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    The Harm Fields: Poems
    The Harm Fields: Poems
    The Harm Fields: Poems
    Ebook71 pages24 minutes

    The Harm Fields: Poems

    By David Lloyd

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherUniversity of Georgia Press
    Release dateSep 1, 2022
    ISBN9780820362632
    The Harm Fields: Poems
    Author

    David Lloyd

    The late David Lloyd was an enthusiastic local historian who studied at Oxford under W.G. Hoskins. Though born and brought up in Ludlow, across the county boundary, he knew Worcestershire all his life, much of which was spent in that part of south Birmingham which was once part of the historic county. Whilst working as a schoolmaster and a College of Education lecturer, he took classes for many years, for the Department of Continuing Studies of Birmingham University, at Bewdley, Bromsgrove and Chaddersley Corbett; and he was well known as a visiting speaker in several other parts of Worcestershire. He most recently lived in Ludlow, where he was Mayor, a member of the District and County Councils and a Director of Ludlow Festival.

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      Book preview

      The Harm Fields - David Lloyd

      Leavings

      I

      Begin to write where there is nothing left to say, only the charge to say it. What a blue sky above the open city, an east wind ruffles the canal. The last ice we hope is parting from the shore with an occasional crack. Two swans take off eastwards, for a time their dangling paddles trouble the water with a wake of silver rings. Whatever it was, I haven’t found it here. They drowned Rosa Luxemburg somewhere in this canal. For only too long now some scruple has kept me from writing, for fear the details don’t attain to sufficient universality. A—a—a, ah ahah, don’t, a, a a a don’t worry about your size, said Michael with uncanny insight. His stammer was not debility; he shied away from me on the stair out of a diffuse anxiety, a nervous twitch running down from his right eye through his shoulder. He had the look of a furtive hunchback, though it was just his lurch under his long blue coat. I thought at first it was a harelip but Paddy maintained it was just a slight scar from the night they’d beaten him for kicks behind the pub. Now he never went there any more, but dipped in hurried raids into pubs all over Bethnal Green for never more than a bottle, or came to drink a carryout with us in the house. Paddy figured it must have been after one of the bigger bombings, but probably any excuse would have done. Every emigrant is representative human. The lip was a mere disfigurement. They’d buttoned it for him right and proper. His broken ribs had healed, but their toe-caps had smashed his spine at several points and damaged some motor nerves. So Paddy said at any rate and that was why he couldn’t work. Every utterance was a long drawn out stammer from his throat followed by a gabble issuing in a flurry from the front of his mouth. Then a silence, illustrated by a succession of crooked smiles and nods while

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