I recently set the POETS team the task of providing me with lists of their own personal favourite poets within the community and over the coming weeks we will be celebrating those poets.
To open this fantastic project we are celebrating +Phil Halll, so go grab a cuppa, put your feet up and enjoy this fabulous interview describing superb food, amazing desserts and an inspiring knowledge of poetry and song lyrics that together hand craft the very essence of story telling that can be found deep in the roots of English poetry.
Karen - Hi Mr Phil 😊😊
Over the coming weeks we at POETS would like to celebrate those poets who we believe to show exemplary skill within their craft. We have compiled a list of of names and you are one of them.
To help us celebrate you as a poet we would like to get to know you a little better by asking you some questions whilst you engage in conversation with me 😀
Karen - If you could dine with a poet of your choice (past or present) who would you choose?
Phil - If I could dine with a poet (I'm not sure I could eat a whole poet, maybe leg of Wordsworth) it'd have to be Spike Milligan. The man was genius, eccentric, hilarious and as English as English could be. His work was rhythmic and easily readable. He especially wrote for children, but with a subtlety that adults could indulge in. Here's just one of his amazing pieces, which bounces along and tells such a wonderful tale:
The Smile
Smiling is infectious,
you catch it like the flu,
When someone smiled at me today,
I started smiling too.
I passed around the corner
and someone saw my grin.
When he smiled I realized
I'd passed it on to him.
I thought about that smile,
then I realized its worth.
A single smile, just like mine
could travel round the earth.
So, if you feel a smile begin,
don't leave it undetected.
Let's start an epidemic quick,
and get the world infected!
Spike Milligan
But, I'd also have enjoyed dining with all the old English War poets, Owen, Sassoon and of course Brooke. Though for a real gritty, edgy companion to munch on fish and chips with, it'd have to be songwriter Glenn Tilbrook (Lead singer of Squeeze). His lyrics are exactly how I write my poetry, they're street writing, pure England. He talks of everyday things, no flowery jargon, just how things are. Poetry at its most raw and basic.
Up the Junction
I never thought it would happen
With me and the girl from clapham
Out on the windy common
That night I ain't forgotten
When she dealt out the rations
With some or other passions
I said you are a lady
Perhaps she said I may be
We moved into a basement
With thoughts of our engagement
We stayed in by the telly
Although the room was smelly
We spent our time just kissing
The railway arms we're missing
But love had got us hooked up
And all our time it took up
I got a job with stanley
He said I'd come in handy
And started me on monday
So I had a bath on sunday
I worked eleven hours
And bought the girl some flowers
She said she'd seen a doctor
And nothing now could stop her
I worked all through the winter
The weather brass and bitter
I put away a tenner
Each week to make her better
And when the time was ready
We had to sell the telly
Late evenings by the fire
With little kicks inside her
This morning at 4: 50
I took her rather nifty
Down to an incubator
Where thirty minutes later
She gave birth to a daughter
Within a year a walker
She looked just like her mother
If there could be another
And now she's two years older
Her mother's with a soldier
She left me when my drinking
Became a proper stinging
The devil came and took me
From bar to street to bookie
No more nights by the telly
No more nights nappies smelling
Alone here in the kitchen
I feel there's something missing
I'd beg for some forgiveness
But begging's not my business
And she won't write a letter
Although I always tell her
And so it's my assumption
I'm really up the junction
Tilbrook/ Difford.
So there you have it. Not sure who'd pay the bill though. Also, if you'd have just said Night out, it'd have to be Lord Byron. The man was a drunken, drug crazed maniac, so the night would have been a proper laugh.
Karen - Really, you couldn't eat a whole one? 😀😂
So a party for...6, right? Hmm
Children's poetry and nonsense poetry, wrongly, gets a raw deal, it is some of the most amazing poetry I have read and some of the hardest to write well.
Your choices are superb, a great mixture of character all of them bringing something very unique to the table.
So, if money and imagination were no object, where would you choose to dine with your poetic band of men and why?
Phil - the subject of food is always high on the agenda of an Englishman, so just like the old Miss World beauty shows I'll give my top three in reverse order......
I don't do the old "Picture on a plate" nonsense. I want gravy not Jus, I want a sauce, not a reduction and for God's sake!!! Give me vegetables as nature intended, I mean what the hell is "Parsnip foam" or "Crushed potatoes"? In my opinion, it's just some fancy crap in order to increase the prices.
3) Grannies...... Oistins, South Coast Barbados. The food is plentiful, filling, spicy and delicious. Spicy fried Flying fish to start, then Curry goat with rice and peas, alongside Macaroni cheese pie with greens and dashed with Aunty Maes hot pepper sauce...... All that for about £6!! Real soul food, but usually eaten lunchtime as in the evening Oistins turns into a giant fish fry, as the fishing boats come back in. Great fun, rum and beers, jerk pork and chicken and also the freshest fish around. Calypso, reggae and soca music entertain into the early hours under the swaying palms by the white sandy beach.
2) Mangoes. Panglao beach resort, Bohol. Philippines. The inspiration behind a poem of mine "Beautifully Sad". The loveliest "Kinnilaw", which is raw tuna soaked in ginger and garlic infused coconut milk. The tuna is seared in lemon juice, then served with the freshest, juiciest and sweetest mangoes I've ever tasted. It's an extremely rustic little restaurant, with stools only just capable of supporting a hulking Englishman.
1) Harbour Inn. Porthleven, Cornwall England. Cod and chips, mushy peas and a superb pint of Cornish ale or Cider in a 17th century granite building. The pub sits next to the working fishing port and the fish is stunning. Of course, Cornwall is the most beautiful place on earth, it's legends and myths swirl around the rugged landscape, hiding pirates and smugglers amongst the moors and wild cliffs. This wonderful corner of England is the inspiration behind many of my poems.
Karen - Those food choices sound beautifully scrumptious and your destinations all sound so very relaxed and informal, such delightful venues, not to mention each them are magnificently inspirational for so many different reasons, your party of poets will be seeped in a rich essence of inspiration scribbling drunken poetry :) :)
So with dinner all washed down and the beautiful sights taken in, what wonderful desserts would you have served to poetic party?
Phil - dessert!!? In this neck of the woods it's called Pudding, or using a Royal Naval term.... Duff. We've got superb puddings in England, all of them can put weight on you by just looking at them.
I'd offer my guests a choice, of course lashings of hot custard at the ready.
Firstly, there's Syrup sponge..... a winter warmer that is sweet, sticky and a must on misty, frosty nights.
Secondly, Queen of puddings. This fantastic duff is full of Jam and sponge and covered in peaks of hot crusted meringue. A true diet destroyer.
Third on list is a local delicacy.... Bakewell Pudding. The town of Bakewell in the Derbyshire Peak district is a beautiful historic place set either side of the trout laden River Derwent. This pudding, the predecessor of the Bakewell tart is very sweet, packed with sticky almond paste and cherry jam. The ingredients are much of a mystery, so it's imperative to eat it at the "Original Bakewell Pudding Shoppe" in the town.
As it's coming to the wonderful time of Christmas, I'd have to include our superb, historic and much loved Christmas Pudding or plum duff as it's also called. As often mentioned in Dickensian stories, this pudding used to contain a silver coin, which a lucky person would get on their plate.
No dieting, no frills, no ice cream or other such nonsense..... these puddings demand custard.
Karen - ooohh I thought you was gonna say "*a must on misty, frosty mornings*" I am a huge advocate of cake/pudding for breakfast...with custard..and ice cream too and cream and meringue damn I think I would like pudding up your way..how about I be your waitress for the night, the boys wouldn't mind, I think they'd like me and I could get you boys drunk and talking on the beauty of life and poetry and writing and I could eat the puddings whilst no one is looking :)
Last question... in what direction would you take the discussion?
Either
Keep it formal, discuss writing, literature, fame with language to match?
Or
Keep it informal, talk life, grime, women, love, drink, mistakes and mess ups with language to match?
Phil - that's easy.... I'd keep it formal, although with Spike I'd be laughing almost continually. Mind you it'd probably become more informal as the drink flowed. After all the food and drink I'm sure we'd all be snoring soon after anyway. Oh what the hell, let's make it informal, I'd want to learn how Glenn pictured the scene before writing classics like "Up the Junction" "Another Nail in my Heart" and the brilliant "Tempted" which we'd all sing, because we'd all probably have been in the situation at some point in life......
Tempted
Squeeze
I bought a toothbrush, some toothpaste
A flannel for my face
Pajamas, a hairbrush
New shoes and a case
I said to my reflection
"Let's get out of this place"
Passed the church and the steeple
The laundry on the hill
Billboards and the buildings
Memories of it still
Keep calling and calling
But forget it all, I know I will
Tempted by the fruit of another
Tempted but the truth is discovered
What's been going on
Now that you have gone
There's no other
Tempted by the fruit of another
Tempted but the truth is discovered
I'm at the car park, the airport
The baggage carousel
(The people keep on grindin')
Ain't wishing I was well
I said it's no occasion
(It's no story I could tell)
At my bedside empty pocket
A foot without a sock
Your body gets much closer
I fumble for the clock
Alarmed by the seduction
I wish that it would stop
Tempted by the fruit of another
Tempted but the truth is discovered
What's been going on
Now that you have gone
There's no other
Tempted by the fruit of another
Tempted but the truth is discovered
I bought a novel, some perfume
A fortune all for you
But it's not my conscience
That hates to be untrue
I asked of my reflection
Tell me what is there to do?
Tempted by the fruit of another
Tempted but the truth is discovered
What's been going on
Now that you have gone
There's no other
Tempted by the fruit of another
Tempted but the truth is discovered
Tempted by the fruit of another
Tempted but the truth is discovered
Tempted by the fruit of another
Tempted but the truth is discovered
Tempted by the fruit of another
Tempted but the truth is discovered
Songwriters: Christopher Difford / Glenn Tilbrook
Spike would tell us of his life in the army and in India, what a time it would be.
3d
Karen - What a superb dinner party you guys would have :) It has been an absolute honour to have the opportunity to explore you a little deeper Phil, I think you make a superb host and your depth of knowledge for both poetry and lyrics would mean there was never a dull moment.
I have heard it said, one too many times that lyrics are not poetry and I always disagree, the lyrics you have shared with us truly show just how poetic well written songs are, thank you for sharing these with us :)
..and thank you for answering my questions.
Lastly, I would really love the opportunity to share with the POETS community a piece of your own poetry that you are most proud off, your own personal favourite as well as a favourite famous poem.
Phil - it's virtually impossible for me to pick only one, such is my eclectic style, so I've picked three different poems, I'll leave it up to you which one you post, or if you post all three. The genre's are
Firstly: Street poetry (observational)
2nd: Cornwall and the sea (Nature)
3rd: Christmas (Emotional). I write of war too, with "If you receive this" being my most popular poem. Also comedy and rarely romance. But, I think I'd have bored everyone to death now so here's the first
PLAYING THE GAME
Sat here alone
Resting weary bones
Just another damp day,
Steaming tea, cold toast
And curled up Racing Post
This is my preferred way.
I take a sip
Scolding my tongues tip
And look around,
Same old fools
Tired out lives, broken rules
Boredom screams without a sound.
Cheap perfume drips
Smokers lips
With her yellowing teeth,
Death within her grasp
As the chests painful rasp
Hides the horrors beneath.
Husband ageing badly
She ignores him.... Thankfully
Rheum and spirits in greying eyes,
Stale, unkempt and cold
Nothing to say, story untold
Nobody will listen before he dies.
Just like everyone all around
Walking lifes battleground
They're playing the game,
Eating the cheapest baked beans
Trying to stay within their means
Where each day's always the same.
A sudden raging human tide
As a bus outside
Spews its monochrome hoard,
Going nowhere very soon
All humming the same tune
Tedium strikes a chord.
Thoughts of purest Sunday best
As my eyes come to rest
On schoolgirls in the tiniest skirt,
In this revealing attire
They're definitely not in the choir
With workmen they brazenly flirt.
Time to shake a leg
Ketchup and runny egg
Smeared across the breakfast plate,
Chipped cups of warming brew
The foreman rounds up his crew
Another day, another clean slate.
Once they're gone
The man in greasy apron
Wipes the table armed with sponge,
His heavy jowled face set in frown
Fingertips oddly yellowish brown
Nails full of cooking gunge.
Customers come and go
The rush begins to slow
I feel a sense of shame,
I've sat here for ages
Watching others life pages
Quietly playing the game.
This scene is worldwide
The same folks can be spied
In cafes in many a city,
When playing lifes game
Nobody has a name
We're pawns, ain't that just shitty.
The door opens wide
And I step outside
To become just another face,
Milling aimlessly around
Like a bug in the ground
I could be just about any place,
Religion, politics and sport
Subjects which come to nought
The outcome is always the same,
No matter how hard we try
We all still fucking die
And others start playing the game.
Phil Hall March 2014
Copyright:Philthepoet61.blogspot.com
This is brand new, but already a favourite
CAMELOT
Standing proud upon Cornish cliff
Of jagged boulder, moss and gorse,
The magical bones of Camelot stand
Picked clean by a westerly force.
Where the raging Atlantic surges
And breakers crash, churning white,
Behold, all venturers who travel so
To witness Arthurian might.
On narrow path many foot has trod
In differing garb and tongue,
Where gulls have swooped for eons
And shorelarks trill a Celtic song.
I stand on weather-beaten battlements
Salt rimmed eyes surveying the sea,
And cast my mind to yesteryear
When an angel stood next to me.
Her face was full of wonderment
As the legendary place filled her soul,
She'd come from oh so far away
With Camelot being her goal.
The tales of Knights and chivalry
From England's heraldic past,
Had been emblazoned upon her heart
I thought true love was cast.
But, a King's heart can be Broken
And the runes were scattered so,
Merlin once foretold of such heartache
This knight's lyrical sword laid low.
I knelt before the high alter and prayed
To whom, was it Freya or Bel?
And in that Cornish tempest
I heard a soft voice call ........
"You are a valiant man of Cornwall
A true Englishman of valour and pride,
Remember the love you had once
Not the love now being denied"
Phil Hall November 2018
Copyright: Philthepoet61.blogspot.com
And lastly, but certainly not least
EMBER GLOW
The tree is up,
Twinkling lights abound,
That festive feel swirls around.
The sock is ready
Hanging by the ember glow,
Will Santa come? I Don't know...
The fire is blazing
Carols being sung,
Reflected joy in the baubles hung.
The tinsel glitters
There's peace on earth,
Rejoicing in our saviours birth.
The turkey's basting
Mince pies with peel of candy,
Christmas pud steeped in brandy.
The yule log crackles
The mistletoe's ready,
Too much fizz, legs unsteady.
The merriment starts,
Let's drink to wealth
And of course each other's health.
The cries of joy
With presents passed,
This glorious day goes so fast.
The feast is sumptuous
Washed down with wine,
Contented hush and all is fine.
The ember glow
Helps the older ones nap,
Whilst excited children sing and clap.
The evening meal
Cold meats, cheese and pies
Cocktails, brandy and glazing eyes.
The day of days
In its final throws,
All warm inside as the ember glows.
So, this is it
I just have to say,
Peace to you, God bless
And have a wonderful Christmas day.
Phil Hall December 2017
Copyright: Philthepoet61.blogspot.com
I hope you post them all Karen, I love all my work, as should every poet, it's who we are. But, one last thing...... Never write to impress others, just write for the joy and love of writing. Open your mind to ALL around you, the ink will flow if you look.
My favourite poem by my favourite poet. This epitomized the very essence of the Englishman and his reaction to war.
The Soldier
BY RUPERT BROOKE
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Thank you
Karen - Thank you Phil it has been wonderful to discover a little more about you, a dinner party with you would certainly not be a dull night. Your knowledge and understanding of language and the beautiful ways that it can be used is impressive and inspiring.
Your poem Elfin Stone, is my own personal favourite, it describes the beauty of whimsical England, with its magical essence of pixies and fairies and daisy chains and buttercups, it is very easy and desirable to get lost in the imagery of this piece.
ELFIN STONE
In a corner
Of an English garden
Sits an elfin stone.
She's weathered and damp,
Bearded with lichen and moss
And often overlooked.
Yet, she's our heritage
A glimpse into our past,
Horse and cart
The hum of bees
Farms of rustic splendour.
She's part of history
When elves and pixies danced,
Life was of a quieter pace
Stories told by warming fire.
An oddity, an antiquity
As read of in fairy tales,
Where fox, mole and badger
Shelter from the summer rains.
Cream teas and muffins drip
With butter churned locally,
And the postman ties his shoelace
Upon the elfin stone.
Children sit crosslegged
With buttercup and daisy chain,
And churchbells peel above the yew
As the hay bales await the fork.
In truth they're called staddle stones
Keeping haystacks safe from vermin,
Though England's folklore tells a different tale.
Phil Hall January 2018
Copyright:Philthepoet61.blogspot.com
Photograph: Phil Hall 2017 (Staddle stone, Bretforton. Worcestershire. England)
On behalf of myself and the POETS team, thank you for being part of our community Phil, for sharing with us the diverse voices of your poetry, the vivid tales of Camelot and the heart warming words of Christmas and of course your astute observational poems of reality...
Image © Phil Hall
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