Festival Laureate & Festival Poem
Elsewhere
Elsewhere Bedford chandeliers sparkle softly through Jersey twilight
in Victoria College’s Great Hall, where Lilly Langtry posed for Millais.
Elsewhere your cat, ginger-haired, precise in the placement of feet,
sitting on a ledge created by the open double window,
watches red veined leaves sharing rain drops with one another.
Elsewhere particles, to the north and to the south,
spiral around a geomagnetic field line; fragments searching for a whole.
Elsewhere lingering juice of strawberries tingles on the tongue.
Trapped between two mirror points in time
you recall those years before and the evacuation to Bedford.
Elsewhere Nazis raged ever forward to your parents’ back garden;
red strawberry juice stains your fingers like veins of leaves.
Elsewhere an electron slows as it enters
a stronger magnetic field … and is turned back;
a fragment separated from the whole.
Elsewhere your hand grasps for memories;
fingers tightening almost in pain or pleasure.
Elsewhere the family packed you off from Victoria College;
one of 38 heading for an unfamiliar Shire County shore.
In Bedford School John Bunyan became your Victor Hugo.
Elsewhere a vocal line opens on a fluttering note;
fragile as shale, as life itself, frenetic as Snowy Plovers.
Elsewhere Jersey/Bedford join the magnetosphere becoming you;
suddenly everything is sunlight and wings; the warmth of
moments containing all the fragments of yesterday.
Elsewhere everything you’ll ever know is here;
memories and hope; Jersford; two fragments made whole.
Elsewhere reality is cyclotron motion, iridescent feathers,
helical trajectories, jewel tones and … Time itself …
and we all glance off it, like stones off a pond.
David R Morgan
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Author David R Morgan teaches 11-19 year olds at a School in Luton, and lives in Bedfordshire with his wife and two children. His eldest daughter lives in The Isle Of Man.
David has been an arts worker and literature officer, organizer of book festivals and writer-in-residence for education authorities, Littlehay Prison and Fairfield Psychiatric Hospital (which was the subject of a Channel 4 film, Out of Our Minds). He has had two plays screened on ITV; Where's Melissa? and Birthdaze.
His books for children include : The strange Case of William Whipper-Snapper, three Info Rider books for Collins and Blooming Cats which won the Acorn Award and was recently animated for BBC2's Words and Pictures Plus as well as a Horrible Histories biography: Spilling The Beans On Boudicca. David has also written poetry books, including: The Broken Picture Book, The Windmill and the Grains (Hawthorn Prize) and Buzz Off. He has had many poems published in major literary magazines.
His poetry collection Walrus On A Rocking Chair , illustrated by John Welding, is published by Claire Publications and his adult poetry Ticket For The Peepshow is published by art’icle.
Postmodern Sheep
These sheep are too smart,
they sleep with their eyes open;
a mask of shielding stupidity.
They know the knife will come
for them in their sleep;
meat, stock and wool.
Nightly with the vampire dog,
she travels over the hills
to find them.
She wears desiccated sheepskin as decoy.
Ravens banqueting off seeds in sheep
shit, warn them of her approach.
It is impossible to round them up
for slaughter. She wets her knife, cuts
her tongue, tastes blood the dog shares.
But this night she hypnotises the sheep,
divides them into lions, bullfrogs,
poets, musicians, artists in formaldehyde.
Some roar, others sing or croak;
several develop a taste for Beluga caviar
reciting baaas, displaying dung as art form.
Soon they forget they are sheep;
close their eyes, and one by one
she slowly slits their throats.
Dragon Sighs
Wind blows through the gates of day;
night keeps what night takes away.
Dreamt in a dream, Dragon sighs,
heating the air in morning skies.
The waft of weaving life wakes early spring;
birds fly from roof to roof and sing.
Dragon looks at us and what does he see?
Dying animals fixed firmly to eternity.
Vision of Windows
Doors see no arrivals or departures,
only comings and goings.
Doors are short sighted parts of a room.
I enter shutting blindly behind my back.
Doors close on lingering pasts,
on childhoods lived through mirrors.
Doors don’t reason; it doesn’t matter-
I cannot look back.
Doors open to different rooms;
more rooms, doors going forward forever.
Doors to doors … I go hunting
for a vision of windows left behind.
David R Morgan
6 Short stories by David R Morgan
| Grow Your Own Cats | Why so Blue? |
| Silly Trees | Fetch |
| William's Wonderful Wheelchair | 5 Wishes Come True |
| Grow Your Own Meerkats |
SPRINKLING SALT TO CATCH A SONG BIRD BY THE TAIL
(To catch a songbird by the tail.) Catch a wild songbird. Sprinkle salt on its tail. Cage the bird in your bedroom to sing you to sleep with stories.
What if the story continues, even when we die? A loop as long as eternity itself. We are all authors.
One spring day the good young boy went to the well in the forest. There he met an old woman, far more frail and feeble than his mother. The woman asked him for a drink of water. The boy replied, "Of course, old mother," and dipped the bucket for her. After quenching her thirst the woman said, "You are so kind and sweet and handsome that I will bless you for it. Each time you open your mouth, a lovely flower or a precious stone will drop from it. You will be called AZAK and it happened, for the woman was one of the faerie folk.
The boy ran home to tell his mother and brother, who were eating toast in the kitchen. Soon knee-deep in emeralds and roses, they believed him. The miserly termagant of a mother chased the elder boy into the forest to seek his fortune, too. The old woman was still at the well, and she asked the elder boy for a drink. But the willful teenager said, "I certainly will not fetch water for someone who has nothing better to do than sit on wells! Don't you have a home to go to?"
The old woman stamped her foot and said, "Oh! You are so mean and stubborn and ugly that I will curse you for it. Each time you open your mouth, a horrible insect or an ugly swamp creature will drop from it. You will be called ORK and it happened, for the woman was one of the faerie folk.
The boy ran home, weeping foul creatures. The shock killed his mother dead, who choked to death on a mouth full of toast. Then princess Bex rode by and spoke to the younger brother, who was very handsome... When he answered kindly, and in gems, she determined right then and there to marry him as a present to herself (his sweetness) and her kingdom (the gems). They lived happily ever after.
Driven mad by her curse, the elder boy ran away to a corner of the forest and lived all alone, waiting for a time when someone again should ask of him something, but since he was so ugly and quarrelsome, no one missed him or sought him out.
AZAK is fulfilled. ORK waits and waits and waits and .
Three apples fell out of the sky, one to me, one to the story teller, one to the one who has no home and walks beside me always. I can't eat them all. Laugh when you like, but take care please. We are all authors.
Catch a wild songbird. Sprinkle salt on its tail. Cage the bird in your bedroom to sing you to sleep with stories.
Early one morning, after a sleepless night because the night before my ready meal's sauce hadn't mixed with the meat, I sat in the kitchen when my toaster solemnly intoned "Are you aware that I am God?"
I turned from where I was pouring myself a cup of coffee and looked at the toaster with concern. It squatted on my counter, a gleamingly expensive chrome and steel box, packed with all the technology the twenty-first century could offer.
Its built-in artificial intelligence module allowed it to discuss with me exactly how I liked my toast, while its visual pickup scanned my face and body language, reading every nuance, all in the pursuit of tailor-made toast. Just throw in a loaf of unsliced bread and a box of butter, and out should pop exactly what would please the owner most, buttered and ready.
Except the thing hadn't worked right since I'd bought it, two weeks earlier. They had been incorporating AI into appliances since before the turn of the century, and you'd think after several years they would have gotten it right. But no, let me buy one little minor piece of kitchenware, one that I could not afford anyway on my middle management teacher's salary if not for an investments I had made a little while earlier,( thank you ORK) and it turns out to be a dud. I got it in the neck from Sue. Not only had it been unable to produce edible toast, now it was self-deifying.
I finished pouring my coffee and regarded the toaster with a mixture of bemusement and irritation.
"I am God!" the toaster thundered. Its voice, normally a pleasantly neutral contralto, was now laced with a deep, gravelly bass.
I flinched. I hadn't been aware that the machine's speaker was capable of that volume level. I sighed and glanced at the clock. Well, I was up early anyway, as said, couldn't sleep. Sue and the kids were still asleep in bed; I hoped that the toaster hadn't woken them.
Pulling a chair over from the table, I sat down in it backwards, folding my arms on the backrest. "God, eh? The God? As in The One Big Guy? Or Buddha? Or Zeus even? Can you be more specific? And can you please talk more quietly, my wife's given me enough of a hard time over you already."
The toaster was silent and I half smiled, imagining that perhaps it was taken aback at being questioned seriously. I might be just another cog in the education wheel, but I was proud to be a flexible thinker, with a sense of humour.
After a few seconds, the toaster spoke again. The booming voice was gone, but the tones were still deeper than normal. "Well, okay. Maybe not the God, but definitely a god, a minor deity at least. Of that I'm sure."
I considered my situation. Look at me, I thought. Fifty two years old, a teacher and here I am in my dressing gown and slippers discussing theology with a toaster. I shook my head ruefully and sipped my coffee.
The toaster interpreted this slight head movement as a negation. "You doubt me?" it screeched. "You dare my wrath?"
"No, no." I spoke quickly, setting my coffee cup down. "Not so loud, please. Just relax, no offense meant. But you must admit it's all rather incredible. All this god business, I mean."
I looked at the toaster's power cord. Maybe I should unplug it, but was that really necessary? What could it do, start firing overdone slices of toast at me?
The toaster noticed my furtive glance at the power cord. "No, wait!" it squeaked. "I'm sorry, I overreacted. I am a benevolent deity. Honest! I have proof!"
"Proof?" I raised his eyebrows. "What like a miracle?"
"Observe, oh doubting mortal." The toaster had its deep voice back. "Be awed before my power." The entire unit began to hum quietly. Shortly thereafter, two slices of toast popped up. "Take these, they are my bounty."
I hesitated, then reached forward and plucked out a slice of toast. It looked perfectly done. It was warm, and the smell of fresh baked bread and melted butter wafted to my nose. I licked his lips, and then paused, turning the bread over, eyeing it warily.
"Eat, eat!" the toaster insisted. "What? Do you think I would poison you? My most promising disciple? Besides, my built-in inhibitors prevent that."
True enough, I reflected. I shrugged and took a bite of the toast.
It was perfect. It was more than perfect. It crunched in my mouth with exquisite texture and perfect temperature. The butter had melted just right and was spread evenly, with no clumps or soggy spots. It was, well. . Divine!
"My god!" The expletive slipped out of my mouth around the flavourful mixture of crunchy toast and butter.
"Yes?" the toaster answered sweetly.
I frowned and swallowed. This had gone on long enough. And yet. . . I took another bite as a delaying tactic and thought furiously.
Finally, I said slowly, "Well, I won't deny it's the best piece of toast I've ever tasted. Maybe you are the god of toast."
"Great to have you onboard!" the toaster replied briskly. "Now that we've got that out of the way, there's the matter of worship. I have a little program worked out. Various rites and sacrifices, certain holidays, rituals, that sort of thing. Of course you'll have to quit your job for this higher calling but I'm sure--"
"Wait, slow down," I interrupted. "I can't quit my job, and I don't have time for rituals, or any of that stuff. Remember, if I don't work and pay the electric bill, they'll shut it off. Where would that leave the 'god of toast'?"
"Of course, for priests of the teacher class such as you," the toaster continued smoothly, "we have a more streamlined set of devotions."
"Which consist of. . .?"
"Ah. . . could I get you to bow three times to me each morning and say 'All Hail the Mighty God of Toast'?" The words tumbled from the toaster in a rush, trailing off in an almost plaintive tone.
I contemplated the piece of toast in my hand. I looked at the toaster. I thought of the long delays for warranty repair for this
type of appliance. My gaze even lingered momentarily on my slippers. I considered the fact that I would have to keep this a secret from Sue, Bex and Toby, but that shouldn't be too hard.
"It's a deal," I said "Just don't tell or talk to anyone else about this."
So every day, I get up early and perform my little ritual to my only expensive appliance, and every day it gifts me with an excellent side dish for my breakfast. We keep it between ourselves. When Sue and the kids want toast they use the grill. I am my toaster's only high priest.
Sure, it's a little embarrassing, but hey, it's a small price to pay for perfect toast.
Catch a wild songbird. Sprinkle salt on its tail. Cage the bird in your bedroom to sing you to sleep with stories.
Cast away the past or it will cast you away, look at the present in a different way. See destiny in the smallest thing. We are all authors. The ancients with their ancient songs, their scattered blood became roses.
When she was much younger, I took Bex's hand to go shopping at Tesco. Suddenly the creature Vizit jumped out in front of me singing Hard Day's Night. Toby was home with Sue making shapes out of toast. For a moment time stopped as we stared at each other, then the creature Vizit ceased singing, smiled and clicked the safety catch off his Smith and Wesson '45. Squatting, gun steady in my sight, "Bye bye Honey pie." He hissed.
Someone, I later found out was called ORK, craned his neck round the corner of AZAK's Best Kebab. In a split second the creature Vizit turned as a high velocity bullet soughed through the air and thudded the gun out of the creature Vizit's hand. He screamed as blood oozed out of his thumb and forefinger in shiny red rivulets forming roses on the ground. Then he vanished in a creep of nasty insects which buzzed slantwise and popped into emerald coloured bubbles blown away by the breeze.
I went to thank ORK, but all I found was a sparkling gem stone. I sold this and put the proceeds in the bank and this wise investment helped me later to afford a state of the art toaster. The Christmas after I received a card from ORK saying thank you for needing me.
Bex didn't see any of this 'other reality' of mine and we went into Tesco and bought Finest Shepherd's Pie, Die Hard With A Vengeance and I am a Little Teapot.
Happy days, interesting stories. We are all authors. The author's own story ends not with death, but with the loss of the story. The author is dead because there are no more stories to tell; no more stories that can be told. But what if running beside the day to day stories we author, another ' other reality' story runs of which we catch parts and glimpses in certain moments of abstract lucidity, or some dreams of greater than usual depth. In moments of passion, unfathomable grief, when we feel other than our normal selves. What if this story continues, even when we die? A loop as long as eternity itself. I am my toaster's only high priest.
Catch a wild songbird. Sprinkle salt on its tail. Cage the bird in your bedroom to sing you to sleep with stories.
Hold fast to your life's dream. Taste the salt on its' authors skin. Leave your story behind when you go.
David R Morgan
2008
THE FIELD OF FANTASTIC NAMES
David R Morgan
Toby was sitting in the middle of a field talking to himself as usual. He was muttering something "Toby's not my name anymore. I changed it in the Field of Fantastic Names." |
'Alice Threw The Looking Glass' Poem by David R Morgan
|
Bubblegum Robin
There was a Robin that usually perched on my windowsill. About a week ago, a bad storm came through and blew all the worms away. I felt sorry for the Robin. She must have gone somewhere else to find worms, I thought to myself. Then one morning the Robin reappeared.
“Where have you been?” I asked the Robin.
“Just out flying around”, he replied.
“Did you find anything to eat?” I asked.
“Oh there’s plenty of food, but all the twigs and straw were blown away with last week’s storm,” said the Robin in a sad voice.
“I am sorry to hear that. What are you going to do?” I asked.
“Can you please give me some bubblegum?” asked the Robin.
I was surprised that a Robin would ask for bubblegum, but I was happy to share it with my friend. The Robin chewed and chewed and chewed and then blew a bubble bigger than her entire body and flew out of sight.
The very next morning Robin appeared on my windowsill, and asked for another piece of bubblegum. The Robin chewed the gumballs I gave her, and then blew an even bigger bubble and then flew out of sight.
A couple of days passed and I hadn’t seen the Robin. I wondered what she was up to.
Then on Thursday as I was outside playing make-believe a voice called out my name. I looked around but didn’t see anyone. The voice called out my name again, and this time I realized it was coming from the oak tree in my back garden. It was the Robin who was calling out my name, and she was sitting in a red, orange, and blue nest.
“Look what you helped me build,” said the Robin.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, since there aren’t twigs or straw left from the storm, I had to build something where I could lay my eggs. Because of your willingness to share your bubblegum with me, I was able to build this nest for me and my family.”
I climbed up the oak tree, and sure enough there were two little blue eggs laying in the nest made of bubblegum.
It felt good to share my bubblegum in the first place, and once I realised it helped the Robin build her nest it made sharing feel even better.
Moral: If things become difficult, you’ve just got to stick with it.
THE END
I’m a leaf
Louise was bored when she went to bed.
When she woke up she was a leaf.
It was a very windy day.
Louise blew out of her bedroom window
and down her road.
Mum and Dad would have
been surprised and brother Tommy too.
But they didn’t know and didn’t see
Louise swirling over cars and around lampposts
and between cheeky cats trying to catch her.
‘I think I may go clear across the world.’ Louise thought.
She spiralled up to the sky
so high, and then down nearly to the ground again.
“Having fun?” said an oak leaf.
“Yes, thank you.” Replied Louise.
“Follow me. “ The Oak leaf said,
“My name’s Sam and I’m seven !”
Below a clown was doing magic trips in the park
to advertise his circus that was there.
Before Louise know it she was shooting
down a fun slide in the park’s playground.
“Wheee.” She was spinning on the roundabout with Sam.
Suddenly from all around other leaves joined them.
Then the wind changed, shifting them,
Blowing out of the park, down the main street,
As birds raced them and dogs barked.
Over the railway tracks the leaves flew.
A train whistled speeding away below them.
Then across a stream they went and through a field.
Up ahead of them was a wood
They all whisked towards it.
The trees swaying in the wind were so happy
to see them :”Welcome. ”They said “Welcome.”
The leaves hovered softly on the breeze.
“The old one is losing life. “ The trees said,
“He has been calling his children back to him again,
But they do not come. If you young ones could just
settle on his branches for a while,
it might give him life once more.”
The old tree stood bare branched
In the centre of the wood. He looked so sad.
The leaves all settled on his knotted limbs.
“I can feel a shudder.” Said Louise at last.
“Same as.” Said Sam.
All the leaves fluttered in agreement.
It was as if a flow of life returned.
“Thank you.” Said the ancient tree. “ I remember
now what life felt like and I feel it return.”
The trees all swayed, cheering
and the many coloured leaves danced and played
through his branches in celebration .
When Louise woke up she was a girl again.
The wind had gone.
Had it all been a dream ?
She felt disappointed.
After breakfast she went for a walk with mum
and they found themselves in the wood.
There was the old tree.
It had a single leaf on each branch. The
sign of returning life.
Louise smiled. Mum was busy looking at wild flowers.
“Hallo, I’m Sam and I’m seven.” Said a boy,
“Did you dream this as well? “
“Yes” Said Louise, “I’m Louise. I’m five.
We’ve met before.
And they both smiled,
as the magic wind blew through their hair.
This Cockerel won’t crow!
The sun rose over the Catton farm and Toby, their new cockerel, took his place on top of a wooden fence next to the barn. The Catton’s wanted a good crower, because their other cockerel had lost his voice and couldn’t find it anywhere!
Toby clinched the spurs of his feet against the wood, and belted out the loudest MOOOOOOOOOOO you ever heard. Again, and again, Toby went MOOOOOOOOOOO, MOOOOOOOOOOO, and MOOOOOOOOOOO some more. Toby’s mooing shocked everyone on the farm; especially since the Catton’s didn’t own a cow. The ducks were shocked. The Sheep were shocked. But the pigs OINK OINK OINK! Were particularly shocked.
MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
“Sue, did you hear that?” Martin asked his wife.
“It’s only a cow.” She said
“What cow?”
Martin’s two daughters, Annie, and Ellie got up. “It’s probably just some old cow that got loose from the McHenry farm, Martin,” shouted Mrs. Catton from behind the kitchen door, as they set off to school.
Toby was still sitting on top of the wooden fence, near the barn.
“Hello, Toby. Where’s the cow?” asked Martin.
Toby started to shake because he still had some moo left in him. His body started to twitch and he couldn’t hold it in any longer. Toby let out the loudest MOOOOOOOOOOOO ever.
Annie and Ellie jumped up and down with excitement. “Daddy, we have a cow now,” said Annie.
“Yes, I heard him too,” said Ellie.
“We don’t have a cow. What we’ve got is a cockerel with a strange sense of humour. Girls, the school bus is here, off you go.”
Martin shook his head. “What’s with the mooing Toby?” He said.
“Mr. Catton, I had a life at the McHenry farm and was very happy there.”
“Toby, I paid Mr. McHenry for you. If you want a nice hen Hazel’s the cute brown and white coloured hen over by the henhouse.”
“But I already care about somebody else.” said Toby in a sad voice.
“Toby this is your home now. Forget that hen over at the McHenry farm.”
“She isn’t a hen,” Toby said
“What do you mean?” asked Martin.
Toby broke down in tears “My Edna, oh how I miss my dear Edna.”
“All right, all right, take it easy. Edna’s very important to you. But if Edna isn’t a hen, what is she?”
“She’s a cow, Mr. Catton! Edna is a big, beautiful cow.”
“You’re joking?” asked Martin.
“No, sir, I’m not. That’s why I’ve been mooing. I told Edna before they took me that I would moo as loud as I could for her. I want her to know I am thinking of her.”
“Toby, how did you fall in love with a cow? You’re a cockerel for crying out loud.”
“Whoever said love was easy, Mr. Catton? Is mooing really that big a deal?” asked Toby.
“Coming from a cockerel, yes, Toby it is. If word gets out that my cockerel moos instead of crows; the local supermarket would probably stop buying from me thinking I have defective chickens. Bright and early tomorrow morning I’ll be expecting to hear several loud crows.”
As Martin walked away
“Excuse me,” Hazel said to Toby. “I hope you don’t mind, but I was listening to your conversation with Mr. Catton, and I would like to offer you some friendly advice.”
“Sure, fire away,” said Toby.
“Well Mr. Catton’s just trying to make an honest living to support his family,” said the Hazel. “What’s so wrong with our farm anyway? Crow, just crow, you’ll love it once you do. “
Toby couldn’t sleep a wink that night. He thought about running back to the McHenry farm, but was afraid that would get him and Edna both in trouble.
The next morning as the sun peeked over the horizon, Toby followed his heart and let out a very loud MOOOOOOOOOOO.
Martin shook his head and went to get the keys to his Land rover.
“Where are you going so early?” asked Mrs. Catton.
“I’m going to town to find a buyer for that crazy cockerel.”
But he failed to find a buyer for Toby. Word had already spread about his mooing cockerel. Every morning Toby mooed with all his might. People started to flock to the Catton farm to see Toby moo his heart out. When Toby’s mooing was reported in the local paper, Martin decided he would have to find a buyer for Toby outside of Hertfordshire. He wanted to be done with this troublesome bird once and for all.
“Daddy, can we please keep Toby?” Annie said.
“Annie, we’ve already talked about this. We can no longer have this cockerel causing so much disruption in our lives.”
“He doesn’t cause me dis-rup-tins, Daddy,” cried Ellie.
Annie got very excited and blurted out, “I have an idea how we can save Toby. Why can’t Toby and Edna be together here as an attraction?”
Mr. Catton liked Annie’s idea the moment he heard it. After a long sit down talk between Martin and Mr. McHenry, it was agreed. Toby and Edna would be pets. The money from people coming to see them would be split between Martin and Mr. McHenry.
In no time at all Martin had made more money from the two of them than he would have with a hundred cockerels on his farm.
And as for Toby and Edna, well, they’re still together to this day. They couldn’t be happier. People who visit them now don’t find it that odd anymore. But they do have the strangest children you ever did see.
COCK-A-DOODLE MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Bedford Jersey Arts festival
1 May – 5 July 2009 in Bedfordshire UK
Celebrating 70 years of friendship 1939—2009
“Victoria College, Jersey children evacuated to Bedford School during the Nazi Occupation of Jersey in WWII”
This website is an ongoing project started in late January 2009.