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Flotsam and Jetsam

~ Assorted odds and ends

Flotsam and Jetsam

Tag Archives: In Memoriam

Let’s Walk The Bridge

14 Sunday Dec 2025

Posted by Paul Christopher Walton in Lyrics, Marians on the Mawddach, poems of place, Poetry, Songs

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Barmouth Bridge, In Memoriam, Loss, Poems of Place, Songs

(And think of some who’ve crossed)

Poems of Place: The Barmouth Viaduct

 First night in Hall with first night fear

You calmed the room and charmed all here

And later still when midnight chimed,

With notes compared our friendship primed.

            Let’s walk the ridge

            Let’s cross the bridge

            Let’s walk that bridge 

Together

It seems so long since we first met

But not as long as mountains yet

So many things we seemed to share

Both pilgrims with a friendship rare

            Let’s walk the ridge.

            Let’s cross the bridge

            Let’s walk that bridge 

Together

Somewhere beyond that darkened crest

Your stage is now where Quakers rest 

And sometimes lit by orange moons

We’ll speak your rhymes and sing your tunes

Let’s walk the ridge

            Let’s cross the bridge

            Let’s walk that bridge 

Together

That night with Thom and Gill and me,

The wind was strong sandblasting sea.

With ashes then we’d come to throw

You back to where the flowers grow

Let’s walk the ridge

            Let’s cross the bridge

            Let’s walk that bridge 

Forever.

An Elegy in Photographs

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Posted by Paul Christopher Walton in Lyrics, Poetry

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Digital memories, elegies, In Memoriam, Loss

1.

We went outside

in the 

sun.

Your banter had

 me on the 

 run.

As you shot 

I quite forgot

all the best

rules

to look cool.

2.

I caught your

face on my

screen –

A face in 

a place we’ve

been.

But your look

all focus 

took

with thoughts of

what might have 

been.

3

I read your

news in my

feed.

Such news you

don’t choose to

read.

Battles lost

and boundaries 

crossed.

It seems death

breeds rhymes and 

dreams.

Come, Take My Hand

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Posted by Paul Christopher Walton in poems of place, Poetry

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Dementia, In Memoriam

For T&C: The bravest of the brave

Come, take my hand, stir fading memories,
The canvass of life is now ripped.
Come, speak my lines, prompt doubtful recall,
I’m lost and missing the script.

Come, trace my past, trawl special moments,
The passage of time is now dark,
Come, touch these lips, thaw frozen feelings,
Help me to find the lost spark.

Come, sit with me, replay our movie,
Time-shift the end to the start.
Come wipe our tears, and remember
I’ll always be here in your heart.

March 22nd, 2021

Fifty Shades of Blue

27 Saturday Apr 2019

Posted by Paul Christopher Walton in Poetry

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In Memoriam

 

Blue blood, of course, not collar,

A king of cats, an Oxford Blue

Who loved our terrace

And after-snack sunbathing.

Or looking nonchalantly at Charlie,

Pawing an errant wasp,

And stretching languidly,

Musing on the important questions like ‘what’s for second dinner?’

 

Blue maybe, but never dull and gloomy,

We loved the raffish wiggle in your stride,

The aristocratic belly marked a destiny

For contemplation, not the drudge of work.

Your gourmet palette tuned to modern tastes,

You loved the smell of barbecues

And those who cooked them.

When stakes were high, they win who dare

It’s Blue by name but always medium rare.

 

September 16, 2013

Another Job for Cyril (1925 -2018)

05 Thursday Apr 2018

Posted by Paul Christopher Walton in Poetry

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elegies, In Memoriam

Who’ll scan my job and scout

The strategic challenges that lie ahead of me?

Who’ll be my hanging wing-man

And place the pencil cross with laser touch?

Who’ll choose the tools and chide

My lax preservation of lithium cells?

Who’ll patiently banish rust from contacts

And soon revive the power-tool’s insistent torque?

Who’ll select the bit to bite the wall’s recalcitrance?

And guide my angle of attack and steady, steady it

Against the white emulsioned concrete?

Who’ll be the matchstick man

To plug the mortar of my unreliable first attempt

And safely hang the artwork from its helix thread?

Another picture sorted in the gallery of life!

But one job you left undone before you went,

Was how to fill the hole you’ve left us with?

 

David Bernstein: The Philosopher of SPIV

16 Saturday Sep 2017

Posted by Paul Christopher Walton in Poetry, The Uselessness of History

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David Bernstein, In Memoriam

DavidBernstein2-20170829060151191

Lines written in 1982 to celebrate the award of the Mackintosh Medal to David Bernstein – being also a brief exposition on the theories of Advertisement Effect in one canto

Nil posse creari de nilo. (Lucretius)

Lucretius wasn’t always right!

 

Sing, O muse of modern epic themes,

Of selling soapsuds, and of selling dreams:

Behold that world of commerce set apart,

An inexact science in a bastard art!

And in this nexus, let us list with care

Those philosophies which are practised there.

With surgeon’s skill and knife we will dissect

All admen’s Theories of Effect.

That sacred word, enough to make the client pay

His artwork and production bills with less delay.

First, in this field, the keystone of the arch

We sing, with pride, of Doctor Daniel Starch.

“All ads to be successful”, he nearly said,

“Must of course be seen and read

But more than that, before your chance has gone

It must be remembered to be acted on”

Great sage, O Starch, your greatness sits

In teaching us, good puff persuades in bits.

Another chap (Anon) reworked Dan’s law

And summed it up with letters four.

“Let our darling AIDA take her bow,

To gain attention and our interest now;

But after, when desire is raised in lieu

Her call to action entices you”.

Of all the men whom darling Aida met,

There stands a group especially in her debt.

The men of Procter, so the bards do tell

Liked her rubric and loved her well

Too much, in fact; consumed by lust

All Aida’s wisdom has been ground to dust.

For all the best becomes the worst at last

When madmen play the rules too hard and fast!

Day-after-recall’s not the best of tools

Except for client knaves or research fools!

Too much!

Let us sing of greatness once again:

Of Joyce and Channon, of Segeula’s men!

Of Rosser Reeve’s USP

Of charming, wily David Ogilvy

“At sixty miles an hour, all you’ll hear

Is the sound of chasing taxmen coming near.”

And last of all, we sing of D.E.B

(Who, it must be said, as yet employs me)

In his book, (so the one who’s read it said)

“All art, with science, is nice ‘n’ neatly wed”

And so, all admen who seek out effect,

With page one five five your eyes connect:

“All ads to convince must visible be,

And pregnant stand with identity

But without simple promise, they’ve far to go

Along that line to positive cash flow”

With words like these, he won old Tosh’s crown

So was it then for this,  that David wore that gown?

 

September 1982

 

Post Scriptum:

David died in August 2017 aged 88.

He had a profound effect upon so many people, especially me.

PCW

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poems of Place: Lunch with Tory

15 Wednesday Mar 2017

Posted by Paul Christopher Walton in poems of place, Poetry

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In Memoriam, Loss, Luberon, Provence

abbaye-senanque2

We said it would be the Luberon,

Perhaps mid-September

When the crowds had left? Or mostly.

We’d find a table with a view:

Oppède Le Vieux, perhaps? Or better at Sénanque

In the hollow, amongst the purple

We’d drink Domaine Ott – barely pink, well chilled

But elegant like you

We’d banter with black olives

Or the tapenades with fig you liked

Then the smell of roast chicken would

Demand the group’s attention

And with it, we’d bring out salad leaves,

And beef tomatoes, the primed burrata.

After, some would contemplate the madelaines

And lavender honey ice creams lying in wait.

But then comforted and comfortable,

We’d pause and think of you –

And feel once more the warmth you brought.

For JSA, The Insect Man and Me

08 Thursday Jan 2015

Posted by Paul Christopher Walton in Poetry

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Chateauneuf, In Memoriam, Merioneth, Naseby, Provence

Naseby, 2008

A Maytime full of memory,
Of Eurostar and travellers’ tales:
A Provence of insect men not Mayles,
Of Vieux Télégraphe and the other red-nosed,
Big hearted vignobles of Chateauneuf
Captured on a postcard

A tour of the terroir Anderson – proud and comfortable –
Garden, sèjour and library;
A meeting with Mother; sherry proffered but pended,
A lunch of local hams and cheeses, of Harborough curd tarts,
The essence of gentility,
And thence, the battlefield tour.

The Colonel and his Lady
In the Vanguard of our party,
Facing up to the New Model wind
And the opportunism of dragoon’ed trees swaying
Against the cavalier horizon

And at a parallel moment,
Somewhere else in the cloisters of history,
Stand some Moss Close boys in the Lichfield Street flat,
Searching for forgotten Merioneth roman roads,
And there in Tomen Y Mûr’s shadow,
John points out the road for us,
Our faces beam.

Veritas Filia Temporis!

Conversation with a Ricardian

24 Wednesday Dec 2014

Posted by Paul Christopher Walton in Poetry

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In Memoriam, Richard IIII

For DCW (1936- 2013)

I wonder what you would have thought

Of this glorious summer of the Car-Park-King?

From the start, I know your instinct would have told you

This was indeed your long lost son of York.

And what would you have made of

The Minster versus Leicester cause celèbre?

No doubt you would have declared for heroic Ebor,

But are no less content to see him lie in honour

Close to where he fell.

But what-oh-what would you have said about

The last Plantagenet’s blond, angelic locks?

Brimming prouder by the family scoop that brought the news,

I see you smiling in your chair.

In life’s simple rhythms, we stumble upon

Enthusiasms we share with people we have lost,

Which in their bitter sweetness, create

The urge for conversation, consolation or both.

Tant Le Desiree

An Elegy for Rex Audley (2005)

22 Friday Aug 2014

Posted by Paul Christopher Walton in Poetry

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In Memoriam

The Gentle Giant chronicler of wry has gone
But has a bigger canvas now to draw upon;
On Heaven’s foibles he trains his wit,
And on puffed angelic vanity makes the hit;
That mildly wicked streak and glinting eye
Finding all the humour in infinity.
Even paradise has its funny side: he’ll show
The jumped up Cherubs, lampooned to go.
Through all his years, despite life’s late trials
He remains the Gentleman of Droll, the King of Smiles.

And in our hearts, his art does yet extend
So in this we know, there is no Audley End.

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