Tristan’s savage sonnets play

The rocky face of Alba’s coast

While Mr. Machievalas trips into view

On a new red street in Bermondsey West

The police were wandering around there in 1973

But lately, only 2 stray jackdaws bother

And that’s only because they can smell the blood

No one else wears a uniform

Unless you can call a scowl a badge

People just close their windows, if they ever opened

The sun golden and bright still shines

But even sun can’t eclipse the children’s apathy

And to think it’s not one hundred years

Since Japan invaded China

And women were left, a pile of chewed flesh

And broken bones upon the street

And an army supposedly brave and honourable 

Raped the soul of a nation

How far have we traveled in a grey Morris Traveller?

To find the crumpled hopes of 2 generations

Were only the pipe dreams of a Timothy Leary, Swiss tablet

Marianne Faithful was not Madonna

Chairman Mau, not every boy’s romantic father

While we all imagined we were Stephen Stills

And every willing woman, therefore, an honest fuck

On days like that, we could not touch the earth

Or fly through sashed-windows

Or bury Tolkien’s Bible in the grey graveyard

Amid the mossy stones

Engraved with history and the names of

Sincere people who lived quiet lives

In the time before Lucifer stirred

Dressed as a flaming Jessy

And with a scorpion in his bag

And the silent waters trickle down

On a moor near Helmsley Deep

And the hourglass converts to digital

… thud 




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They laughed at one I loved

– The triangular hill that hung Under the Big Forth.

They said That I was bounded by the whitethorn hedges

Of the little farm and did not know the world.

But I knew that love’s doorway to life

Is the same doorway everywhere.

Ashamed of what I loved I flung her from me and called her a ditch

Although she was smiling at me with violets.

But now I am back in her briary arms;

The dew of an Indian Summer morning lies

On bleached potato-stalks – What age am I?

I do not know what age I am, I am no mortal age;

I know nothing of women,

Nothing of cities,

I cannot die Unless I walk outside these whitethorn hedges.

-Patrick Kavanagh

Copyright © Estate of Katherine Kavanagh
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one of dads cars
One of Dad’s cars – An old gold Hillman Hunter Estate

My Father

My father seemed a grey, austere and complex man, though he was not humourless. He certainly could laugh and had what one might only describe as a twinkle in his eye.

I cannot imagine I ever felt able to call him daddy but no doubt I did. He was intelligent, aware and appreciated the good things of life. You might say he had excellent taste in a bohemian and slightly satirical way.

He could be caring and considerate but generally appeared, to me at any rate, fairly conservative, reserved and restrained. This, I do not get the impression was how everybody saw him as somehow I imagine among his more theatrical friends he was able to become somewhat less inhibited.

I believe my father wrestled with himself, was ambitious and felt creatively frustrated in many ways although he achieved much in business and in his private life. I believe he was generally liked although I know he found it hard to make a breakthrough with my mothers family. This I am certain did not help their relationship.

He, like all, I suppose, was basically selfish and before it was conventional to do so chose his will above the care or love of his children. Not that I have not sympathised with him or understood his choices but O’ that he had really known his God, he might have weathered the storm of matrimonial conflict, loved again his mate and been the father I ultimately never had.  

I have tried to paint a realistic portrait of the man who has dogged my past, whose spectre looms up from time to time to tempt me to justify my weakest resolve to family and love. But knowing now a generous father my decision must always be of judgement on the actions, so foolish, that he took and pride in my God who has caused me to stand firm amid the darkening days of Britains apostate night.

wiv me Dad at Bognor Butlins
Wiv’ me DaD at Butlin’s Bognor

Thank God, my little children in your pain at my weaker nature. Thank God, that through the imperfect skeleton of the outline I have drawn, O so dimly my faith declares a father so brave, so honest, so true, so fair, regal and loving. I proffer him to you, a father of joy a righteous man and handsome who stands for more than integrity, justice, rightness but deeper qualities, so deep they hurt, they cut the selfish life and cause the heart to sing so merry, to trust and say yes, he is my man and my example. To break the cynics stare and warm the cold hand, sooth the fevered brow.

This my father you could have been to me, my memories of you so fond but now I love you, redeemed from painful memory by the blood of a son who knew too the separation from father and who cried so sadly, so boldly, so finally –

“Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani

Reunited, God’s family became and I dear Father rejoin on behalf of my sweet children.

We love you Father dear.

Your memory is not greater than the smile you show today.

written in 1989 – completed 22.06.1993


This is an essay I suppose. I wrote it over 25 years ago when I was around 4o years. In common with my decision to archive all my writing on this site I am publishing it now exactly as I wrote it. It is an honest piece, full of faith and fervour. I considered re-writing it to give it an improved literary presence and reflect my religious standpoint more clearly but it has heart, belief and feeling which is how I wish my children to remember me. So that they may say, ‘He had heart, belief and feeling’.

– #eden bray 21.04.2018

we pushed it up pebblecoombe
We had to push it up Pebble Coombe returning from Grandad Eede’s in Cranleigh, Surrey. It literally terrified me and I still have nightmares today!
POSTSCRIPT 0n – How steep was Pebblecoombe?
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Countless, phosphorous, rushing

and over the smooth stones, they fall

Overlapping earth boundaries

wearing at the harsh edge of form

Gathering, shaping, smoothing

destinies, times mementos

Here they lift, there they fail

each one a measured throw

a dancing, cavorting, riderless bay

Clothed in silver foam

and garlands of spray

Magnificent for a brief, fleeting mo’

Then back and into the hapless,

shapeless eddy

Drawing circles, describing outline

shape and semblance

To what otherwise would be

only mauve history and uncertainty

What is today but a collection

of faded, picture postcards?

Mounted, framed and collected

for a future generation

Who may study the serious

tale they tell or maybe none the wiser

Only fools who rush and sweat

with no thought or remedy

no system of retrieval

But caught here in the time warp

of eternal messengers relay

The grey waters riders blossom

glisten and thunder

Not just mentioning the tale

but positively shouting

to the earth’s receding outline 

Here I am and have been 

Always ‘Ever and Sure’

Give me your attention

and let me speak to

your next shallow generation

O’ tireless, disarmed and eager

Your army marches on

Wave upon wave

upon endless wave.




#Authors Note ~ This a poem I wrote in 1990. It’s a kind of techno-poem written at a time when my eternal view and my worldview were merging pretty well I feel. I suppose it’s a kind of ‘hybrid’ – fusing modern nature with future hope and centered on that almost eternal quality that crashing waves on stones hold in their grasp.

I have decided to archive my past poems on this site so that my children and my grandchildren and friends might hopefully find them and read them, for you never know when ‘your wave’ is coming. ~ edenbray 21.04.2018


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The open wound healed and the taut, pale skin grew faintly over

Foreign fingers still felt for that awkward pain like a summer lover

Quiet amateurs, just sad explorers who never quite reach above

Likened to madmen who endanger love as they push, they shove

We set about this long road a long while ago and the blue horizon

Saphire and urban it lies like a burning snake upon the sand golden

Where I am going is the choice of pilgrims and you might not come

Where I have been it is cloudy, it is overgrown, now lost in the sun

Darkness growing, an army lost from sight and the faint colour of snow,

To temper it’s soul we reached out to touch it and the darkness it glowed

Hands blackened from course, silent, prayers break the granite of shame

Chisel-men, peace-men step from their caves, the least should bow to blame

The strength of the oxe and the plough, the sweat of a nations golden thigh

There marched fourteen thousand, yoked to broadsword to live or to die

Rivers fall, the longest path tumbling, like frothing beasts in metal chains

Where the almanac says parties will vie for certain clouded peace in vain

So many stories should be written, so many angered tales of far too few

Black earth & soldiers bloodied ordure, la couche de Mouron-des-Oiseaux

And the midnight call to prayer, attended by Monsignor and His Wives

That silent abattoir where only things unholy are unspoken, only evil dies


According to M. de Reaumur,

‘the life of chrysalids may be prolonged by keeping them in a cold situation, such as an ice-house’.

la couche Mouron-des-Oiseaux – the blanket of wild chickweed



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   My Four Children


.. ..

I wrote a play once for my 4 children

I gave them special names to match their characters

Sarallius, Debradella, Warrickolius, and Michelangelo

They were to be as Norsk Gods but more than Mythical Beings

Like Shakespearian characters in our true tale of life

Before many had even heard of Thor, son of Odin

Larger than life, my dear wife bore them to us both

and I loved them with the purest father’s heart

Did not possess or control them, even when my soul it ached

I tried to give them freedom, which is the foundation of all joy

Did not burden them with the sins of our fathers

Although I would have fought to the death against any

Who would disrespect or threaten them, diminish them in any way

You keep this hidden: the teeth of the protector, the wolf-parent

Like an Arkhala, Bagheera or Baloo – you want only the best for them 

I never finished that tale and soon they began to write their own

and before too long from the nest they all had flown

It always happens quicker than you want, your greatest, nagging fear 

I tried so valiantly, gallantly to say the things that they should hear

But somehow you never do it all, believing there will be time a’plenty

To say it later when that perfect moment comes that never does

And you’re always a little sad as you wrestle with what’s good and bad

I long for my children to be what I’m not, to have what I didn’t

And to be happy with nowt’, wrapped in that purest consolation ~

Nothing can take away the prayers a loving mother or a father prays

Those things, those matters, those tortured cries and tears stay on 

Written in the stone, carved in heavens clouds where they belong

And angels bear them to their maker and sing their own special song

It is a unique joy to know you have birthed children to this world

And for each the Loving Father has a unique ensign, bright, bold and unfurled



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The Andy Capp Beatitudes


Blessed are those born north of Watford, for theirs is the kingdom of ‘the north’.

Blessed are those with a relevant, regional accent for they shall get jobs in the media.

Blessed are those whose fathers – bought the ‘Daily Mirror’ for they shall be called ‘the working class’.

Blessed are those who can say fook’ or fookin’ at least 30 times a day for they shall be the salt of the earth.

Blessed are those who don’t need to say I love you, because ‘I married you didn’t I’?

Blessed are those who have fish and chips on a Friday and call Coronation Street, Corrie!

Blessed are those who think Art is something you did at school but still have no idea why.

Blessed are those who have only been on the dole once, for they shall see God.

Blessed are those who feel offended by rich, southern bastards but still watch Eastenders.


‘I told you I only understand satire because I watched ‘That Was The Week That Was’, Millicent. 


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Chapter 12

Everybody chokes
When they see someone cut down in their prime
It may not show when you look at me
But I know I’m in mine
I’m potent, baby, I’m potent
Dangerous to the naked eye
Rest your head on this bed of mother’s pride
And find out why


The morning sun streamed across the room from a gap in the white chiffon curtains and warmed her cheek as she struggled to stay in her dream and stretching herself out inside the soft white sheets Rhona felt the man’s hands, strong and calloused feeling for her breasts. The hands found their object, cupping her soft, firm flesh within his palms and squeezing them caringly.

Rhona dreamed and imagined, for she had no desire to wake yet for another day of work and submission. She craved these moments and sleep was her fond ally in this life of discipline and purpose, it gave her both freedom and anonymity.

She dreamed of being a wife, of living in the country, of wearing smart clothes and enjoying light lunches with a girlfriend or meeting her brother, her sister, her mother.. She wanted her own house, a garden and paintings, famous paintings, full of colour. Impressions and nudes; architectural studies and flowers, bold impasto flowers.. Pencil sketches, pastel drawings and bright curtain fabrics in classic designs, plush, deep-pile carpets, hand-made furniture and expensive, patterned wallpapers.

Rhona wanted to live in style, not necessity, to choose her own diary not live a life chosen for her. Despite her appreciation for the life that Jacob designed for her, Jamie’s visits always brought these personal feelings tumbling out and fighting within her on the days that he would bring her flowers.

Lillies, roses, irises, bold and fresh bunches that she would have imagined when she knew he was coming to visit. Chrysanthemums, tulips, nasturtiums, all with munificent blooms, billowing and cascading, as her hopes and dreams, in her room, while now she felt the rough hands around her holding her tightly.

She turned over to kiss him on the lips, a thank you for all his gentle love when she felt the rough hairy arms of another man and remembered that of course the man in her bed was not at this time, Jamie Holmes at all.


”Morning babes.” The man spoke.


Don’t you wanna take me home?
Don’t you wanna take me home?

Give me a sense of purpose
A real sense of purpose now
Give me a sense of purpose
A real sense of purpose now


Rhona remembered suddenly what had happened the night before and the meeting that Jacob had arranged from London where he was staying. She had been uncertain, meeting a new man while Jacob was so far away and had contacted both Paul and Benedykt to make sure they knew about this latest liason. Jacob had already been in touch with both men and Rhona now reassured, had journeyed to the club Mandala at ul. Emilii Plater where at 20:30 hours she would meet Sean and after a night of dancing to reggae, jazz and soul, drinking lager, tequila and vodka and eating thai green curry and rice, she invited him back and made him aware of her skills ‘in the sack’. All in all it hadn’t been a bad night out, better than most.

“Gud morning Sean, we hud gud night last night huh?”

The man, opening his eyes and yawning, rubbed his brow, smiled and touched her cheek.

“Sure did babes. As good a night as I’ve known in this God-forsaken country.”

“O I see, well I don’t think God has forsaken us yet, ha ha.”

“Just a figure of speech hunny. Don’t be taking me too seriously.”

“Oh no, I see. Well I won’t be taking you seriously at all then.”

They both laughed and then kissed. His hands explored her smooth body. He was feeling a little more polite than he had last night, when aided by more than a few drinks.

The couple kissed again, a long and lingering kiss that implied a friendship far longer than the 10 full hours they had known each other. “Have you been doing this long then sweetie?”

“What am I doing Mr Freedom Fighter?”

“Huh, don’t announce that too loud hunny, remember the walls have ears and I’ve heard their paper thin too? Well let’s think, what are you doing babes? Being a consort, maybe a bit of free totty? Or maybe your just sorta’ underground groopie I don’t really know?”

Rhona was silent, she knew very clearly what she was and it wasn’t that or any of those things.

“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to insult you hun.”


Bully boys don’t bother me
I purse my lips and they run away
Guys like you who are gentle and true
Don’t come around here everyday

“I’m just thinking maybe you could be doing bit better than this sweetie, that’s all. I mean, you are without doubt a real babe hun.”

“Well thank you Mr. Freedom Fighter, you are not so bad your self, mister.”

He considered her latest little indiscretion but continued.

“How long have you been doing this babe?”

“I get the impression you don’t approve mister, although I don’t see you struggling very hard to get out of my bed now, Sean? That’s how you say it, yes? Sean?”

She mocked him with his name repeatedly.

“Don’t get me wrong hunny, you won’t be hearing me complain at all. I’ve enjoyed myself a lot, really I have. Just think your worth a lot more babe. You’re a classy lady from where I’m standing. Ha, or lying as the case may be.”

As compliments went this was not bad but Rhona had heard a lot better. Sean at least had attempted a little joke. Rhona tried to change the subject.

“So, tell me Sean how did you get to meet Jacob?”

The man’s hands had been working their way sexily down her body and were now brushing her sensitive place. Rhona was feeling that for this guy maybe she had done enough already.

I’m potent, baby, I’m potent
Just one swig of me would get most guys smashed
But a drop of yours makes me stagger and swerve
I guess I’m outclassed


“D’ya know what, I was asking myself the very same question? I think it must have been one of those sort of parties you get invited to and then when you get there, ya’ find out it’s a lot more interesting than you thought it was gonna be… I think it turned out to be a sort of a ‘meet and greet’ with a few of us itinerant rebels. ‘Aye, Bad boys R’us’ sort of a ldo and you know what, we just got chatting, kind of.”

Rhona found Sean’s lilting Irish brogue quite charming but it made some of his words and phrases difficult to pick up and it led to a certain amount of confusion.

“It is not the first time that Jacob has got involved with the IRA I don’t think Sean.”

“Hey, hey, hey hun, now when did `I mention the army?”

“O, I don’t know, which army is that then Sean?”

“The Irish Republic Army babes. Now you did mention the IRA now didn’t you hunny?”

“I’m sorry Sean I thought you did, must not have heard you properly.”

“Its okay hun, I don’t mind. Bit of a dead giveaway I suppose, what with the Irish accent and all. Irish boy, ‘explosives expert’, ‘bad boy’, join the dots eh?. Although, I don’t think it very professional of Jacob if he has been talking about me and all.”

“Well he has not Sean and I’ve got it wrong I think. I don’t know what you said, maybe it was IRS or something like that. I wasn’t listening properly, I’m sorry if I upset you.” Rhona jumped out of bed, she grabbed her robe. “I’ll make us some coffee.”

Sean got out of bed too and followed her to the kitchen. “That’s ok hunny, it’s true I did run with the IRA anyway. Since I was a kid really. My father was a strong Provo. I was raised into it. So I don’t mind. I was just wondering how we got on to that, that’s all.”

“Well I don’t know either Sean, so let’s just drop it now shall we?”

Everybody chokes
When they see someone cut down in their prime
Take this plea to your heart
– lift me in mine

Don’t you wanna take me home?
Don’t you wanna take me home?

Rhona was filling a kettle, placing mugs on a tray. It was not part of her remit to discuss the work of the men she entertained and she knew Jacob would not be pleased if he thought she had been quizzing any of them.

“Okay, babe. Anyway, I’ve not been involved with those ‘bhoys’ for some while, not since they got so political an all. Been running as a free agent for quite a few years. It’s not easy picking up work when you’re just an itinerant ‘explosives expert’ and with my cv, I can tell you? Even got into demolition work for a while in Belgium, I was earning pretty good money too. So of course when I met Jacob and he needed someone to help, I was interested.”

Rhona wanted to change the record, she did not want to hear any more.

“Hey Sean lets get out for some breakfast. I know where there’s a wery nice ‘kawiarnia’. Come on take me out and buy me some coffee and some ‘buleczka’ please.”

She was now speaking to him in her sultriest, sexiest voice. Rhona pouted seductively and walked slowly and jauntily toward him. She stood in front of the naked man and leaning back against the kitchen table she let her robe fall from her shoulders and tumble onto the floor.


Give me a sense of purpose
A real sense of purpose now
Give me a sense of purpose
A real sense of purpose now

Give me a sense of purpose
A real sense of purpose now
Give me a sense of purpose
A real sense of purpose now


An hour later they left the hastily emptied table and the flat and dressed in warm and comfortable clothes and woolly hats they stepped out into the still morning light. Arm in arm they looked every inch a ‘couple’ as they went in search of Rhona’s favourite coffee house.

Rhona could not be sure if the extra affection she was now showing to this guy was to compensate for the fact she was missing Jamie or because she was worried Sean would complain to Jacob about her bringing up his IRA connections. It was probably a bit of both.

Jacob had indeed casually mentioned Sean’s IRA history when he phoned her to arrange the meeting and Rhona knew it had been careless of her to let that slip despite the fact she felt sure Sean had mentioned the IRA himself.

The streets, the people, the buildings, the landscape were now alive in the pale morning light. Rhona was beginning to feel tired, as the effects of the previous night’s alcohol and the exhilaration of their lovemaking began to wane. They walked with the sound of their steps rebounding off the streets and buildings of this Wawelska region of Warsaw

How many people could Rhona love? This was the question that went through her brain as they walked. She was tired of trying to remain faithful to everyone. Tired of being a mother to so many ‘children’. For all men seemed like children to Rhona at this moment and they needed constant nursing. They were ‘there’ all of the time and when it wasn’t them or her work, then it was Jacob in her brain, somehow even stronger while he was away.

Jamie was different, he struck a different chord, wrote a special sonnet, Jamie was a real man. Jamie gave her space and room to breath and Jamie brought her flowers but where was Jamie right now? She hadn’t heard from him for nearly two weeks. They crossed the quiet street, it was Sunday morning and she hoped the ‘kawiarnia’ was, after all, open today for coffee

 “Will you give me your number Rhona? So we can keep in touch.”

“That’s not really the way it works mister, didn’t Jacob tell you?”

“Yes, he told me but that was before you met me babes? Sean laughed a little self-consciously. “Surely, you’ve felt something between us Rhona, haven’t you?”

“I’ll ring you, Sean, that’s the way Jacob likes it. That’s the way I like it. It has to be that way, you know that.”

Sean stopped for a moment and held her arm. “No, I don’t know that Rhona. As I say hunny, I think there has to be something better for you than all this.”

“Sean, I wish you would stop saying that to me. What do you really know about me or my life?’ She pulled away from his grasp and continued walking, A dog began barking and then another. Rhona could hear more dogs barking in the distance. This was common in Poland where dogs are kept outside and not so much as pets. Rhona could hear dogs baying and barking all around her today. Men were like dogs as well as children she considered and they had to be trained.

“You huve only just met me, Sean. You don’t know about my life at all. Now, look there is the place where you can buy me coffee and ‘buleczka’. Stop telling me about how much better I could do, will you? Buy me some breakfast. I am hungry.”

“Okay sweet babe, Rhona or whatever they call you, I’ll buy you some breakfast but what the fuck are these buleka anyway, just tell me that?”

She smiled, held his arm and guiding him through the shop doorway, she whispered “Buleczka, mister Sean, are Polish bread rolls, they will still be warm and they are wery nice”

In her flat, Rhona’s phone is ringing. It switches to answer-phone. It records this message. It was a phone call from Jacob:

‘Rhona, I want you to come to London. I have special work for you to do. I want you to help an old man feel very happy about himself. I can’t trust anyone else with this work. I want you to call on ‘B’ and find out when he is next coming to England. He can give you a lift. I’ll text you with the address in London. It will be good for you to go on a trip, Rhona. Ciou Rhona- you are still the best.’

An excerpt from a novel by edenbraywritten  28.11.11

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There is no word such as perfecy

No highlight so strange as leniency

Nothing as excellent to the core as profundity

There are only fleeting glances

Only minimalist extreme chances

And a pile of August petals by the door

I am caught in a lift door for one moment

And the everlasting ash whose fingers point up

Strays braver and ever toward me

But I grasped the mermaids towel deftly

It was as I allowed, soaked in blood

Here is your fire handed on a burning paper

A howl from the deep answered  

600 the day’s dawn that brought me no return




Perfecy : perfect conclusion




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If Truth Were Told

the unnamed soldier

If truth were told

     Humankind would stand free

     Armies would surrender arms

          People freed would be

     Light released could filter

     Society’s ills should mend

     Our enemies might be friends

     And prison bars would open

If truth were told

     Children’s hearts gentle

     Men’s hearts fixed

     And women laugh with glee

          People freed would be

If truth were told

     A smile would be sincere

     A word, an embrace

     A kiss, a promise

If truth were told

          People freed would be


#Note :  A poem I wrote nearly 30 years ago and published here for the 1st time. The object of this piece should be clear.  Straight talking honesty although candid and sometimes painful would have a dramatic effect on society and the world at large but ‘true-truth’* is a lot more than raw honesty. – It is pure, intrinsic, wholesome and quite honestly, pretty unimaginable but if practiced would indeed create a veritable heaven, right here on earth ~ **‘You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one’ ..

Bibliography .. .  Picture Plate – ‘The Unknown Soldier’ 1980 – Edenbray ~ *Francis Shaeffer ~ **John Lennon

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