ROPE STORE UNLOCKED BY THE QUAY

The High Tide Poets meet above the old rope store
Where the bosun's ropes aren't stored any more
Shepard's fleet of boats, carts and lorries
Cargoes lashed down with rope - no modern health and safety worries

Horse drawn cart and lorries laden with flour for
Island bakers numbering sixty four
Each sack weighing in pounds seven score
Eight sacks weigh half a ton
Baked freshly into loaves of bread and many a currant bun

Biscuits came from McVities and Peak Frean
Not in colourful packets but sold loose in a shiny returnable tin
Six o'clock morning start to the Island wide delivery round
Working late into the night before turning homeward bound

For four hundred years, boats dependent on wind, tide and shifting sand
Sailed when possible with fruit, vegetables and eggs to the mainland
In 1897, J S White built steam vessels which could go every day
Guaranteed deliveries by Shepard's Foam and Spray

The railway came along in eighteen sixty seven
Crossing the river on a bridge seeming to be as high as heaven
But if a train was due or maybe running late
The bridge wouldn't open to let boats through - they had to wait

Exotic fresh fruit came then every day from Southampton
From the straw wrapped bananas, snakes and spiders would run
Down the backs of the carters as they started to unload
These strange fruits - curious crowds stared and blocked the road

Summer weekends saw thirty thousand holiday makers and day trippers
Loaded down with trunks and cases, full of clothes, buckets and spades for the nippers
Their tickets included luggage delivery by carrier to the guest house door
To carry the bag to the room, the van driver got sixpence or a shilling tip more

Newport Carnival was a huge affair between the war years
The police declared an amnesty for those revelers
who'd consumed too many beers
Highly decorated local businesses' carnival floats – sixty or more
Marchers had money bags on poles
Collecting donations from windows on the first floor

Shepards owned a couple of Foden steam wagons with a chain drive
Carried only four tons of flour but this load was increased by a factor of five
In 1956 an AEC Matador with a four wheeled trailer on a draw bar
Delivered twenty tons of flour to the bakers
Between the Rivers Medina and the Yar

At the Bargeman's Rest pub, the mast set back from
the quay, allows a public right of way
A steam derrick hoisted bags over the heads of passers-by every day
The steam traction engine nicknamed terriers
Because their dog clutches bit with a snap
Often frightening a lady, driving past in her pony and trap

Generations of Shepards born on the Isle of Wight
Were called up by their country, her enemies to fight
Bill Shepard's father was captured in the trenches of nineteen fourteen
In 1945, Bill himself drove through the gates of Buchenwald
He cannot speak of the horrors he has seen

All those years ago, the comradeship was good, the work was hard
Neighbours bartered vegetables for a piece of bacon or pork lard
Buy a baby piglet in April, take for walks on a lead
So in November, weighing eighteen stone, it wasn't afraid
To be taken for its final walk to the slaughter house
Where into pork, black pudding, sausages and bacon it was made

Delivery boys on bikes would whistle "You never miss
your mother until she's gone"
To the drinkers in the pub on a Saturday night, this
was always the last song
These memories of an Isle of Wight that is no more
Told by 88 year old Bill Shepard, to the High Tide Poets meeting,
Above the Quay Arts Rope Store

Mark Mordey

THE VOICE OF THE GREEN ROOM    

Nothing green in me but the sign
pointing to the fire exit.
I am sharp, electric spots and neglected beams;
Gray plastic light reflects in my eyes.

Where has all the jute dust gone?

Dreaming steam, gas lamp posts,
barges, mudslop and sad whistle.
Crouchers, Shepards, I saw them all.

Today pens scratch and squeak across the page
like ghosts of mice still skittering on my old oak floor.
I am a place for peace, concentration, calming,
creation, the birth of a poem. 

Is this an honourable retirement?

 Poem by the whole group.

THE ROPE STORE    

three whole storeys
rising from the river
each one housing rope
simply rope

rope for lashing
rope for binding
rope for tethering
rope for tying, rope for towing
rope for hitching and securing
rope for fastening and attaching

rope – bedrock of their business
all those Crouchers
all those Shepards
all their barges
all their lorries

rope for mooring, heaving , hauling
rope for bow lines, stem lines, springs

ropes to raise the mast and spars
trim the sails, secure the boom
hoist a pennant, show a signal
dip the Ensign to the setting sun

ropes to test the would-be seaman
tie a clove-hitch, bowline, sheep bend
make one rope of two –use a hawser bend
rope for lifebuoys
rope for splicing
endless rope for fenders

no synthetics used in those days
just manila ropes or sisal, ropes of hemp or jute
all liable to mildew, prone to rot
all shout for storage in the dry

hence a dedicated rope store
purpose built and weather proof
maintain the twin fleet of the Shepards
sustain the life blood of the Crouchers.

Joan Waddleton

CAFÉ TALK    

Bricks and white walls,
glass doors and arches,
formed from my bones.
Here I hold you,
Your space of comfort,
A meeting place.

"What do you want?”
“Coffee, um, no milk. Here, I’ll get them. Take this,”
“No, no. My turn. You paid last time."

“I’ve told you before, I can’t take them Sunday.”
“Well, I don’t see why not. You could make an effort!”
“Shush!. Keep your voice down!”

“I’ve got to see a new doctor next week and I’m really
not in the mood. It really stresses me out.”
“Well, you never know, he might be all right.”
“Yeah, right!”

“I’ve got something to tell you. Are you sitting comfortably?”
“What, what? Oh my God! You’re not, are you?”
“I know, I know! We’re not telling everyone yet so don’t
say anything, but I wanted you to be one of the first to know.”

Emma Cotton

CROSSING THE BRIDGE    

Who would have expected
the twist of a leaping fish
between the flicker of a reed
finely fashioned
from a suppleness of steel
and in the green deep reflected

while downstream a swan
stretches its wings?

Lydia Fulleylove

VOICES AT AN EXHIBITION    

Realism at last
   Oil on canvas, Sirius the barge

Something I can understand, see –
   The Ryde Queen, Crossing the Solent

It almost makes me seasick
   Old Gaffers, Racing Round The Needles

Superb technique, I can feel the spray
   The Storm, The Squall, The Wreck
   The Red Jet leaves, The Pier Struts

Give me an abstract any day!

Lydia Fulleylove

STORIES CONCURRING   

Back into the past
Never mind the present
Live it all over again
Our lives re-wound
Press, play and then fast-forward to NOW

Vidya Wolton

ROPE STORE UNLOCKED BY THE QUAY 2    

Not rope but music, arts and poetry here,
Waitresses serve coffee, not barmaids stevedore’s beer
The Croucher men with a horsedrawn dray
Load from the Shepard’s boats Foam and Spray.

Waiting for the trains carrying holiday makers
Luggage as cargo with flour for the Island’s bakers,
Carrying bags into hotels was a perk for the nippers
They got sixpence tip from the overner trippers.

Delivery boys on bikes whistled, “You’ll never miss your mother
till she’s gone”, on Saturday nights a drinking man’s last song,
of a time when bananas displayed in a grocer’s store
drew a curious crowd, “baint never seen one of they before”.

Wages were low so neighbours had a barter system,
Potatoes and milk swapped bor a backyard raised pig’s ham,
Working eighteen hour days to make ends meet,
Croucher’s horses and carts replaced by a Foden lorry fleet.

Named after the Island’s shipping families
Shepard’s Wharf and the Croucher’s Quays,
A working harbour in Victorian days
Now a venue for music, films and plays.

Mark Mordey

ROPE STORE   

Workaday old place, that’s me
who’d have a roof like mine –
weird hat
not my fault, had to squeeze in tight
up to the rail bridge
snug, almost in bed with it,
dirty neighbour, smoke, steam.

Miss it now,
the noise, echoes underneath
where boys would shout
sometimes bring tin drums to beat,
that racket with the squeal
of wheels on rails.

My outside walls grooved by ropes,
cart edges, sweat of horses,
the blokes working, straining at the hoists,
swearing (look out boys, lady coming!)
bitter beer and bread and cheese
in the Dolphin pub, old Pragnell
at the tap, then back to work,
in me, round me, hoisting, hauling.

Robin Ford

BRIDGE OVER THE RIVER QUAY   

I bridge the gap between reception and the loos
People cross me to reach the restaurant where they choose
Homebaked cookies and a cup of herbal tea
Or a slice of cake with frothy coffee.

I once was a proud oak tree blocking light
Grown from an acorn to a towering height
Now countless feet hurriedly walk
Sharing drinks, making small talk.

Actors, poets and singers come in their hordes
Cal their performances ‘treading the boards’,
When they venture out on the wooden stage
Trees, who like me, did not die of old age

Squirrels in our branches with sap rising by osmosis
Leaves sheltering lovers sharing a stolen kiss,
But now I’m just a wooden bridge that’s taken for granted
A future unforeseen when that acorn was planted.

The winds blow and you hear me sighing
Like the bridge in Rome Audrey Hepburn crossed crying
On her way to throw three coins in the fountain –
My wish: to be back on my Scottish mountain

Mark Mordey

GREEN ROOM   

I stay always the same
even my name –
Green Room – simply denotes a private space
where actors assume a different face

now poets slowly prise apart their mental cage
let loose weird fantasies, long hidden rage,
bit by bit reveal their childhood fears,
release their unshed tears

while others only watch and listen
trauma lodged too deep
to let them dare to trust,
begin to speak.

My walls sturdy, indifferent,
reflect more mundane times
when floors held only endless coils of rope,
wanted no truck with rhymes.

Joan Waddleton

SPIRIT OF THE BACKLANDS   

The harbour dribbles out to mess of weeds,
scrap metal and spare parts; walls and quays
on arid afternoons are dun with moss and algae
which swiftly turns viridian in rain.

Chickweed and milky thistle hunker down
in grooves and runnels clogged with grit
sharp as coarse milled pepper and as hot.
The plant that is the genius of the place

is groundsel, rough trade of ruts and ditches,
which loves to live where men loose soil,
hugs gutters, quaysides, cobbled lanes,
inside edges of a main street’s pavement,

snatches life wherever dust allows,
roots gripping tight as spider’s legs its prey;
it flaunts its tight blond head above lobed leaves
deep cut as plunging necklines. Grows hoary

when it ages, then is freest with its seed,
gangs up with dandelions and all the mob
that’s never to be beaten, thrives
where well-bred flowers would never grow.

Robin Ford

ORCHARD STREET   
(where Bill Shepard grew up)

The strange star shaped library,
not much in common with the two-up, two-downs
previously housing the people of Orchard Street.

Then the stray pig used the back door, tiny Bill used the front door
to sneak down to the stream
his movements recorded by a neighbouring woman a few doors down

The Orchard Street children
from dawn till dusk, their days filled with instances of intent and pleasure.

The library
shelves packed with stories and facts, perhaps about bananas,
hardbacked voices and memories
and the marvel of bananas, shipped by Shepards to make an Island entrance.

But also
echoes of the voices and lives of Orchard Street
and perhaps, far away,
still the faint sound of hooves slowly moving down Long Lane
accompanied by singing.

Cilla Gyllenberg

THE GREEN ROOM SPEAKS   

Who is coming down the corridor through my door,
someone new or have they been here before
to tread the boards of my hardwood floor,
to rest and change before performing on stage once more.

I hear musicians tuning up
and after the performance they return to sup
champagne whose corks go pop
or just a warm drink from the coffee shop.

They watch the hands on my clock seemingly go slow
but then they speed up in the last 5 minutes before they go
down the stairs, then entering either stage left or right
to give the performance of their life – each night

Mark Mordey

RAT’S RANT    

From bilges of barges
And foc’sles of freighters
From warehouse and wharf
Under Satan’s banner we swarm and storm

Through doorway and casement
Of rope store and granary
From sail loft and basement
warehouse and wharf
we’re the long tailed army, brazen and brave.

Hurrying scurrying
Scampering scattering
Gnawing and nibbling
Squealing and chattering
Come to plunder, pillage and pilfer.

We spread panic and the plague
With our cargo of fleas
Pestilence and pox
Death and disease
We are the rats who once ruled your quay.

Now condemned by decree
Of the Warfarin wars
Our muster has dwindled
More furtive our cause
Verminous vagabonds we now haunt your dock.

Once we nested
In oakum and jute
Now it’s plastic and paper
From rubbish we loot
Hidden nurseries of gray coated bandits.

Subversive, secretive
Lurking and hiding
In crevice and crack
‘Neath grating and piling
plotting and planning to seize back our wharf.

Subversive and secretive
Cunning and sly
A guerrilla army
Like snipers we lie
Under Satan’s banner once more we’ll arise

Fabrics of nightmares
Scandal and scream
Over panic and loathing
We still reign supreme
Here to take over when you drop your guard.

Caroline Harris

GALLERY GIRL    

I don’t slink and I don’t sashay
(I sure look good in papier-mache)
diptych, triptych (better than lipstick)
mine’s the hautest couture of all
(my hips are huge but I’m very tall).

Cubes and tubes are just my style
(beat Balenciaga by a mile)
languid landscapes, Braques and Bosches,
splishes, splashes, oils and washes
pastel’s, prints, objets trouve
(visit me, I’m in the Louvre)

Giftwood, driftwood, fat wood, thin wood
(never mind Westwood, mine’s the best wood)
if your post is modern or you’re another Rodin
I’ll model your model – its just a doddle.

Bring to me your ist or ism –
they’ll find a home on my vast bosom,
jestsam, flotsam (you bet I got some)
rusty roves and you-know-whatsom.

Fix it, mix it, let it all hang out,
movin’ and groovin’ are what I’m about,
(bet your plinth, your board or bracket
fits me snug as a Versace jacket).

Accessorise, accessorise, deck me out in any guise,
all your modellers, makers, moulders,
hang your creations on your shoulders,
so bring your bling, have your fling
(action painting’s just my thing)
I’ll look fetching in your etching
(come on up and see my sketching).

Beware you Mary, Maud or Mavis
(my ars is longa, your vita brevis)
your va-va-voom will run out real soon,
are you really all that clever?
Exhibits come, exhibits go
but I’m as cool as ever.

For all your art, this lass is smart,
While you’re glazing, I’m just lazing,
On your brush I’m in no rush
Your installation is my recreation.
My life’s a still one, your toils never cease-
gotta agree, I’m a MISTRESSPIECE!

Heather Pimental