Parts of Speech. Poem Cape Town copyright 2014

In English there are different types of words.
Like articles, prepositions, nouns, adjectives and verbs
They have special functions and they teach
Us to distinguish the various parts of speech.

NOUNS of course are words for "things"
Some we can touch or feel or put inside a box
Like BOOKs  and BOYS  and DIAMOND RINGS
And ELEPHANTS  and CAKES and CLOCKS.

(On second thoughts an elephant might just break the box)

Abstract nouns speak of things we cannot see,
Like hope and love and eternity,

Verbs are action words for "doing",
Like "TRY " and "FLY"
- while words like "eating"and  "gluing"
and "perusing",
These are words
half noun/half verb....
Like "believing", " waiting", and "amusing",
These  Gerunds are somewhat more confusing.

An adverb describes how something is done
Like how BEAUTIFULLY  she sang, or how QUICKLY  he had run,
These adverbs help describe the verbs,
While adding interest to the words.

An adjective describes a noun
Like a CLEVER boy, or a SILLY clown
Always descriptive, it tells us more,
About the PRETTY girl, or the DIRTY floor.

A preposition gives us an indication,
Of where something is in relation
To something else,
Like under the Table,  ON the shelf
Or AGAINST the wall,
Or THROUGH the doorway, DOWN the hall,
Like AROUND the corner, or IN your dreams,
Or OVER the rainbow, or sprinkles ON your ice cream.

Conjunctions, like "AND", and "BUT", "BECAUSE", "HOWEVER"
Help connect our sentences together,
"THEN", "ALTHOUGH","UNLESS","BECAUSE"
Join phrase to phrase,
And clause to clause.

An article is either definite or not,
AN eskimo, A spaceship, THE Polka-dot,
If there's only one of something then use "the"
But if it's one of many, then choose "a".

The interjection -
Express feelings like
joy or excitement,-
Like a huh?! Yea !! wow ! Gee
or a yay Of "delightment" -
Or not so nice feelings
Like groan, sigh or a moan-
All kinds of feelings- whether happy or dark,
Interjections usually end with an exclamation mark. :)


I hope that I have left nothing out
If I have give me a shout,
I hope this lesson helped to teach,
You all about our parts of speech.
:)

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

Mark Hurlin Shelton

Copyright Cape Town 2014

I am trying to recall the name

of that eccentric, incoherent vagabond
who used to trudge these country roads

 Trying to sell his so called paintings.

To our respected fellows

To those of us who can afford to cherish art,

To we who know the actual value of things

He invariably upset our apple-carts

Just observe this one

See these wild erratic strokes-

I tell you - the man was an utter joke !

A dog's breakfast of a fellow-

See these dubious dabs- such slovenly swoops of colour

A strangely mixed up palette

-like no other

Even his own brother- had almost had enough of him- for he was always begging money

For brushes and paints-and alcohol no doubt-

I tell you he was a vagabond- certainly no saint-

No it's not funny-

Quite prudently we decided not to let him in-

We had to keep him out

You can't encourage such a chap-

you just don't know where he's been-

You might catch something off him-

perhaps an infection-I mean,

Hence no wonder -he should suffer our rejection-

Now have a look here-

Note these overly rich wildly textured strokes

Too much for my eyes,it makes one choke

See here the acute contrast the intense chiaroscuro

the interplay of dark and light

And shadow

On some low class peasants eating potato

It truly gives me a fright-

I tell you-It's just too much for my sight !!

And here a golden- yellow wheatfield-

Note the deranged  dance of dashing colour-

And  some detestable crows

Is it the erratic passion of an overgrown child

A madman perhaps- who knows ?

Not a friend of ours of course

But just an eccentric, penniless incoherent stammering beggar who trudged these country roads-

Attempting  to sell his so called "art".

His manners always coarse-

Invariably he upset our applecart-

and even frightened off  the horse!

-His presence was not well received,

The wife gave him some sandwiches once

And a few cups of tea-

In return he gave us one that was okay I suppose-

I gave it to my daughter-

Who donated it to the vicar for the church bazaar-

Who sold it to mad Aunt Rose

It was okay- but quite bizarre,

Any claim to talent was not to be believed-

We didn't think he'd go very far-

The galleries did not want him either

He was not well received

Quite mad of course, we bade him go,

But it seemed he did not hear us clear

I noted that he seemed to lack one ear

I heard it rumoured that he gave it to a tart !! (Laughter)

In my minds eye, I can still

see him perpetually trudging down these endless  flat and dreary country roads,

Along the canals conversing with the windmills-

Preaching some babble to the peasants about some kingdom for the poor-

This he ranted on and on about-

Between frequent visits to the madhouse

Yes- He went there more and more

His manner and dress scruffy and outlandish

Few could understand him more than comprehend a fish

Always a pauper and full of impropriety

He was excluded from the local arts society

But although in his time we regarded him a bum

Being dead- he has earned us quite a tidy sum.

His name is on the tip of my tongue-

What was it now ?

Ah yes- Vincent -that's the one.! :)

Van Hunks and the Devil

 I am born and raised in Cape Town South Africa>
There is an old Cape Town Legend about an old sea captain who loved to smoke his pipe. 
One day day he climbed the mountain called Devils peak where he met the devil who challenged him to a smoking competition. It is said that Van Hunks beat the Devil. Whenever the clouds that are  known as the Table cloth come rolling over the mountain, it is said that Van Hunks and the devil are up on the mountain smoking their pipes.

Van Hunks and the Devil,

 by Mark Hurlin -Shelton Cape Town 2014

Old captain Van Hunks

He had sailed the seven seas

And returning home retired

At the fair Cape of Good Hope

He was a contented man

Often out in nature and was pleased

To take out his pipe and enjoy a hearty smoke

For to puff upon a pipe

Of few pleasures was he fonder

And aside from this he dearly loved to wander

On a fine day upon the mountainside

And as he climbed he'd rest a while

And take in the pleasing view

Of table bay stretched out wide o'er many a mile

And there was nothing better to do

Than sit contentedly and have a puff

Take in the view and smile

Higher and higher

Up the sunny slope he climbed

Clambering through the fynbos

All in flower

Delighted in the sunshine and fresh air

Pushing on and up-he strode for many an hour

His mind at peace and without care

In his stride, ambitious

He decided not to stop

Till he had ascended Devils Peak

Up to it's very top.

And when he reached the summit

He was well pleased

For like a glimmering sapphire

Was spread the blue of Table Bay

And such a view indeed inspired

Old Van Hunks on that fine day

To rest in the shade beneath a tree

And to thank the good Lord

For all things good

That life had brought his way

Yes he stopped a while to pray

Then taking out his pouch of favourite "twak"

And loading up his pipe of old oak wood

And lighting it did suck and puff

Upon it  as an old sea captain should

And clouds of smoke went up

all around

Yes indeed there was more than smoke enough to go around.

It was peaceful and so silent

Up upon the windy burg

No sound to hear save a mild wind a blowing.

Perhaps the chirping of a happy bird

Happy like Van Hunks- his heart a glowing

Who sat and gazed for hours

How long he had no way of knowing,

And just when he had the thought of heading home

He was stirred by a sudden sound

of footsteps

And was dismayed to think that he was not alone

And he turned to look around

A smiling man in black was dressed

Who grinned from ear to ear

"Good day Van Hunks,

I am glad and blessed

This day to meet you here"

The stranger he was quite well dressed

His beard was trimmed and neat

One would be most impressed

To meet such a fellow on the street

Captain Van Hunks was not sure quite what to say

For he was indeed surprised

To meet with company up on that peak

He looked the stranger in the eye

Hesitating to speak

For how could it be

It seemed so strange

How did this fellow know his name ?!

Van Hunks had no desire to be rude

Although he had hiked up here

For solitude

So he decided that to be polite was best

"Well good to meet you too!"-he beamed

And shook hands with his guest

But however sir, did you know my name ?

For your face I do not recall

I don't believe we have met

But all the same

Please do join me for a while

"Oh you don't know me

Yet I know you well

Van Hunks you are famous-

Don't you know?!

And most of all you are famous for

Those great clouds of smoke you blow.

I like a puff myself said he

Taking out a great tobacco sack

Filled with a great quantity

Of good quality aromatic twak

Said the stranger: "Well then let's see

Who can smoke the most

What's the wager Hunks? Its just you and me

I have heard it said you boast

And that no man can blow more smoke than you

On fairest Cape Town's coast !"

And just then the fellows hat fell off

And Van Hunks could plainly see

A pair of horns upon his head

Revealing his true identity

"I will wager you your soul, Van Hunks-

Said the Devil free from shame

And if I lose I will do your bidding

Pleased to meet you- won't you guess my name ?!

For if you win- here are the keys

That will lock me safe away

So let us smoke and let us see

Who is winner for the day

But if you lose -my friend

Well then you will surely pay

That your God helps you this time

For if you lose this wager

Then your soul will be all mine !

I am very sure that you don't joke

Said Van Hunks with a grin

I 'll wage you that I'll make a cloud of smoke

Even bigger than your sin

The wagers on you devil

And. You have no God to whom to pray

Let us smoke and may

The best man win today

So without more ado

Began the two

One two three on marks set go

Van Hunks his start was slow

For it was no easy thing to strike his match

As a strong wind began to blow

But soon his loaded pipe was lit

The old captain steadily puffed on it

Exhaling much smoke - a tremendous cloud

The devil saw and he avowed

To beat Van Hunks at their smoking game

He tried to cheat

And by deceit he produced a devilish magic flame

But an angel of the wind

He blew it out

And the Devil had to

 light his pipe again

They huffed and puffed with pipes full stuffed

The devil summoned every power of deceit

But however hard he puffed twas not enough

It was not sufficient to match and meet

Van Hunks's splendid smoky cloud

The captain grinned at the Prince of sin

And laughed with a triumphant snigger

For the captains smoke was great and proud

And clearly far the bigger.

And the devil fell down to his knees

For clearly he had lost the bet

And Van Hunks seized the keys

That would lock him soundly  in his evil pit-

You will do my bidding now ,the captain said,

Since you have lost this bet

And you have not gained my soul but instead

For the loser is you, the sinner,

For this day you will long  regret

For I have emerged the winner.

Are your lungs not the temple of God ?

Said the devil with a mischievous

Grin

That you pollute with endless smoke

This is indeed a sin,

So although I have not won your soul-

On that count you've won this time-

Yet I have won your tar-black lungs-

Your lungs they are all mine,

So never make a deal

 or bet with the devil,

For indeed you can never really win,

For he is master of all trickery,

He is no amateur when it comes to sin.

And whenever  the South Easter blows

And the table-cloth comes rolling oe'r Tafelberg,

Then parents tell their children

Come see ! Don't you know,

 the reason for this sight

That Van Hunks and the Devil

Are up on the mountain

Making clouds

a- puffing on their pipes ! :)

Devils Peak,
Cape Town, South Africa

Run Rhino Run .......Cape McLear Malawi , Copyright 2013

Run Rhino Run

Let your thundering stomp

  reverberate  among the mountains

Echoing your heartbeat

 like an angry African drum

Run, run far from the plunder

Or perish and be torn asunder.

Run, run, far from the stone hearted men with their rifles and guns.

Run. Run, runaway, run-away far, Across the Savannah,

beyond the furthest peaks and crags

Beyond the far-flung

 valleys and the hills

Far from the stench of money

Away from human sins and ills

They daily come to plague you,

 ache you, hunt you, haunt you,

taunt you, daunt you,

Run Run away ,surely you want to

,

Far far from those whose deeply frozen hearts

Measure your value by  your body parts,

And in their gain

subsisting in your pain,

They know not that they

sell themselves,

their souls are sold,

Only For your horn. more prized than gold.

Run, Rhino Run !! Flee far away,

Run far beyond the furthest hills.

There are greener fields in which to play,

Run to where no human greed,can ever leave you so

 to die alone

And slowly bleed,

Run to where your calf can roam,

Far from any human home

Run to where humanUNkind

Is the furthest from your mind.

Run run far, fly, flee , far

From this world,

Run, far away, far from these greedy men,

Fly to the stars,to the immortal realm from whence

Your timeless  spirit came,

And never-ever look back again

Mark Hurlin Shelton

Copyright Malawi 2013

A poem about nouns , Copyright 2014

I would like to tell you about these things called nouns,

Like 'Hope' and 'books' and 'flocks' and 'clowns',

A common noun refers to anything,

It's tangible , we can see and touch,

While an abstract noun is for an invisible something

- not a physical thing as such.

"Love" and "hope", we cannot put these in a box...

As we can a book, a boy, a toy, a fox.

A proper noun this is a name for a place or person, it's something real,

Like London, Tuesday, John or Mrs MacNeal,

Do take care to not forget a-

-Proper noun begins with a capital letter.

The collective noun refers to a group

Like a company of actors or performers in a troupe-

And their art may inspire our hearts

With the love and hope and feeling

That the abstract noun imparts,

Pronouns replace nouns they simplify,

Like "them" and "we" and "us" and "you" and "I",

Their relatives help us to relate -

"That" boy, "What"time, "which" man, "who"  went, "what" fate,

So nouns all add to our understandings

In telling us about the world of things.

So be sure to master nouns,

Like "Love"" and "Goose" and"Toys" and "Clowns. "

When alteration finds

This line of verse reminds
Will love still be love
Or will it alter when it
Alteration finds?

For should we not still be kind
When the light
 in the hearts of those we loved has dimmed?

Should we not be forgiving
And keep on giving
When those we  love  have sinned?

Let judgement be put a side
And mercy take its seat
Let us remember all that was innocent and good and sweet

And cherish it and love that  still
And find our peace
And restore good will.


For we are made of day and night
Of Rosepetal  and thorn-
 of laughs and tears and sighs
Of the same stuff as the birds in flight
Our very  essence is  delight
Yet we all  are made
Of angel feathers  and devil horn alike
Of flesh and blood
 and priceless mud we're born
To know  both   failure and  ability
 not only strength but  exquisite fragility

Just like the wings of butterflies
Or Iike a  babies delicate skin
 but we must grow and change
To be utterly rearranged-
And changed within

And all who're born into this world
 Just like the silkworms
We must weave our thread
We must be transformed
To  discover  our wings- unfurled

And so every human child that's born
Into this brief interlude in eternity
Must play our part
 To  it's end in mortal finality

So far we shuffle then no more
For we all must pass through the same eternal door
And leave beyond all for whom we're fond
And embrace the great unknown beyond


For a while  those left behind must weep
It's not easy to sever such a bond
But we must let those departed sleep
For life goes on and we must sing its song

We need  a time to weep
And a time to  remember
But not too  long should we linger
For  after that we must all move on.......
Let go- and let death sleep.

Manifesto

Manifesto

No stain no smudge no worldly wrong

Can silence the sweet sound of childrens song

No Power of money No chains of might

Can hinder our journey into the light

What rulers power or Tyrants reproof

Can silence the voice that sings the Truth

For love is my Lord and light is my king

Eternal the one whose praise i sing

By whose authority and power

You cannot impede the growth of this flower

For that which is stained

This will remain Pure

And this  is the Spirit that will endure

The Legend of Procris and Cephalus.....

The Legend of Procris and Cephalus.

 based on a painting in the London National gallery 
 A satyr mourns the death of a nymph ,
by Pierro de Cosimo

Who is this maiden sleeping here
This beauty she is dead I fear
Fair Procris lies still upon the grass
She killed by the dart of Cephalus
This foolish man whose beloved lass  he slew
For he  thought his one fair love untrue

And so spied on her to gain some clue

To see what doings she may be up to
and so in the bushes
Upon one side-
So stealthily  did wait and hide
Imagining  he'd  see his unfaithful friend-
 with friend in passing by
But in this state of jealousy
The bushes rustled noisily
Which gave young Cephalus a start
And so he shot his poisoned dart
It  sadly did  not miss its mark
Now fair Procris lies upon the grass
Killed by the dart of Cephalus

And Procris as if asleep she makes no sound
Upon the green welcoming ground
But see who  has come to look around
But Laelaps, Procris old faithful hound
The poor old dog he observed the two
Wishing there was something he might do
And across the bay, behold the city
Issues forth no cry of pity
But the daisies in amongst the grass
Sing "Fair Procris has come to us at last."

Myrtle Street ....... London Poems 1991

Intact in my eye are a five year olds streets

I peeled oranges bored in Sunday School pews

Seldom a shoe on my naked free feet

Never my knees without a blue bruise


To the table cloth mountain ,

overlooking our gang

Up to the clouds- our spirits flew

A carefree flock that rolled with the flood

Of playfulness- smiles and spirited song

Shopping mall mischief and water bomb balloons

A fun that fled away too soon



Yet the memory Is somehow still fresh in my blood

It is recalled as the taste of a favourite sweet-

Or the wide grinning faces a young boy knew

When he idled his summer on Myrtle Street.

a Taxi to Jerusalem - for Dinna

a Taxi to Jerusalem - for Dinna

Dinna of Denmark
 you were my darling


Walking in your well worn sandals
Down the dirty Via Dolorosa


Clutching your stuffed Lion Toy
Swinging your bag
 brimful
 with secrets and sweets

Pencil crayons and poems
Fairy  stories  conjured
In your  secret language

 colourful lands steeped,
 In wonder and imagination

 as you held me , wrapt
In the spell of the magic thread
 You wove around me
Enchanted, spell bound.

I marvelled  as I listened
And  you and I and crazy John of Jerusalem
who’d been there far  too long
would feed the cats by Jaffa gate

You  singing your song
through the ancient  streets
as you bartered for carefully chosen bananas

and at night on the pansiyon roof we dreamt
in our poorly erected tents
that fell down to reveal

the shepherds stars
that twinkling for us,
On the -old city rooftops

dear Dinna lone little Girl-woman
emanating gentle  kindness
smiling in bright colours
with  warm words for  me

sorry I was such a confused fool
about love and such

and you said you wanted somebody
certain and strong and I felt so foolish and jealous
of your dream of a wandering Indian Brave

but now I hope that in this or some parallel universe
you may find him, Dirty footed Dinna
with your stuffed Lion Toy

By the oasis of Ein Gedi in the hot dead sea  sun
You sang aloud as you washed your dress
Then laying it to dry on the hot rock
We splashed about and laughed

And refreshed in that cool pool where I imagine once even
old king Solomon perhaps
happily Sang in the sun and splashed someone he loved

and then we trudged down
and hitchhiked a truck as far as the bus-sto
by the crossroad on Jericho roa
and you took a Taxi to Jerusalem
and blew you kisses goodbye.

The Fox and the Grapes .......a fable of Aesop in Verse Cape Town 1997

Mister Fox he went out hunting
For something good to eat
When on a vine above him
he spied a most delicious treat


His eyes beheld a glistening bunch
Of grapes all ripe and golden
That would surely be a splendid lunch
The fox's tummy told him.


The vine had grown to such a height
The fox could not reach so high
"Oh if I only had the power of flight"
Complained the Fox with a doleful sigh.


And so despite his appetite
To reach the grapes was beyond his power
He abandoned the quest for this delight
“They are probably all sour.”


The moral of the story is
When something lies beyond our scope
We pretend that its not good enough
Too easily we give up hope.

No words float on water

Lines composed on a walk between Hampstead and Highgate < London 1991

Two smooth stones
    sucked in my mouth
green  is the living colour
  flesh of leaf

no words float on water
   the sun frolicks in the waving grass

Water make me fresh,
  clear ,uncomplicated
give me better answers

grey stone and wood
   Arcane glades
water and leaf and branch of  Oak
  Ash, Elm
answer me I will be druid
  in your these mysteries this day
this stone so like an egg
  holds secrets
but is not an egg
  it will not hatch in my hands

alone on the path
  the white sun and I
the path: Splinters,
  fragments of mute stone
fibrous bones all a silent witness
  chipped prehistoric tools

I sense the feeling of natures spirit
   her secrets
 her ghosts
   who am I, what am I
when will I understand

Ezra Pound ........Antwerp Belgium 1989

Oh Ezra, Ezra

Ezra Pound

You are so deep

That I have drowned

In the sobly scented sea

Of your awful

awesome austerity

Mark Hurlin Shelton

copyrightAntwerp Belgium 1988

The Flying Fish.

Flying Fish 

by Mark Hurlin-Shelton

 Copyright 1988

It was late in the night and the ships crew snored

When a rather strange creature landed aboard

I thought it the most extraordinary thing

For there lay before me a fish with wings

Well here is a question for wise men to solve

However did such a strange creature evolve

A creature that isn't contented to be

Like all of the others that swim in the sea

I wonder when was it that the first fish tried

to grow little wings and to swim in the sky

What do you think don't you think it absurd?

A fish with a wish to be a bird .

The Colour Green

Lines composed during a walk

 from Highgate to Hampstead Heath

about 1991

 The Colour Green

It has been a day for wandering

beneath this sky of early spring

among these trees to freely breathe in an Eden Green

i can scarce believe the beauty of this scene

-the sunlight shines in through the trees

like bright gold blazing from my dreams

and sparkles just so that it seems

the sunbeams tiptoe on the breeze

In this my magic afternoon

of rambles over sleepy heath

I am bathed In cool tranquility

for here the world breathes out a breath

that stirs the child that weeps in me

and calls him to be free

Somehow it as occurred to me

that I will never quite completely be

at peace in the world of peoples schemes

but there is something in this scene

-that is in the soul and stuff of me

and this is the spring of my poetry

so cut me open when I die

inside me you will find the sky

and in my heart the mellow sun

and behind my eyes – the makers mystery.

A Black Swan on the Thames at Midnight......

 This midnight under the cool moon

I saw a Black Swan  gracefully gliding the river Thames
as bright lights glittered green
yellow and white and red buses
bounced their way across Hammersmith Bridge
and quacking delineations of geese and ducks drifted downriver
as suddenly the Black Swan appeared
a Silhouette illumined in a shaft of moonlight
a thing of rare Blue moon Beauty
as the city of night hid her schemes and iniquities
disguised in a twinkle of fools emeralds

 and gleaming rubies reflected 

in the  black sleepy waters of the evening Thames


  Hammersmith on Thames.
Mark Hurlin Shelton
Copyright  London 1991

The Tale of King Midas.... London Poems......Copyright 2000

A lyrical poem about King Midas,how everything he touched turned to gold,and how he learned not to be greedy.

This is the tale of an ancient king

   Who loved all thing that pleasure brings

Who as a babe asleep in bed

     A trail of ants marched to his lips and fed

The young prince as he lay asleep

   With the choicest grains of wheat

Midas grew and gathered wealth

    With which he might enjoy himself

But aside from wealth, his fingers were green

    To he loved to prune and weed and clean -his garden,

 every sort of rose

    He planted there and he watched them grow.

One day the old satyr- Silenus

   The teacher and friend of young Dionysus

Had straggled, drunken, from the crowd

    And staggering lost and singing aloud

 he slept  off the wine in Midas’ Garden

    And  better pray that Midas gives him Pardon

Silenus drunk with his  crowd of friends.

Silenus woke and by guard was brought    Before Midas in the palace court

"What brings you here?" asked the King,

     I would like to know

‘Did you harm any of my roses.?’

     You didn’t !? Then Silenus. Take your pleasure

And dine and drink to double measure !

So Silenus,the lucky, old fun loving Satyr

    Grew steadily more drunk and fatter

All merrily the old soul chaffed

       King Midas who with him laughed

And when both had ate and drank their sate

    Silenus did this tale relate:

And he told a story to the king

    Of lands where he said he'd  been travelling

perhaps yarns spun from his dreams ?!

   of lands beyond the oceans stream

-peopled by folk of long life and health

    with very vast amounts of wealth !!  :)

Now Midas listened good and well

   To all Silenus had to tell

And when the story

   Came to end

He said: " please do point the way, my friend "

   For though Midas had more wealth than he would ever need

He was overcome by greed

So he sent ships and many men

   To sail the hyperborean

With eager, brave intent to find

   A land that perhaps  existed only in Silenus’ mind

And since no such place was found by Midas’ men

   They turned his ships

And sailed home again

Silenus loved to loaf around

   All day about the palace grounds

He grew indolent he was so lazy

    He  ate and drank all he could see

He thought” This is the life, great  stuff !

    But by now the king  had had enough !!

By this time  the lord Dionysus

   Was much concerned for his lost friend Silenus

Though not far  need he search or  roam

   For King Midas sent the old man home

And most pleased was the young god-boy

    For Silenus was his favourite friend and joy

So Dionysus conveyed  his gratitude to the king

    Does Lord Midas require anything ?

For the Lord Dionysus will grant

    Anything the king may want

And so the messenger was told

   May all that Midas touch be turned to gold

And all that Midas touched upon 

Turned to gold and brightly shone

Midas’ table and his throne

   And all the contents of his home

And soon he had turned everyone

   To gold

Even his wife and sons

All this wealth it brought no good

   For Midas could not drink nor eat his food

Not a morsel could be ate

   But all turned to gold upon his plate

Golden fruits and golden meat

   Golden wine and golden wheat

And so the days they did pass by

    And a very hungered king did cry

That he did not want

    No he could not stand

His golden stores of treasure grand

    for he was hungry,thirsty, weak and dry

And not a morsel could that treasure buy

The poor king Midas he did sigh

   If he did not eat he soon would die

Alone he blubbered in despair

   He cursed himself and tore his hair

He could not stand it any more

   So he crawled half dead to Dionysus's  door

So thirsty, famished, very thin

   Midas begged Dionysus to release him

From the blessing that had become his curse

    For what fate could be any worse

Midas begged, he cried implored

   That life be restored

As it were before

The god he drank

   Deeply carousing

He found the matter quire amusing

    But although he laughed at Midas suffering

He had some compassion for the king

    He said “ I hope you have learned your lesson well

The king  listened to what he had to tell

At the source of the river Pactolus

   Near the mount of Tmolus

There you may drink and wash yourself

    And be restored to natural health

And all your golden treasures stored

    Shall all become as they were before

So Midas journeyed west to seek

   The water spring near the mountains peak

His thirst was as a burning flame

   But travelling onward soon he came

Upon the mountain

   When he saw it’s water

He broke down and cried with tears and laughter

They say that Midas was so relieved

    That never again did he ever greed

He learned that his greatest treasure was his life

   His good health, his sons and wife

The sands of the river Pactolus some say -  Are golden to this very day

Journey.....First entitled The Muse of Hollow Time London 1989

Once I went upon a time

On tender foot down a far fled lane

A tangled haunt of yesterdays astray


Long was my hunt for a fondness or

A certain door

A value or an anchor

For a ship to sail me to myself


To the awesome abyss of the self

I fell,my moods of poison pulled

I felt the falling stars they screamed


How then I howled in the nihilate night

Too sullied to soothe my lonesome ghost

My bitten bones for hollow time




My heart a black-hole house of cards

Slipped sigh of shames, a hungered Hades

A burnt out history bile and bitch had fumed


But I was too young to be that old

I must find my joy and hold it fond

to Hunt the rainbow -Honour life



but I had been blind to the haven of hearts

On the tongue-tips of touch my blessings stood

And much more than warm with will and giving



Stirred the memory of his music in me

Forgiveness !! - Cried his humble name

Peace trembled through me, stars sang life



His Love shone through the ice of my armour-shell

New birth for my blunt and brittle box

That breathed in a dreamless ditch of ‘ then’



And then that cherub child that longed

Loomed large so large in the life of me

Did make me doubt the shackle and the stab



Though thorny chain of void has led me here

A sprig of springtime mine

Has bathed my heart in his balmy sea



Through waves of golden nectar now

I hum with the hymns of his creativity

He sings oh poet be like a child



Be Meek and kind and come to me

Praise Prose Poem 2008

Again  i hear the word in my heart
            falling  like generous drops of peace
                   flowing through my grateful core
                         like honey glow of  melted butter-mellow rays
                    dancing on  warm yellow flowers
              bursting through your smile
                 meandering easing me comforting
                     and wrapping me in the eternal smile
           of your springtime
     and singing through the twinkling firmament
             endless songs of praise.
 

Lament London 1990

Lament

For all the brain i never use

the muscles that i seldom flex

bad habits that i need to lose

the fulfilment not quite found in sex

all the hurts , we should not keep score

a life, so much i had left for dead

the abandoned child in my shivering core

and all my sadness left unsaid

what asks the sorry soul but why

why me oh why this tiresome toil

to the horizon gaze and sigh

then plod ones way across the soil

for all the world that was not mine

for all the chances past me slipped

the place was right but not the time

many a miss between cup and lip

for all the doors i did not knock

the flowers only God will smell

the passing seconds on the clock

will never wait us after all

for lands my shoes may never walk

the blue expanse i cannot fly

an earthbound angel makes small talk

while he contemplates the  sky

all the plans that went astray

the friends that flew and never waited

for every dream that could not stay

but left me feeling so frustrated.

Rainy Day Rhyme. Shepherds Bush London 1990

Rainy Day Rhyme

by Mark Hurlin-Shelton 

The man in the raincoat tuts and mutters
stares at he puddles that form in the street
that splash up upon his cold angry feet
from the gathering streams that flow in the gutters

Tomorrow s a time like far away
and memory a knife like ice
and hope a sun to sink again
when London winter clips the skin

He turns again the pavement then
spins up glaring like a grimace
and thinking of some fonder place
he ascends the creaking stairs to the kitchen

Water boiled for tea and heat
he hates the furniture and tends
to wait for some fair-weather friend
the window rataplans with wind and wet.

Murdering a cigarette
in the saucer filled with ends
They say that God is always good
so howcome  it rain on weekends ?

Copyright London 1990

The Fair Helen of Troy

Authors note

During the  period when I lived in Shepherds Bush, London, cash was often in short supply.
I discovered an old IBM electric typewriter in a nearby rubbish–skip and to my great joy, found that it worked almost perfectly.

This discovery coincided with a frenzied productive phase of poetic creation I took breaks from my writing,with random >London outings and adventures long walks upon Hampstead Heath and frequent visits to galleries and museums.

On one rainy afternoon, I visited the Victoria and Alfred museum.
As I ambled about I chanced upon a work of great beauty, a marble bust, the alleged image of Helen of Troy.

She had been the inspiration of generations of ancient Greek poets who had  celebrated her beauty and likewise , she became my inspiration too.
She was far more beautiful than I had imagined. There and then I grabbed my notebook and pen and wrote the following lyric, seated on the gallery floor.

I fantasized about falling in love with her, and indeed if ever I meet a woman of flesh and blood whose beauty compares with Helen’s,I should certainly fall incurably in love with her.

Before departing the museum
I planted a juicy kiss upon her marble lips in fond farewell.

  Mark Hurlin-Shelton

The Fair Helen of Troy

No fair lady

knows my love

no fond caress

do i enjoy

(not up till now),

Could this be love ?

for the fair Helen of Troy

Before me stands

a marble bust

with lips that seem

like fruits of joy

for a kiss of that mouth

oh how i lust

the lips of Helen of Troy

So when i am sure

no-one is about

for people

would not think it right

for me to kiss you

on the lips and pout

and make sounds

of rapt delight

they would think me

a not- normal boy

to love you

fair Helen of Troy

The sands of time

that fall between us

alas we are so far apart

it’s the age difference

well what i mean is

it really breaks my heart

to stand here quite alone

and love your image

carved in stone

It has been said

for your love

a mighty war

raged on for many years

when man’s passion is moved

it’s force is much more

than men can measure in tears

for when ‘Paris’ came and snatched you away

how ‘Menelaus’

( the loser )cried

he loved you more than words can say

and so his lips grew dry

how he must have missed you

and longed to kiss you

he was an angry jealous boy

so he raised a mighty army

and off he sailed

to declare his war on Troy

As i muse on you

and i watch you here

gazing in your stony eyes

call me strange,

or even queer

how hopelessly

i romanticize

yet nevertheless,

it is plain to see

(although with Menelaus i do sympathise

that if he came sailing o’er the sea

to claim you as his prize

i would offer him words of sympathy

for he would have to wage a war with me

No longer can we meet like this

or i will get put away

all of this incomparable bliss

must end at once, today

our love cannot be

in this century

they’ll put me in the cuckoo farm

and throw away the key

Why must it be this way ?

i know what they will say

“its an aberration of the heart”

they will put up a fight

and say it’s not right

“this is no way to love art”

Breaking up is hard to do

especially with a girl like you

although my passions are enthused

the curator would not be amused

by watching me enjoy

your lips

fair Helen of Troy

If i were turned to marble

or to stone

and set down here beside you

then never would you feel alone

for with eternal kisses I’d provide you

and all the voyeurs

passing through these foyers

would ask” who-ever is this boy ?

observe his bliss

how he doth kiss

the fair Helen of Troy

The Thames at Low tide ............. London Hammersmith 1990

The Thames at low tide 

Hammersmith London 1990

This sparkling beach of river silt quiet and white
the barge boats sleepy and tilted to rest
a rustic wind that tastes of brine the gannets nag a rebellowing cry
these spoilt natured birds hungrily hover and comb the low tide Thames

Bleached jetsam driftwood , cork, plastic detergent bottles
frayed rope, flotsam, rusted chain green glass
broken smoothed with time treated ,caked in silted London clay
chipped ceramic , porcelain, frayed nylon twine
and rusted green copper hinges here are ideas of Caesars coins
elusive treasures,  lost goblets- teasing thoughts of Londinium............
Roman Gallipots and galleys sunk deep in layers asleep beneath the river bed
there is an old and rusted barge an exo-skeleton grown over with watery weeds
scattered with rags and oil cans discarded rusted tools damp straw and flies

The Great Thames , smelly mother
indifferent to Empires Great -vein, mighty sewer
of the city washing away the cities sins
assuming with neglect and time our spoilt oily natures
in a rising of breath and a sighing of fall
singing the metres and moods of history.

Mark Hurlin Shelton
Copyright 1990

Stroud Green Road in the Rain

The following prose-poem
was written during my almost two year sojourn in London in the  late 1980s .


Its that type of free association prose that was at the time very much inspired by the writings of Jack Kerouac- and it most certainly is a style that epitomizes that sense of passing through- sparse in punctuation it truthfully reports on all it sees, with an exuberant rolling excitement. i literally sat on the pavement to write this much as an artist would sketch the scene around him.

Stroud Green Road in the Rain

The bus driver is only doing his job-

he says I am out of my zone

 come on mate- take a look at the rain-

I just want to get home

 never mind- its not too far to walk

 as this sudden shower comes steaming down

London bus lookin all shiny red and new in the rain

.so i take cover and huddle on the pavement

and write this poem-

 as rain spilling over the cracked asphalt

 washing over me toes,

 Becoming  rivers in the gutter-searching  and returning  and  gushing down to The  Thames

 In drab doorway I  see pregnant mother

with dripped make-up and cigarette-

 a bloke runs past into the Tote-

That emits  a stench of Old Holborn and alcohol

 The cool dread hipster blackman sound shop-

pumpin out da reggae sound all round

an peeps chillin there inside all snug an dry and smokin

  an outside da rain drippin down.

headless wooden mannequins in windows indifferent and dead to the scene

model outdated displays of yesteryears east end Fashion

The screech -grind -halt

 of braking trucks and cars taxis and buses and halt heave hum, go off and on

phrases like jazz emitted from the traffic hissing

on the wet steam road passing the plain low gates

and walls of modest east end brick

Little pockets of Istanbul-

vending exotic skewered tastes -

empty cardboard boxes piled high on the pavement-

sickly sweet old vegetable odours

curiously shaped Paprikas- purple sweet potatoes

- halved pumpkins, ginger Aponkenam, breadfruit,

Karla, Kassava and Jamaican mangoes

Ol carribean Mama she price the purple Taters

an mumble she grumble onward, homeward

past the asian butcher selling cows feet

fifty nine pence for two

sad looking cadavers of chickens

comically -hung by their feet

boney alien headless n sad

and blood spurted and smeared

and dried on a cardboard box-

so rich an odour of spice and death-

what words to use? -

yams and hams and potted jams

shelves stacked with imported cans

grinding horror of the butchers blade

splintered marrow bone in broken bleeding box.

brown Black plantain bananas-

fat black boy in trainers and baseball cap-

kicks a discarded apple about in a puddle-

Illegible torn bills and posters on posts

walls and naked wooden doors

of cracked paint peeling in the rain

Unnumbered identities of unknown ethnic origins

scattered uprooted far travelled communities

stirred in the stew of this electric  eclectic London Crucible

shuffling by under unhappy umbrellas-

an unenthused housewife in tracksuit pushing

twins in double pram and wishing

she had married into money

North Africans in bright kaftans

 surreally saunter  in the sunny attitude of summer

somehow the Tottenham and Celtic supporters

seem more misplaced in this scene-

people with gaunt giro-cheque expressions

huddled in Pub over pints

awaiting the Worlds End

To my left number plates while you wait

keys cut school of motoring special rates

then a right into Finsbury station out of the rain

and the scene fades.