Wargames

Wargames

Heads bowed forward

to concentrate upon the task

clean-shaven faces

beneath the headsets

reflect the screen-glow

amid an arcade of work-stations

computers and communications

racks and tangled cables

hands upon the joysticks

making careful corrections

to course and altitude

fingers flicking nervously

around the bomb-buttons

as the targets come into focus

 

An aerial view of desert landscape

criss-crossed with beaten tracks

unfolds slowly far below

small settlements of human habitation

at the correct co-ordinates

and the sought-after compounds

encompassed by perimeter walls

home to suspected fighters

insurgent enemies

in a distant combat zone

 

The transmission time-delay

of remote telemetry

muffles the stark reality

of sound and vision

of the over-flying drone

dealing out its deadly cargo

of silent sky-borne death

whilst the pilots sit secure

removed from any jeopardy

detached and unconnected

bunkered beneath the ground

in a rural homeland

amid cool and air-conditioned calm

within the secure perimeter

behind the blast-door

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

St George

Saint George

Oh To Be In England, now that April’s here,

Let’s speak about this country’s hero,

Say welcome to the Feast of St George,

And celebrate a great fat zero.

 

Now’s the time to dust off the school books,

And delve a little into ancient history,

To find the tenuous connection,

Of why St George - now that’s a mystery.

 

He fought mostly in the Roman Army,

And that is where he won his glory.

It wasn’t about slaying any dragons -

You’ll find that was just a fairy story.

 

And let’s look to our geography too,

If it’s authenticity we wish to seek:

He’s nothing to do with Olde England,

For this knight was but a Greek.

 

And there’s other facts that you should know,

Even though it might seem like a drag:

The white’s his shroud, the red’s his blood,

And it’s bugger all to do with England’s flag.

 

So let’s not get carried too far away,

Let’s all stick closer to the text.

He may be England’s Patron Saint,

But let’s not get him out of context!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 29th May 2022

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 29^th May 2022 

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:                                              

1.      The flags and bunting were out in force on Thursday as D-Town’s glitterati turned out in force for the World Premiere of the new 3D Abbatar-based movie “Voyager”.  The red carpet was rolled out at the Palace Cinema, as a virtual crowd of nearly seven people attended the screening.  “Thank-you for the profits”, said the cinema manager, “it’s all Money, Money, Money to us.”  “Gimme, gimme, gimme a seat after midnight,” chanted the crowd.  “Mamma Mia, but we’ve had a good night,” said the manager, “including the lottery where the winner took it all, the phone continued to ring, ring and knowing me, knowing you, I have a dream that if you take a chance on me, one of us is going to end up as a dancing queen.” 

2.      And good news for citizens of The Vize this week, as the town treasurer announced a generous package of giveaways this week.  Every household will receive two Pringles vouchers, the less well-off will also receive a booklet on how to starve to death in comfort, and pensioners will also receive a design-your-own-funeral discount coupon.  The package of measures will be funded by a new windbag tax, to be imposed on elderly and middle-aged women who hold up the check-out queues in Morrisons by insisting on telling the cashier about their ailments, or discussing plans for the Queen’s Jubilee week-end. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Outrage

Outrage

The explosion comes

Always without warning

The ear-drum splitting noise

The force of the blast

And the percussive shock-wave

Of shrapnel as it flies in all directions

Screams of terror fill the air

And dust-clouds billow

As if to coat the bloody bodies

And hide them from inspection

 

The crack of concrete

And the crunch of shattered glass

An uneven layer of dusty debris

Deal out death and indiscriminate injury

Damaged bodies and severed limbs

Casualties littered across the street

 

The wail of urgent sirens

Heralds the arrival of police and paramedics

Who crawl across the wreckage

To pull out maimed and mangled bodies

In unseen heroic acts

But who later on are more visible

Standing outside the hospitals

And before the cameras

Giving details of the deceased

And estimate the numbers

 

And yet these official figures

Take on very different meanings

Whether in Beirut, Boston or Baghdad

In London or Afghanistan

Where the value of a Western life

Becomes inflated by the media

And where a Middle Eastern soul

Who was someone’s husband

Mother, father, brother

A lately-living person

Is reduced to just a cipher

Just a nameless victim

And somehow worth a little less

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Safari, So Good

Safari, So Good – a poem un-inspired by a visit to Longleat in the rain

It might be a strange thing to want to do,

But I had a craving to go to the park,

Not to that flat thing at the end of the road,

But to see the creatures saved from the Ark.

 

I wanted to see animals all exotic,

From Asia and Africa and such.

(I know that I’m living in Wiltshire,

But surely, it’s not asking too much?)

 

So we drove off down to Longleat,

And followed the signs right up the path,

Where they’ve got all sorts of creatures,

Including the latest Marquess of Bath.

 

Now I know it probably costs a few bob,

To build a few enclosures and cages,

But I didn’t think it’d cost me so much:

To get in was at least a week’s wages!

 

And we should have picked better weather,

Cause the day was all cloudy and wet,

And I think it were on a cold Monday,

The most miserable day you could get.

 

The animals were getting over their week-end,

Sunday must have been better, I’ve no doubt,

So they were all sleeping it off,

And none of them wanted to come out.

 

We couldn’t choose, to go on a Jungle Cruise,

For the boats were all moored up that day.

We had a short phase, lost in the Monkey Maze,

But even the meerkats slept – what can I say?

 

We repaired to the Capybara Café,

But they didn’t have anything we’d want,

Nor did we stay, in the Hippo Hideaway,

And ended up in the Rhino Restaurant.

 

My Safari Burger had made me feel bad,

So I had no wish to go on the Funfair,

What I needed were the great open spaces,

The Africa Drive-Thru and get some fresh air.

 

This’ll be good, we thought as we drove,

We’ll see the wide open Savannah at least,

With buffaloes, giraffes and some zebra,

And great herds of wildebeest. 

 

Alas the experience was somewhat different,

Past warning notices and thence,

Two sets of gates and piles of barbed wire,

Warders in Jeeps, and a security fence.

 

Security cameras watched our every move

To ensure that we weren’t in any danger,

You weren’t allowed out of the car,

And we were watched every few yards by a ranger.

 

It was a bit like being in Parkhurst,

Not that I’ve been there, you know,

Except there was nothing for the captives to do,

Not even some mail-bags to sew.

 

The lions were bored and sat under the trees,

Like listless teen-agers kicking their heels;

Eyeing all the tasty-looking people in cars:

To them we must’ve looked like Meals on Wheels.

 

Then out of the final enclosure,

The short line of cars and vans waggled,

A quick trip to the Tiger Toilets,

And then homeward, weary and bedraggled.

 

So if you’re looking for a wildlife experience,

Whilst you’re dreaming, or lying in bed,

Take a word of advice from someone who knows,

Save up, and go to Africa instead.

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Snow Queen

Recipe for: SNOW QUEEN 

Ingredients: 

• 500ml double cream
• 1 tbsp caster sugar
• 2 tblsp brandy (or more!)
• 2 tblsp stem ginger, chopped
• 2 tblsp stem ginger syrup
• 150g ready-made meringues, roughly broken
• ½ tsp groundnut oil
• Seasonal fruits to decorate 

Method: 

1. whisk cream until stiff peaks form
2. transfer whipped cream to a large bowl to give space to mix in other ingredients
3. gently fold in caster sugar, chopped ginger, ginger syrup
4. when thoroughly mixed, fold in broken meringues
5. line a 570ml pudding bowl/ basin with clingfilm, then oil the clingfilm with the groundout oil
6. spoon in the cream mixture, then smooth the top
7. fold over the clingfilm, then wrap top in foil
8. wrap the whole bowl in a layer of clingfilm
9. freeze for at least 8 hours, preferably over-night
10. when ready to serve:
1. remove bowl from freezer into fridge for about an hour
2. prepare seasonal fruits
3. dip bowl into warm/ hot water for 1 minute to loosen the Snow Queen
4. remove outer layer of clingfilm & the foil
5. place a large plate over the bowl
6. turn the bowl & plate over until the Snow Queen turns out
7. remove the clingfilm lining
8. tip over & around the seasonal fruit
9. place back in fridge for 15 minutes
10. cut in wedges & serve 

What else you need to know: 

1. you can also use a loaf tin, instead of a bowl.  This will give you a long brick shape, which can be cut into (more sophisticated) slices, rather than wedges.

 

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon

                                               Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon

I saw her again the other day

For the first time out in sunshine

Smiling, bright and happy

Laughing with the other guests

At some dreary garden party

And I admired her whitened skin

Pearlescent clear

Smooth and unblemished

Her long elegant arms

And her perfect figure

Exquisitely displayed

In her low-cut summer dress

 

And as she turned away

To talk to someone else

Revealing the perfect curve of her back

I could see the merest whipline

A long extended tongue

Curling from out the mouth

Of the dragon hidden there

Emerging from beneath

The taut and silken edge

Of the light material

Where it entwined itself

And inter-mingled

With the crouching tiger

Peeking out from just below

 

And I thought of the ferocity

Of these two snarling beasts

Which invaded the empty canvas of her skin

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022 

Early Season Cricket

Early Season Cricket

Oh! To be in England now that April’s here,

Dust off the bats, clean up the wicket:

Time to get back to our great Summer game -

Forget about football – it’s time for some cricket!

 

It’s the start of another great season,

Which we always do at this time in April,

But the Sun’s not shining high in the sky,

And out in the County, the air remains chill.

 

As tens of fans huddle in the grand-stands,

And light braziers to keep themselves warm,

The players don extra layers of clothing,

Which is considered terribly bad form.

 

They’re all dressed in layers of thick jumpers,

With thermals and long-johns beneath,

And you can’t hear the whack of the bat on the ball,

For the sound of their chattering teeth.

 

The pads and the gloves aren’t helping much,

And the fielders gather together in huddles,

You can’t hit the ball straight through the covers,

Cos it just gets stuck there in the puddles.

 

There’s icicles hanging on the sight-screen,

The grounds-man’s not even managed to mow,

But there wouldn’t really be much of a point,

As the outfield’s still covered in snow.

 

The ground’s all lumpy out there in the middle,

There’s big worm-holes quite close to the stumps,

And the ball is bouncing all over the shop,

As it sticks in the mud, or skids off the bumps.

 

The new batsman can’t stop shivering,

His County cap’s all covered in mould,

He can’t be at peace, standing there at the crease,

When he’s shaking and trembling with cold.

 

There’s no incentive to make a big score,

Stuck in the middle, out there in the field.

It’s more perishing than brass monkeys,

Stand still too long, and your blood has congealed.

 

Everyone’s running around like a mad-man,

It’s just the same with the fast bowler.

They’re all doing their best to keep warm,

But it’s hard when the weather is polar. 

 

The wind is howling, it’s likely to rain,

At the moment it’s always bad light,

And the only thing you’re likely to catch

Is a bad case of terminal frost-bite!

 

They’re turning vermillion in the pavilion,

Despite wearing a great-coat and scarf,

And the very idea of having a cold beer -

It’s freezing – are you having a laugh?

 

The boundary-line looks like a ditch,

The green sward is like a paddock of mud,

The line of the pitch plays like a bitch,

Playing today surely can’t do any good?

 

Whatever happened to Summer’s warmth?

Now large hailstones is about all you can see,

And you can’t wait to be back in the Club-house,

With a cup of hot Bovril for tea.

 

So if this ain’t the right time for cricket,

Then I’d like to ask the question – when is?

Never mind – soon time for strawberries & cream:

It’s never like this for the tennis!

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Mole

Mole

Early morning garden wandering

Feeling the wetness of dew

From the lawn’s long grass

Soaking through the shoe-soles

I stumble across something

That upsets the leisurely stroll

The tell-tale signs of spoil-heaps

The unmistakeable evidence

Of the presence of mole

 

Mounds are scattered round

Creating an irregular landscape

Pitted by small soil-mountains

Piles of loam above ground

Tunnelled out from down below

Such vandalism is not caused by the vole

These burrowings and diggings

Are of something a size larger

That can only suggest mole

 

I can trace the track of his wanderings

The lines that betray channels below

As he blindly pursues his lone destiny

And I wonder if he ever pokes his head up

To see where he’s got to today?

The underneath’s now riddled with holes

A scene of rural despoilation

Where the worms have scattered in panic

In their heedless flight from the mole

 

And I’ll whack the piles with a spade

Trying to flatten them down once again

In a quite futile gesture of anger

That will do little good in the end

For my little invader won’t be deterred

And I know deep down in my soul

That once he’s taken up residence

He’ll stick around for some time

And I’ll be sharing my lawn with a mole

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 22nd May 2022

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 22^nd May 2022 

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:                                              

1.      D-Town was left disappointed once again as it missed out on gaining City status.  Despite a year-long campaign, culminating in a whole month of sycophantic Platinum Jubilee events (including the world-beating supermarket trolley dash), HMQ saw fit to ignore our civic pleas.  Political pressure will now be brought to bear on the powers-that-be in our bid to be accredited as Not-Bad Town status, OK For A Marketplace status, or (if absolutely necessary) Best Gridlock Town of Wiltshire. 

2.      Medical leaders have down-played the risks arising from catching the new strain of monkey-pox.  A man in a white gown, who might have been a doctor, said yesterday, “given the real risks that people in our town run every day from catching duck-pox, contracting pigeon-flu, or being run over by a high-speed tractor hauling large containers of liquid – ahem – fertilizer, monkey-pox is really nothing to worry about.” 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

 

Morning

Morning

Running down a darkened hallway

Towards an opening door

Where light floods around

And falls in upon the floor

Suddenly there is sound again

Rushing, scraping, scratching

And an end to thoughts and dreams

To schemes of reddened skies

To floating boulders slowly turning

To sweeping clouds of yellow

And the bellowing, aching roar

Of a lone walrus upon a deserted shore

To the flutter of dry and dusty leaves

Driven, wind-blown, swirling

To the clatter of hooves

Of blue-skinned ponies trotting

Through a cold and empty square

The space echoing back the sound

To the voids of blackened eye-holes

Of grotesque, trembling skulls

And which, after an endless time

Slowly dissolve and desiccate

Into the crystals of the waking world

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Cough

Cough

There’s something that I need to get off my chest

For I’m feeling rather queasy

And my breathing’s gone all wheezy

I reckon I’m scoring about a seven

On the International scale

The Cough Index of Looseness

I don’t think there’s any question

That I’ve got some bronchial congestion

And I need to make a major contribution

To the UK Phlegm and Mucus Depository

This soothing menthol mixture

May become a bedside fixture

This special fruit and honey syrup

Has made me Expectorant of a cure

For it’s the thing that Linctus together

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Moroccan Spiced Meatballs

Recipe for: LAMB – MOROCCAN SPICED MEATBALLS 

Ingredients: 

·        500g minced lamb

·        1 onion, very finely chopped

·        2 cloves garlic, very finely chopped

·        50g breadcrumbs

·        1 egg, beaten

·        2 tsp ground cumin

·        2 tsp ground coriander

·        1 tsp ground cinnamon

·        1-2 tsp salt

·        1 tsp ground pepper

·        Handful of fresh coriander leaves (or parsley or both)

·        2 tblsp olive oil

·        Mint leaves (to serve, optional)

 

Method: 

1.      Pre-heat oven to 220C

2.      Line a baking tray with non-stick baking paper

3.      Put all the ingredients, except the oil, into a large bowl & mix well (best with your hands)

4.      Using a spoon, scoop out small balls of mixture and, using wet hands, shape into 20-24 small balls (not too large or they won’t cook through to middle easily)

5.      Arrange the balls on the baking paper, and press down slightly to flatten

6.      Drizzle a few drops of oil on top of each ball

7.      Bake in oven for 20-25 minutes, draining off any excess liquid/ fat half way through

8.      Balls should be starting to brown & be cooked through

 

What else you need to know: 

1.      Serve with tzatyziki (yoghurt & cucumber) and/ or chilli sauce and /or tamarind & tomato sauce in dipping bowls

2.      Can also throw into a pasta dish with/ without tomato sauce

3.      (Optional) drizzle the tops of the meatballs with green pesto & oil prior to cooking

Lengths

                                                         Lengths

It occurs to me from time to time

That there must be a better way

My head emerging from the water

Grasping for the air

Gasping, lungs hurting

Breathless from the effort

Between tired strokes

Sometimes near choking

In the careless back-wash bow-wave

Of be-spectacled dolphins beside me

Speeding through the swell

In their effortless freestyle

 

And that there are easier means

Than this daily immersion

In stinging chlorine spray

To drag an ungainly body

Through the crash and splash

Beyond the pain barrier

Of an aching, heaving chest

And exhausted arms and legs

Soon losing their co-ordination

And any sense of rhythm

Between the lines of lanes

And ability to remain

On the straight and narrow

 

And that perhaps it’s all so… pointless

This swimming end to end

The relentless back and forth

Of many measured lengths

To ignore the overwhelming urge

To simply stop and float awhile

Then sink slowly to the bottom

Amid the rising bubbles

To inspect the detail

And the regular pattern

Picked out in white and blue tiles

Whilst other bathers carry on regardless

And a lifeguard looks on in horror

At the body of a drowning man

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022 

Breaking In

Breaking In

I parked down by the Castle last week,

A fantastic spot in a little side-street:

Very handy for the shops and the stores,

A location quite difficult to beat.

 

But as I returned from doing my shopping,

I was in for a terrible shock:

When I tried to get into the car,

I found my keys wouldn’t open the lock.

 

It looked like I’d have to break in,

An action which could only perturb,

So I got myself into a helluva panic,

As I stood there, helpless, at the side of the kerb.

 

Then I noticed something that might be of some help,

When I looked into my car at the back –

I’d luckily left open the rear window -

It wasn’t much – it was only a slight crack.

 

If I could only get my hand inside,

And reach over the top of the glass,

I’d be able to pull up the door handle,

And inside the car be able to pass.

 

It was a good scheme, tho’ I say so myself,

I just hoped my arm was sufficiently thin,

It would save making a pile of smashed glass:

With a bit of luck, I’d soon be within.

 

I huffed and I puffed to get my arm in,

Tho’ my technique was terribly poor.

Eventually I pulled on the catch,

And, finally, I opened the door!

 

What relief! And how happy I was,

As I flopped onto the back seat!

I just had to climb into the front now,

Then I’d have the problem totally beat.

 

But that was easier said than done,

And it certainly couldn’t be done quick:

I got myself tangled up in the seat-belt,

And it’s painful to sit on a gearstick!

 

Then at last, I was where I should be.

In triumph I sat behind the wheel,

Getting ready to drive back to my home -

You can imagine how it would feel. 

 

Then I noticed something untoward:

There were some gloves on the passenger seat,

And some de-icer in the door-pocket -

How they’d got there had me totally beat.

 

The air-freshener was different,

And there was a road atlas in the rear,

But I never carried such an old thing,

And that’s when, suddenly, I felt queer.

 

I should have realised that I’d cocked up,

I should have known it was all wrong,

For this wasn’t my vehicle you see –

Mine was parked three cars further along!

 Copyright Andy FAwthrop 2022

Fairy Chimneys

                                                         Fairy Chimneys

Amid these ancient river valleys

In the river-hewn landscape

Bony fingers stretch upwards

Irregular sandstone columns pointing at the sky

Shielded from erosion of wind and weather

By basalt boulders perched precariously atop

 

Thus they sit

Wearing dainty caps

Stretched mushroom shapes

Tall fungal structures

Amid the tuff

Curved and crooked

Twisted, leaning

Top-heavy hat-stones

Defying gravity

Balanced high

Up in the air

Waiting for that moment

When the softer pillar

Will at last collapse

And rain down rocks

To the ground beneath

A fairy chimney no longer

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022 

Drivel From Devizes - Dateline Sunday 15th May 2022

Drivel From Devizes: Dateline – Sunday 15^th May 2022 

Here is our weekly round-up of events from D-Town:                                              

1.      Great pride throughout the borough this week as the latest Food Bank was officially opened.  Civic dignitaries, local entrepreneurs, philanthropists, D-list celebrities, social influencers and various hangers-on were treated to champagne, caviar, canapes, lobster and all the best in food and drink to mark the grand opening.  The guests were then given grandstand seats to watch the first paupers, social misfits and the dregs of society haul their sorry arses across the be-ribboned starting line in a local hunger-games version of supermarket dash, as they attempted to grasp out-of-date tins and packets of staple foods.  The day culminated in a stand-up fight in Aisle 7 as two desperate families fought over the last packets of carrots. 

2.      And, in a surprise turn-up for the books, D-Town’s entry in the Wiltshire Song Contest did not come last with zero points.  Residents and civic leaders alike were shocked at the result.  Local residents complained that it was “a break with decades-long tradition” and berated the DBC (D-Town Broadcasting Corporation) for its completely feckless approach to the competition by allowing an entry with a tiny amount of musical quality to be put forward in the first place. 

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

That Takes The Biscuit

That Takes The Biscuit

They say a drink’s too wet without one,

And that’s not just a piece of somebody’s wit,

Cos when you settle down with a cuppa tea,

It’s no good without some sort of biscuit.

 

But finding the right kind can be tricky,

And there’s some myths need de-bunking,

Cos if it’s the wrong consistency,

Then it’ll be no good for dunking.

 

It’s got to home-baked and British,

Cos those foreigners can be a bit potty.

If you’re not careful it’ll be Amaretti,

A Florentine or a biscotti.

 

The Flap-jack, Cereal Bar and Blue Riband,

The Club, the Domino and all of that,

These fancy types are all very well,

But they don’t measure up to a Kit-Kat.

 

But you’re surely asking for trouble,

If you start off with chocolate in fingers.

You see, it melts off in the hot tea,

It covers everything, and it lingers.

 

Any kind of a sandwich, can be a real bitch,

And an Oatcake’s insufficiently hard,

And a Jaffa Cake’s a bit of a fake:

So’s a Garibaldi, called a Flies Graveyard.

 

People go to grand cities, to find a McVities,

To find Mis-Shapes, (those biscuits in bits),

To be daintily fed, on slices of Shortbread,

Or crackers with cheese, sometimes called Ritz.

 

You’d be knackered, with any kind of cracker:

You’d not want to suck, on one of those TUC,

Might even be safer, with some kind of wafer,

But a Bath Oliver’d give you no luck.

 

Of Ginger Nuts and various Cookies,

Their supporters would sing a grand tune:

Of Marie, Butter Pecans and Fig Rolls,

The Jammy Dodger, the Coconut Macaroon.

 

Now I don’t want to stand here and Hob-Nob,

About Oreos and Wagon Wheels:

For it would seem, that like Custard Creams,

Each of them turns into goo and congeals. 

 

Crispbreads and Mini Cheddars ain’t the thing,

It’d even be neater, with a Ryvita.

Oats and nuts, just ain’t got the guts,

But a Digestive’s a world-beater.

 

It can be Nice to have a Rich Tea,

A Lincoln, or a Morning Coffee,

But a brown Bourbon, would be frowned upon,

And can’t match a Digestive for toffee.

 

So taking all into consideration,

My conclusion’s more than suggestive:

Just forget every other kind of biscuit -

You know where you are with a Digestive!

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Dervish

Dervish

We sit quietly beneath the Earth, hushed within a hollowed cavern

facing an empty central circle, and shiver in the dark, dimly-lit,

anticipating the coming mystic rite

 

Four figures enter, heads bowed, black-cloaked, hats like tombstones

dervish-devout, focused upon drum, pipe, and strings

improvising, building slowly to steady, hypnotic rhythm

calming the air around them

 

The semazen arrive, arms criss-crossed, testifying the unity of God

intoning Qu’ranic eulogy to the Prophet, their delicate first movements

salaaming with care and exactitude, performing sufic rite

describing the spiritual journey towards a new perfection

man’s submission of ego, annihilation of self to God

and ascension towards an ecstasy

the very rapture of being

 

Black cloaks cast aside reveal the ego-shrouds, white skirts of Mevlana

and, slowly, the turning itself begins, revolving right to left around the heart

turning ever-faster into whirling, like the blood around the body

protons in the atom, their own steady orbit around space

arms spread widely open, one hand pointed up towards the sky

the other back down towards the Earth

connecting God with Man

 

Eyes closed in concentration, heads inclined upon their shoulders

in the spirit, in the moment, submerged in love

the spinning circulation frenzied for a while, then finished

before returning silently to their cells for further contemplation

and quiet meditation

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Spicy Chickpea & Tomato Soup

Recipe for: SPICY CHICKPEA & TOMATO SOUP 

Ingredients: 

• 1 tblsp olive oil
• 1 large onion, chopped
• 1 garlic clove,crushed
• ½ tsp cayenne pepper
• ½ tsp mixed spice
• 1 tsp coriander
• 410g tin chickpeas, drained & rinsed
• 850ml vegetable stock
• 500g passata 

Method: 

1. gently fry the onion & garlic in the olive oil, sweating them for five minutes without colouring
2. add the spices & cook for another five minutes
3. add the chickpeas, passata and stock.  Bring to the boil, then simmer gently for about 30 minutes 

What else you need to know: 

1. this so easy, yet hearty & warming

 

Cappadocia

Cappadocia

A hard slog up the climbing roadway

Through the Toros mountains

Wide sedimentary formations

In bold zig-zag patterns

Gash their way across the hill-sides

Into the forbidding landscape

Yet dwarfed by volcanic cones

Whose igneous stones lie scattered

Forgotten playthings

Among the canyons and valleys

Isolated boulders amongst the scrub

 

Sparse trees and shrubs

Struggle in the high, dry climate

Amongst the debris and tuff-pinnacles

The ground itself crumbling and flaking

Between high rock-hewn promontories

Cheese-hole riddled

With caves and grottoes

Church-studded once

Faded frescoes and carvings

Sheltering monks and acolytes

And the very poorest people

Who eked a living from this place

 

And in this colour-bleached waste

The basalt and the sandstone

Engage in unequal battle

Pitted against unrelenting elements

Of driving desert-dry winds

Which sand-blast every feature

Smoothing into roundness

Revealing little of the harshness

Of this high plateau’d land-locked steppe

Where strong light casts hard shadows

Of tumbling pigeons

Which flutter here undisturbed

Small creatures in a vast landscape

 Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022

Turkish Delight

                                                         Turkish Delight

Into the Eastern lands of Anatolia

Hemmed around by ragged Turquoise coastlines

Through the narrow Dardanelles

Amid the seas of Black and Marmara

To Aegean and Mediterranean

Across the Bosphorus via Istanbul

No longer Constantinople, nor yet Byzantium

Sentinelled by soaring Aya Sofia

Once a church turned to mosque

Now monument and testament

To a long and bloody history

 

And inland a rugged landscape

Of ancient theatres and temples

The architectural artefacts

And stony remnants of many races

From warlike Hittites and their foes

Phrygians, Hellenes, Lycians and their ilk

Greeks, Romans, Kurds and Gypsies

Through many caliphates

And Ottomans of Empire

To the modern state

And legacy of Ataturk

 

Once, out of mankind’s nursery

In the basin of Tigris and Euphrates

And unknown distant places in the East

Along the ancient silk-road trading route

Carrying cargoes of gold and precious metals

Opium, silks and spices

Knowledge and know-how

Astronomy and astrology

And mystical religions

Came the camel-trains

Calling at the caravanserais

To break their arduous trek

Towards their Western markets

 

And now the groves of fruits and olives

The piles of teas and spices

The gemstones and the carpets

The flocks of goats and sheep

And the colours, sounds and smells

Of Turkish tastes and flavours

In the bazaars and hamams

Assault the very senses

Yet can give no explanation

Of this modern ethnic melting-pot

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2022