Much of this collection finds it theme
in one or other of the World Wars, although, as the two poems I have
shared below show, it is often not in a direct way that the conflicts
is addressed. There is a gentleness in the way that Gladys confronts
you with big emotions and challenging ideas which gives the
collection a special potency.
The Stonemason
'My name is Legion: for we are many'
Mark V.9
He's
sure of each new name he carves in marble,
Precision
in his chipping out by chisel -
Each
hammer tap exact to sculpt a letter.
He's
not employed to grieve or show he's bitter
But
merely etch the names and regiments,
The
years and very finest sentiments.
He has
to keep a steady hand and nerve,
Try
not to picture faces, young, naïve,
Clear-eyed,
smooth-skinned beneath their caps and badges,
Consigned
to death's red mouth, hell's hostages.
He
mustn't think of flesh of the distress
Of
mothers, wives, or children's life-long loss.
He's
now at work in every town and region
Inscribing
names in stone. These names are legion.
War
Story
Afternoon
heat invading the factory, she felt trapped
in her
turban, tied to the insatiable machine
feeding
it identical parts at identical intervals.
Sun
hazed the dungeon air, as in St Xavier's Church
with
its soporific sermons she'd ceased to attend.
He
would be writing from Ceylon, he'd promised.
Perhaps
the letter was waiting at home
on
thin foreign paper smelling of lemons.
Her
mother would have propped it by the mirror
she
always looked in, hating her turban-flattened hair,
the
squashed sausage of curls. Yes, the letter
would
be there. And she would read it, over
and
over, like the novels of Pearl S. Buck.
The
machine churned on, cogs clicking, clacking
munitions'
rough music. The afternoon shift
was
dull since he'd gone. The canteen... there
she'd
seen him first... tall, smoking a Senior Service.
He'd
smiled, suggested the pictures.
Linking
he'd explained, 'I'm A1, but exempt
as an
engineer. Enjoy swimming... sometimes cycle to Wales'.
The
machine seized the rifle butts in eager jaws -
she
wiped the sweat sliding down her arms.
Gone
three months now. The ring he gave her, twined
and
with a pearl, promised all... 'I'll write.
Won't
be long to wait. Hitler's almost done for.'
Her
screams rose above the roar
as the
machine consumed her sleeve, pulling her arm
into
its rotating teeth. Fastened by flesh, she fell
when
the Foreman pressed the pedal of release.
'First
Aid!' 'Ring for an ambulance!'
She
heard their voices from a far-off reef
like
wavelet around the island of Ceylon.
The
pain held all her body by the arm.
'Perhaps
she'd heard – it's going round -
about
her Bill. Married to a women back in Wales.
We
kept it from her as he'd gone to Ceylon,
but
news files...'
A bomb
burst in her brain. Somewhere a plane
exploded
in the sun.
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