Jovano Jovanke

 Johnathon, Oh Johnny is my answer to Jovano Jovanke.

The original folk song lycrics are sung beautifully by Biljana Krstic

Macedonian	English translation[6]
Јовано, Jованке Jовано, Jованке Крај Вардарот седиш, мори Бело платно белиш, Бело платно белиш, душо Се нагоре гледаш. (X2) Jовано, Jованке, јас те тебе чeкам, мори Дома да ми дојдеш, А ти не доаѓаш, душо Срце мое, Jовано. (X2) Jовано, Jованке, Твојата мајка, мори Тебе не те пушта, Крај мене да дојдеш, душо Срце мое, Jовано. (X2)	Jovana, Jovanka, you sit by the river, bleaching your white linen, bleaching your white linen, my dear, looking upward. (X2)   Jovana, Jovanka, I'm waiting for you to come to my home, and you don't come, my dear, my heart, Jovana. (X2) Jovana, Jovanka, your mother doesn't let you come to me, my dear, my heart, Jovana. (X2)

A more up-to-date rendering of this timeless piece is provided for the youth to reflect their own faults instead of blaming their parents.

Johnathon, my Johnny

Johnathon, oh Johnny
You sit in your bedroom, playing on your computer
instead of studying, my dear
sitting with the curtains shut

Johnathon, my Johnny
I'm waiting here for you
To come to my home,
But you don't come, my dear,
My dear, my Johnny.

Johnathon, oh Johnny
Your mother, won't let you,
your school work isn't done
Oh dear, oh Johnny.

© Sam Liddicott 2021

And if you got this far, don't miss Biljana singing the original.

I Speak in Kingsley

I walked up and down
through the town, and round and round
and wondered what to say and why to say it

Then I purposed with an air
of sureness, and took care,
That when I did it, saying said it, I would say it.

Unfortunately it didn't work out like that
because I stubbed my toe
And said some other things instead,
which didn't really go,
I was quite embarrassed and my mother, she was too
And I really couldn't think of what I ought to do-
to break the silence that I started, so:

                                                        I screamed:
                      "Oh look, ohh look behind you!"
                      So they did, and when they had,
I took off running down the street
the pit pat padding of my feet
was all I heard besides my panting
'till I heard a train man chanting
"All aboard for Kingsley Station, time to go, the train is waiting"

So I climbed in and took a seat, nonchalantly trying not to attract attention;
which I can do quite well
(unless I stub my toe)
and the train started to go.

So I waited, looking out of the window as we went,
my foot going clackety clack,
my mind keeping time with the train,
and it started to rain

I was finally starting to calm down when we came to the next station,
and who do you think was waiting
with my mother
to get on the train?

I considered my solutions,
and came to my conclusion,
and operating smoothly I got into the toilet compartment,
waited till we started, pulled the cord and the alarm went -
ringing
"Stop the train" the cry went up,
the brakeman working frantically, a scraping screaming sound,

and stop we did! Stopped dead on the tracks
Nobody knew why so after a while we went again,
with a chuff chuff sound, and I carefully jumped out
landing softly on the ground, but as I stood and rose to my height,
past me went a window, and there, pressed to the glass,
were the faces of my mother and her three friends

Sam Liddicott
March 1992

I Wander

I wondered as I wandered
what was what,
and who was where,
And I thought a little more
as I wandered up the stair
and 'cos I wasn't looking
I slipped on three pairs of roller blades and two yin and a yang,
I bumped my pore head     and I trod on my hand
I didn't much like it, I shan't say what I said
But that should explain why I'm sitting in bed.

I should be out working
it's true that I'm not,
when I trod on my hand
I'm not sure what I got,
But it got all twisted
and pulled here and there,
which all should explain
why not to play on the stair

Sam Liddicott
December 1991 and March 1992

The End

The time is past

  the bell has rung

The deeds to do

  that have been done

    are gathered up

      into the store

The rest: undone,

  for ever more

(C) Sam Liddicott 2016

I wonder

I wonder

	I wonder where I'm going
and	I wonder where I've gone,
	I wonder what I'm doing here
and	when I'm moving on
	I wonder when I'm going
as	I think on where I've been
	I wonder what I'm going for
	whatever can it mean:
	This coming and this going
	from there and place to place
	whatever do I do it for;
	I know it's not a race
	I wonder what I'm doing
	what I'm here for anyhow
	And does it really matter
	If I don't do it now?
	I know it has a reason
	but what that is I don't know
	I've tried to find out all my life
	I have to find out so —
	I'll remember where I'm going
and	I'll know just where I've been
	I'll know quite what I'm going for
and	remember what I've seen

 (c) 1991 Sam Liddicott
I found this a bit sickly at the time and my view hasn't changed much in the last 23 years. verse 2 and 3 were scribbled through but I've included them here.

Inspired by mission transfers; and the first couple of minutes of this video:

The next wonder poem

The next wonder poem

	Sometimes I'll wonder
&	sometimes I'll won't,
&	sometimes I'll wonder
	why sometimes I don't And when I sometimes wonder Why I'm sometimes won't I'm sometimesing wonder how I still am. wondering about nothing at all.

(c) 199x - 2014 Sam Liddicott

Poem: On wondering too much

On wondering too much

or

I also wonder

I wonder why I wonder,
What I do it for, and how,
I wonder as I wonder why I'm wondering right now

And as I wonder wonder wonder wondering today
I wonder if I should have really
stayed in bed today

(C) 1992 - 2014 Sam Liddicott

The nearby stars

Here is my answer to W.H. Auden's poem on stars; this time it is less a satire and more a re-expression of what the poem did to me.

The nearby stars

I care not for stars,
and they care not for me:
We see each-other distantly

But stars are also far apart
And well accustomed to their view
But you are near, and I love you.

The original is:

“Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.”


― W.H. Auden

Come, friendly hell

I felt inspired to develop Betjeman's poem Slough after learning that over 55 millions babies had been killed since the end of the WWII. Did the Nazis just switch sides after all?

Come friendly hell and burn us now!
We're burning babies anyhow,
It's hardly worth you waiting now.
Swarm over, death

It's a work in progress, verse 2 addresses the institutions and their emblems of progress

Tricky

An answer to Dicky, by Robert Graves is Tricky, by Sam Liddicott

First the original poem, and then the answer.

DICKY by ROBERT GRAVES

Mother:
Oh, what a heavy sigh!
Dicky, are you ailing?

Dicky:
Even by this fireside, mother,
My heart is failing.

To-night, across the down,
   Whistling and jolly,
I sauntered out from town
   With my stick of holly.

Bounteous and cool from sea
   The wind was blowing,
Cloud shadows under the moon
   Coming and going.

I sang old roaring songs,
   Ran and leaped quick,
And turned home by St. Swithin's
   Twirling my stick.

And there as I was passing
   The churchyard gate,
An old man stopped me, 'Dicky,
   You're walking late.'

I did not know the man,
   I grew afeared
At his lean, lolling jaw,
   His spreading beard,

His garments old and musty,
   Of antique cut,
His body very lean and bony,
   His eyes tight shut.

Oh, even to tell it now
   My courage ebbs...
His face was clay, mother,
   His beard, cobwebs.

In that long horrid pause
   'Good-night,' he said,
Entered and clicked the gate,
   'Each to his bed.'

Mother:
Do not sigh or fear, Dicky.
   How is it right
To grudge the dead their ghostly dark
   And wan moonlight?

We have the glorious sun,
   Lamp and fireside.
Grudge not the dead their moon-beams
   When abroad they ride.

In my poem, I wished to tell the other side of a perhaps less fearful story.
Thinks aren't always what they seem, and sometimes, not even that.

Tricky, by Sam Liddicott

Uncle:
Oh, what a merry sound!
Ricky, are you chuckling?

Ricky:
This evening by this fire,
Uncle, My heart is laughing.

To-night, across the down,
   Whistling and jolly,
From town young Dicky sauntered
   With a stick of holly.

Bounteous and cool from sea
   The wind was blowing,
Cloud shadows under the moon
   Coming and going.

He sang old roaring songs,
   Ran, and leaping quick,
He turned home by St. Swithin's
   Twirling his stick.

And there as he was passing
   The churchyard gate,
Greeting him, I said: 'Dicky,
   You're walking late.'

I think he did not know me,
   He looked afeared
And my jaw, open fell,
   My theatre beard!

This outfit old and musty,
   Of antique cut!
I rocked in silent laugher,
   My eyes tight shut.

Oh, even to tell it now
   My humour rises...
His face was petrified,
   by costume trousers!

After an awkward pause
   'Good-night,' I said,
Passing through the churchyard gate,
   'Each to his bed.'

Uncle:
Do not laugh at fear, Ricky.
   How is it right
To terrify a little lad
   in the moonlight?

When by the glorious sun,
   Lamp and fireside.
 He knows you as a friend; so:
   Do not deride.

Poem: The smelly dog-pooh man

I wrote this in early 2008 for the Agbrigg & Belle Vue Community News

The smelly dog-pooh man

© 2008 Sam Liddicott

I'm the smelly dog-pooh man,
I walk around the town,
and leave my smelly dog pooh
where my doggie puts it down.

Not in gutters or in hedges
where no foot will hardly tread,
but the middle of the pavement
there to cake your shoes with dread.

Where the young ones and the old ones
and so many in between,
will spread about my pavement paste
from clumps they hadn't seen.

It's rather hard to miss something
so small and hard to see,
It's also hard to miss it
when its spread so wide and free

So the pushchairs and the children
do a dance around the mess,
that's been spread in pretty patterns –
now the cause of their distress

No-one sees me do it,
though you may observe my work,
or attempts by my apprentices
to spread a little dirt,

and I get a secret pleasure; when–
from behind a mother's door,
I hear the sound of pavement paste
discovered on the floor.

It's not that I'm too lazy
although that's also true,
but I like to punish others
with the things I hate to do.

So I'll leave it on the pavement
and pretend it isn't mine,
Till vengeful neighbours tell on me
and make me pay the fine.

The Handkerchiefs

I wrote this in 2004

The Handkerchiefs

© 2004 Sam Liddicott

Dear June,
                   you see, I know your name,
your handkerchief was spelt the same,
the one I kept, when in the park,
you dropped it on a summer walk.

  You haven't dropped one since, all year!
  The truth most likely is, I fear
  You quite forgot to buy some more
  To drop for me upon the floor

So please accept this gift from me
Some silken handkerchiefs times three
And should you now be quite sure who
To drop them for - I'm wearing blue

No Father

No Father

I've been called father many times
  in family courts - by judges twice my age
but never daddy.

Nor I, my sons nor daughters know what's lost
  except a few; those I fear - they know to condemn me,
now they have a daddy.

But there is one; whose judgement
  sinks me down to hell, each time I dare recall:
he had a daddy-

and so my wretched heart,
  hardened well against my mothers tears and soft entreaties
my heart which never loved,

can never love nor soften now
  lest it should know and die, under that awful weight:
his mother's bitter tears.

The Chief of Judges knows I am no father
  having never made a home, nor yet a family
and one - not mine - I have destroyed.

© 2010 Sam Liddicott

I had wanted to write a modern lads version of Ella Wheeler Wilcox's The Coquette http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Coquette_(Wilcox) which considers the female perspective.

The poem is the looking back of a man on his life.


v1 references his early careless attitude - leaving a bite of care at the end

v2 tries to pretend that the victims of a stunted childhood can't know; so un-accused harm is no harm

v3 he has to stop pretending and be honest, which he is in v6 after his looking back in v4 and v5

In v4 "which never loved" acknowledges that all his relationships were selfish

 v5 in later life, finding a shortage of people ready to read more into his actions than he ever meant, and a shortage of people generally he began to prey on married women - and got stripped of his final illusion, that he brought any happiness to anyone at all. He can no longer imagine or pretend that fond memories of him are to be found anywhere - he knows now that in what he saw as a carefree life, he was the worm which consumes

v6 he knows his state. He sees that he has wasted all opportunity to be of worth or loved by others.

He cannot find his value without also knowing what he has destroyed and the pain is too much, so he cannot move on. His only hope is mercy which he never had but that can't be effective until he accepts his state, which he cannot.

Gather Ye Chocolates

Another in my series of classic poetry re-worked for modern times.

To the Young Ladies, To Take Much Chocolate At The Easter Egg Hunt

by Sam Liddicott

Gather the choc'lates a'fore it's May.
    Old timers still a-trying :
For easter eggs that melt to-day
    To-morrow will be frying

The baking heat of heaven, the sun
    The hotter it is getting
The sooner chocolate starts to run
    And spoil your dress, upsetting

That aged beast which at the first,
    Would tend your clothes and laundry ;
But having over eat the, worst
    stains leave you in a qaundry.

The bean of cocoa speed your time,
    And while ye may go carry :
For having lost your chocolate time
    You may be very sorry.





The original, below, makes valid points, but perhaps intersects less with the mind of modern woman than my revision.

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME.

by Robert Herrick

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
    Old time is still a-flying :
And this same flower that smiles to-day
    To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
    The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
    And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
    When youth and blood are warmer ;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
    Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
    And while ye may go marry :
For having lost but once your prime
    You may for ever tarry.

More classic quotes reworked for the times

A rose by any other brand would sell more cheap.

Ask not what you can do with the country side, with the country side you can do - for a fee.

More classics updated: The Rubáiyát

The classic Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám is beyond my reach, but I can speculate on what might have been written had the author possessed the fore-sight of Nostradamus.

Thus:

The press-ed finger spraying coloured scrit
  moves in the night, with daubs of teenage wit
Though teacher calls to write a dozen lines
  in tears of boredom motionless they sit


might have been rendered instead of the classic and more well known:

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
  Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit,
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
  Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

It lacks the gravitas of the original but this is perhaps more than compensated for by the more comprehensive embodiment of the modern daily experience of many of us, which after all is what I feel the poet was striving for.

And which of us doesn't truly appreciate the lack of power that any amount of tears or frustration can exercise over the leaving bell?

Were I not able to express it so concisely I would go on with more verses as did the poet of old, but I feel that the reader will rightly be able to grasp my position.

I also feel it unnecessary to emphasis the difficulty in removing graffiti, a point which seemed to obsess the poet which caused him to labour the point.

Oswald McDuff

The official Ozymandias is a classic and well received all round, but it's not very realistic. So I've done my own version which I think answers the deficiencies of realism in the classic. Apologies to Shelly.

Oswald McDuff

I met, whilst travelling in an antique land,
a stranger, smartly dressed and on his own
who beckoning, drew near me, with his hand
a welcome bidding, and a winning smile,
a twinkling eye, an aspect oh so grand,
Then in his foreign tongue these words he read:
"You've just arrived in this historic place
the home of kings and queens though now long dead"

And on his shiny badge, the words inscribed
(lest there be any doubt in those who seek)
"official metropolitan tour guide"
but no-one listened... and I heard him say
that if I had the extra time to spare
the five pounds special guided tour today

Sam Liddicott 2011

The original is below, which I am sure you will agree was in need of improvement, as well as desart spelling properly. Old poets can get away with anything these days.

Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Shelley 1819

Spanish Rain (Poem)

Spanish Rain

(C) 2001 Sam Liddicott

There's different kind's of rain:
Rain that falls in England,
and rain that falls in Spain

I prefer the Spanish rain - it doesn't get me wet;
But over here in England, it's the English rain we get