There is a strange but compelling attraction to Whales for me. I don’t really know why only that it is there and very strong too. It feels like an emotional bond of some sort and I am struck by the way they do not set out to attack people, in spite of much persecution by people. It’s as though they are wiser. Maybe they are the custodians of something. I’m sure the scientist and biologist will give me the cold explanations of their presence, place and purpose, but it will never shake my belief that there is something very special about whales, something intangible. I hope you enjoy this poetry with sound. It is my own poem read by me and the music is my own playing and composition. What I’ve tried to do is impart to the piece something of what I feel. Enjoy and best wishes….Neil I’ve called the poem Thermoclines Thermoclines a poem by Neil William Holland. a.k.a. Soloneili What am I following, this pull call pull of something higher? Rising and bellowing thermoclines mellowing deep subsonic viscous noise, resonating through rib-cages, grasping aortas, whale song. Blues, Minkes, Orcas.
The Works Canteen………a poem by Neil William Holland
They’ve closed the works canteen,
replaced it with a vending machine.
Is that mean or what?
Antidisestablishmentarianism, that’s what we’ve got.
The canteen is the church of the people
where views and opinions tower like a steeple
above the mundane drudgery of conveyor belts
and packing cases, lathes and clocked-on faces
all churning and gurning their daily grind.
Never mind, the management say.
Well, we all know if they had their way
longer hours and less pay would be the norm,
and that’s how unions were born
by workers getting together, in canteens!
Workers fed up and at the end of their tether
who stood up to be counted, demanded to be seen
and the very heart of this movement beats in the works canteen.
Well, they’ve closed it
and now a Kit Kat is C4,
a packet of crisps the button before
and already it’s so worn you can’t make it out.
In this day and age no-one gives you nowt
and now you can’t even meet over a cuppa to talk about it.
So excuse me if I don’t wish the boss a Merry Christmas,
he’s unapproachable, distant and aloof
and I for one hope the reindeer miss his roof
but just in case Dear Santa,
give him a sour lemon,
and address the gift tag to Mr Mean.
He’s the Christmas pudding who’s closed the works canteen.
Nowadays we know better.
In those days it was simply the matter
of fact way in which we spent summer,
My older brother and his mates
taught me the ways,
although now I do know better.
In those days we would gather and hide
beneath trees at the sides
and in the corners of fields.
My older brother would climb up
disappearing into the leaves
then climb down with an egg.
Not in his hand nor in his pocket,
but cradled in his mouth.
Only one egg was ever taken from any nest,
and in its place a pebble laid to rest.
He would use hawthorn to make a hole
at each end of the egg, one larger than the other.
My brother would blow through the smaller hole
and the contents would be emptied.
The emptied egg was placed in a cardboard box
half full of cotton wool.
We would gather, secretive friends
partly wild in our ways,
marvelling at the marbling
on the shell.
Nowadays I do know better.
Blackbird, robin, thrush, wren, whatever?
My brother and his mates
knew their names in Latin to the letter.
We were all a natural part of the countryside,
but nowadays I’m sure we know we should know better.
A poem by Neil William Holland, a.k.a. Soloneili…thepoetinthecar
Hope you enjoy.