WORDS-SOME ARSEY VERSEY

ARSEY VERSEY

Ash James Word Gallery

Arsey Versey ©Ash James is a collection of Poetry, Prose and Lyrics capturing moments, some ethereal, others not. A few pieces are shown below.

The complete book of Arsey Versey ©Ash James will be published late 2024/early 2025..

_{Photo©Ash James}

A Flavour of the Versey

“Writing to keep the peace“

Some poems about nauseous training sessions, competitive list-making, the side effects of too much curry, travelling bore, and a Liverpool poetic legend.

A flavour of the complete Arsey Versey to come.

_{All poems ©Ash James.}

DO US ALL A FAVOUR

Funny how hot air expands
When in a room of folk,
Whose heads and minds are gold but dulled
By the speakers drowning choke.

I didn`t ask to be sat here
It`s in the job description.
Enlighten mind and reach new goals,
You couldn`t write such fiction.

What talent as he reads the screen
Inspired by all he wills.
Whilst we`re all locked below his decks
Without the sea-sick pills.

Despite all hopes and joys ahead
Of foreign shores desired,
He blabbers on remote from thoughts
That he should be retired.

There`s a bit of him in all of us
Crammed down by learnt behaviour,
So keep it swift as life`s too short
And do us all a favour.
© Ash James

Dudley 2002

Written in the face of increasing torpor brought on during a trundling training session; others chose to doodle or gently doze; I chose a poetic recording.

But let`s not forget;“there`s a bit of him in all of us”.

RAMBLINGS OF A LISTED MAN

I like making lists.

They do for me see,
Crossing the i`s,
Dotting the t`s,
Writing things down,
Ticking things off,
Means I`ve achieved
Still cutting the cloth.
Groceries,yes,
Car and a bed,
Pay the insurance,
Assemble the shed.
Visit the bank,
Plan a campaign,
Strike out the meeting
And greeting the sane.
Colour the pad in,
Yellow for must,
Green for maybe,
And red for bust.
Get it together
Through mirth,strife and mess,
What have you listed
For birth,life and death?

1.Birth.
I was an accident.
They wanted a stunner.
When I shot out arse first,
My dad did a runner.

2.Life
Oh glorious fumble,
And traumatised joy.
Spent half of it trembling,
That I`d possibly die.

3.Death
Don`t go with a whimper,
But jump with a shout.
Grab hold of your felt tip,
And cross yourself out.

And so, of course,

Please don`t suppose
That my lists are inferior.
You`re more serial worrier
Than Mother Superior.
So join me in listing
And insisting, discover,
The cut of your pencil
And thrust of your rubber
© Ash James

Stourbridge 2005

An ode to all the noble “listers” out there, from those glory days of “pencil” and “rubber”.

Oh and spoiler alert, my lovely Dad didn`t really do a runner!

DELHI HELLY

_{“Hello Delhi,
Are you there?
Over”.
Lying as you do so deep in the protesting heart of my colon.

I could eat you for breakfast
Don`t you know?
“Over”.
Despite the rumbling protests that sometimes follow.

You see it was too good an offer,
A friend`s Hindu wedding.
“Receiving you. Over.”
Two days of curryferific delight; what bliss.

And then that not so propper-dom,
The smell of the divine.
“Receiving you loud and clear.Over.`
The first signs, sitting on that wooden floor waiting for the ceremony to start.

Oh the spice of joy
The hot breath of contagion.
“We have a problem.Over.”
That gentle, almost quantitative easing,
Of my far too imbibing self-deluding pleasing.
“May Day, May Day.”
Shrapnel. Problem with the undercarriage.
“May Day,May Day.Losing height, not coping with the winds.”

Look for a landing,
A clean space,
A field even.
Avoid all humans
And collateral damage.
Lumber twitch, try stout self-control, start to sweat, convulsion.
Keep calm, don`t panic,
You`re a responsible adult.
“May Day, May Day.”
Losing focus, irrational thoughts abound.
Matters may soon be beyond my control.
“Can`t hang on, repeat, can`t hang on”.

But just as darkness lures you in
You find yourself at an island.
It`s not tropical, or just off-shore from some barrier reef.
It`s not even covered in impenetrable scrub.
No, it leads off the ring road in Coventry.
And by it there`s a Macdonald`s.
And by that, as if from heaven-sent, there`s a parking place;
A convenience.

“Parachute, parachute,
Every man for himself.”
Land.
Run.
Quick, please, really quick.
But then again just slow enough to keep your injury together,
And to check if you`ve left a trail.
Excitement and joy uncontained,
Up past the poster for a carbon-free quarter-pounder,
And with not so much as a thought for regular-fries,
You`re there,
The door.
The toilet door.
Thank you, thank you, I do believe. Forgive me for I nearly sinned.

You push at the handle.
What? Oh no !
There`s somebody already in residence.
Ahhh.
Exterminate, exterminate.
Terror, pain, anger, guilt
“I think I`m finished, over.”
Wasn`t the old Gerry that did for me, it was the curry.
Slide down the wall, an Etna about to erupt.

And then the door opens.
A startled man goes by without eye-contact,
Doesn`t tarry even to wash his hands.
But you don`t care,
You`re inside.
And that plastic seat, still warm, more welcome than a Peerage,
Gives way to joy.
“Evacuate, Evacuate.”
You could almost cry,
With relief,
With shame.
But you`ve made it back from the edge of excess,
To the plains of civility, containment and well-being.
You pushed the boundaries known to man,
And was saved by a burger-bar.

“Goodbye Delhi.}_{I shall never forget you.”}
^{_{© Ash James}}

Coventry (McDonald`s) 2010

An account of a moment of anguish and desperation from which few are immune. My favourite of all foods turned angry after I over-indulged at the most magnificent Hindu wedding.

I was on the extreme edge of coping, having pursued that “extra curry mile”.

Thank you McDonalds.

I remain gratefully available for promotional work. xx

TOLEDO

“Hello”, I said,
But to no response.
Must be a foreign concept, a steamed-roller to those such as these,
This happiness thing.

Just an `eyeball` of recognition, maybe,
I thought,
To show that you`ve at least chosen to ignore, to blank, to freeze,
Or that maybe you just don`t know.

Then; “check the Amex Card would be good”,
A voice.
“Yes, the Gold Card, that`s the one-just to be sure we`re good to go”.
And then a whine by response in the earpiece.

“Yeah, great shots of Toledo; I`ll download them to Ed”.
Oh that`s good (I thought)
“And can you google Aix-En-Provence and let me know of the suite we talked about”
“You can get me on the Spanish mobile”.

They didn`t see,
Each other that is, nor me, nor you, nor the spectacular view.
Never spoke, broke bread, drank wine, took the time,
Except to bark some command, or holler `can do`.

There must be a way,
To cross from one continent to another, to fly the blue, surf the clouds,
Without floating in dollars, sterling or yen,
Or obdurance, or obesity of both action and intent.

That clouds with emissions
The good that locks in,
To everyone and everything that is presented to us in this wonderful existence.
Whether noble,inglorious, vain or just proud.

It`s a subject to challenge the dons
From the spires of marble, that philosi and phise,
`To have or to hold ? Discuss`.
Until death do ye part .

Simple,
But now, in respect of this issue,
I trust in the gold, and the riches, and the heart, that is defined;
By our love.

And so you can stick your “hello” friend,
Where the Amex won`t bend, friend.
You may travel the world on your air-bagged threadworm carpet of show,
But you`ll never arrive.
^{_{©Ash James}}

Parador de Vic-Sau, Osona, NE Spain.

Peace and civility trampled upon by the entitlement of a self-significant loudspeaker of a man.

ROGER McGOUGH

It`s not often a legend appears in real life, and one who`s inspired me since youth.
Especially in Crete where legends are rife, and above average legends in truth.

So to find that tonight I`m sharing a bed with a colossus , a `Scouser-ing Poet,`
Who`s lyrical potions and postures have fed my own needs to tease those who `just know it`.

It`s not that the Raki has addled my mind, nor the whispy Med winds that breathe life,
And of course it`s not him that`s tucked up by my side, but another Greek god called `the wife`.

But it`s still fair to say that the prose he hath left, in the visitors book by the door.
Has more than impressed this next-best stressed guest, before he shot off from this shore.

So hat`s off to your genius you Liverpool name, your words have enlightened life`s broth,
There`s many a Roger with surnames of fame, but only one `Roger McGough`.

_{©Ash James}

^{_{Vamos, Crete 2023}}

Roger McGough is a legend of the poetry turf. Author of 100 plus poetry books, founding member of the Liverpool Poets, President of the Poetry Society, presenter of Poetry Please on BBC Radio 4, beloved of the populous. He actually is greater than be contained by the term “colossus”. Imagine my shock therefore upon finding a poem left by him in the visitor book of our humble holiday habitation in Crete.There is nothing more a poet likes to do than swap a random ramble or two. So with trepidation I completed this response in homage to the great man.

Thank you, Roger McGough.