and dill
All bring money into the till.
Fingers turn black from dirt and from grime
Smile on face, muck with money is no crime.

Early Irene stands the market
Sells under the clock, tick, tock.

Martin Delemare

2nd August 2010

Blood Diamond

Sit now air-conditioned
Treated as a human being,
Far from the heat and the flies,
Far from the machete hack
Severed limbs, bloody stumps.

Intrigue of night exposed
Your henchmen’s secret visit
Beauty presented to beauty.

Sparkling symbol of love and power
Hewn deep down by broken bodies
Slyly traded for weapons
To cut down your enemies,
Proud of race and heritage.

You have no tribal name.

Sit now air-conditioned
As the wrath of vengeful spirits
Eats away your remorseless soul.

Martin Delemare

6th August 2010

No Fly

Moths pinned in rows static
Held still, not in the air
Grounded on the tarmac there.

Taxi ranks empty
Destinations await
Duty free, box of gold
Mini fans left unsold.

No more the race headlong
No more the bump and lift
No aircraft travelling fast
No joyful wind rushing past.

Wings sag, engines silent
Passengers and cases absent.
Fire crews stood down
Baggage handlers sent home
Meals not wheeled
Nor hoisted aboard.

Moths pinned in rows static
Held still, not in the air
Grounded on the tarmac there.

Martin Delemare

14th June 2010

1 of 5

In the Day

Conti Club once slid
Open an inspecting eye
To admit eager youths
Down to gyrating cellar
Blasting music, beer and wine,
Drop a tab, all is fine.

Girls red at heel
Spirits as high as skirts.
Shot glasses clinking
Faces glinting, eyes winking
Silky hair flowing free
Fake tan complexion, all and one
Seduction yet to come.

Love as hot as lava
Pulsating in the night
Sweat lubricating lust.

Old club now boarded up
Discarded shoe, broken heel
Glass shards litter concrete
Baggy bodies shuffle past.
Ruby’s love long on the rocks
Fetid as water in stagnant docks.

Martin Delemare

14th June 2010

2 of 5