Versifier

Ivor Murrell offers selections of his poetry, a harvest of experiences and emotions

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    • The Elusive Purple Roller
      One of the most elusive birds in Botswana was perhaps the most colourful.  For a moment one perched a considerable distance from me, and using a new camera, which was far more skilled than me, I managed to take the amazing photograph below. CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM   For […]
    • The River’s Voice
      This poem was written for the Waveney and Blyth Arts recent Poetry Competition, and was ‘Commended’. The subject set was to write about the area that the Rivers Waveney and Blyth  flow through. I read it at a poetry evening in Diss Cornhall on October 9th.   PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO […]
    • The proof that civilisation started by eating together.
      Jean and I were in Falmouth, Cornwall for a few days.  We were shown to a table for four in a restaurant and asked if we would mind sharing it,  if required.  We replied ‘No, we did not mind’.  Part way through the first course a stranger, subsequently identifying himself as George Woodward, sat down. […]
    • A Presence in the Wilderness – June 4th, 2014
       A highlight of our visit to The Kalahari, an unexpected meeting in fading light, just after sun-set, seventy metres from our tent.   PLEASE CLICK ON THE  BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM   Deception Valley in the Central Kalahari, where we searched for you for hours amongst the desiccated grasses, rich in brittle blooms […]
    • Secretary Bird Tanka
      Here is a thirty- one syllable Tanka straight from the Central Kalahari, inspired by that wonderful member of the Eagle family.  The photos were taken with my birthday present from my wife.       Some soar but I stride tirelessly in long black shorts quills behind my ears desiccation dictating managerial options.     […]
    • Mr and Mrs Badge
       Have you ever been on a wonderful travel experience, where one or more of those taking part think that you are very fortunate to have them in the group? PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM   How reassuring it must be believing  your experience and knowledge, however slight, takes  priority […]
    • Reading the Rune
      A recent note from Geraldine Green reminded me to post another one of my poems that started in one of her dynamic workshops in January 2014, and was subsequently polished over a several months to result in this final version.     PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM   Passed […]
    • A Sweet Retrospective
      In the 1930’s the Pan Floor Manager was the most powerful man in the Home Grown Sugar (beet)  factories, and a seven year apprenticeship had to be undertaken to learn how to boil sugar.  That power had long gone in the 1960’s and it took me about a month to learn how to run a […]
    • Lines of demarcation
      All poets sift their childhood for subject matter, and some experiences surface more readily than others.   PLEASE CLICK ON THE ARROW BUTTON ABOVE TO HEAR THIS POEM       It was winter, several weeks from his fifth birthday when  his father left him at  grandmother’s farm. No memory of  a parting,  perhaps its […]
    • Fading by degree
      One of our shyest Summer visitors, the Grasshopper Warbler sings in a high range, somewhere between 5 to 8 kHz.     Reeling in the reeds your high pitched Summer love song ageing ears can’t hear […]

Tiffling acrorst

The Suffolk Poetry Society  organised an excellent event called ‘Soundings’ on  June 25th 2011,  under the leadership of Cameron Hawke Smith.  It considered the variety of ways that words can sound in different languages and in dialect.  Catalysed by this approaching event my Suffolk origins encouraged me to write this poem about weed control in farming, but setting it before the discovery of pesticides when weeds were pulled by hand and when the Suffolk dialect was commonplace.

PLEASE PRESS ABOVE KEY TO HEAR THE POEM READ

 Rye grass in a wheat crop – HGCA image

 

Hoad yew hard bor!
Yew hint no one hoss race.
The end of this row
hint gowan no place,

Tiffle about bor!
There’s nawthen more
til six weeks arter
the dawg rose flower

Yar sorft in the hid bor
if you believe that squit
that the money start to coom
when the snipe begin to drum.

This fild’l bait us bor!
Thas alus fare fulla tare
att’l pay us a tidy bit,
wal – do at don’t at did.

Let your maul miss bor!
We marnt claw ‘old of all
now trod that one in -
haps att’l coom agin.

Thas wholly roight bor!
Suffen gotta gew in
for us ta git suffen out.
Bank acrorst the fild bor
roight under gaffer’s snout.
 

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2 Responses

  1. Ar, bor, but that thar pome dew remoind me a them good ol’days afore Oi gone furren. Oi in’t niver bin able ter make up a good loin with “dew ‘at don’t ‘at did” in’t noither – tho’ I ‘member ‘et bein’ said many a toime – so yer hev moy amiration thar.

    Oi’m very glad to discover this whole soite, tew: dew Oi vis’t et enough Oi moight git moy owd accint back agin, an’ the pomes int ‘alf bad neither.

    Dew you keep et up bor.

    John (ex-Ipswich, 30 yrs in Texas, and 20 more in a whole lot more places).

  2. I’m rite pleased to git yor little messige, thas whooly good you can read, so many of us ole boys niver learnt proper. Dew yew keep on a coming onta moi site, mostly I’m writin posh, but yew’ll git the drift bor, as loike yor old hid’l smart a bit, but there int no jiggery pokery – like in that furren talk.

    Ivor

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