In Memorium: Sabrina - A Potted History of Bridgnorth by Geoff Speechly

Today would have been your 95th birthday!!
2nd September 1930 - 16th March 2021
Geoff, High Town Writers still miss you and
have happy memories of performances of 'Sabrina'.

 

Sabrina, Goddess of the Severn,

Could lead a man to hell or heaven

1 - The Roman

Narrator

               The Romans came, with sword and law

               And taught crude Britons soon the score

               They worshipped gods like Zeus - and meaner

               But at Bridgnorth they found - Sabrina !

Legionnaire

               We must have marched a thousand leagues

               To conquer this benighted spot

               What would I give for a cup of wine

               Or a lusty wench that's really hot !

Sabrina 

A goodly sight, this Roman chap

               I'll see if I can catch his eye

               And if the audience doesn't clap

               I'll grab him, love him - and he'll die !

 Legionnaire

               O Bacchus ! What a wondrous sight !

               Is it a wench or a dream I see ?

Sabrina 

O, I'm a maid, I'll prove this night

               Come Roman man :I'll set you free !

               SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

 Legionnaire

               O Gods! O Sabrina! – I who am about to die salute you!

2 - The Saxon

Narrator

               The Saxons came in time of yore

               And plundered us from shore to shore

               And they were pretty rough ; none meaner

               There's not a doubt they met Sabrina….

Saxon

               What have we here ? Another town.

               For sacking and for pulling down

               We'll burn the place and kill the men

               Destroy the cock but keep the hen!

Sabrina

O rude uncultured Saxon beast

               I'll see you soon regret this feast

               For Bridgnorth maids and Bridgnorth men

               Sabrina's spell will work again

Saxon   

Great balls of fire! A hefty wench

               This dish I'll taste without a wrench

               Come lass, let's frolick in the hay

               You'll not forget this joyful day!

Sabrina

               I'll frolick, friend, but you're the one

               Who nevermore will see the sun

 SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

Saxon   

Gott in Himmel: du hast mich  getötet… – ich sterbe!

3 - The Dane

Narrator

               In former times, despite the rain

               Our city fair was taxed by Dane

               And though their habits were much cleaner

               We know for sure they met Sabrina

Dane

               Now what's this place ? They call it Quatt !

               The name's a mess, I like it not

               Our taxmen now will sally forth

               Across the bridge to south and north

Sabrina

               This fellow's dull compared to Saxon

               He calls himself a Danish Taxman

               Ah, well, though I won't be hasty

               Let's tempt him with an English pastry!

Dane

               O Woden ! What is this I see?

               A vision yet untaxed by me !

               I'll take her measure, scribe her rune

Sabrina

               You're right, my Dane, come take my boon !

 SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

Dane

               Valhalla – I come!

4 - The Norman

Narrator

               In elevenhundredand twenty-two

               Which Bridgnorthmen e'er will rue

               The Normans came and built their keep

               And tried to turn us all to sheep

Norman

               We brought our culture to this land

               Rude English  habits we have banned

               Now Lords and Ladies  served by serf

               Can all enjoy our Norman earth

Sabrina

               These Norman gangsters must be humbled

               Methinks his tongue of "ladies" stumbled

               Let's see if ancient English lore

               Tonight our honour can restore…

Norman

               Mon Dieu! Quelle beauty do I see

               Ma chėre, what luck for you to meet with me

Sabrina

               Indeed your fortune's doubly blessed

               Now I'm the host and you're the guest!

 SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

Norman

Elle m’a tuè! Quand même; Vive l’amour !

5 - The Welshman

Narrator

             The Marches dripped with blood; impaled

               On Welsh ambition our English town

               Became a field of battle and renown

Welshman

               By Cardiff, Anglesey or Rhyll

               Never before did my heart thrill

               To see so soft an English village

               Ripe-ready for Welsh guile and pillage

Sabrina

               The cheeky Celt! How dare he gloat

               Before he's even crossed my moat

               I'll tease him, be so coy and meek

               And then I'll parboil up his leek !

Welshman

               By Llanfairfechan and Glendower

               I've never seen so fine a flower

               Come, English Maid, and be my love

               I think you're sent from heaven above

Sabrina

               Oh yes, my little laverbread

               One kiss - and then you'll find you're dead !

                SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

Welshman

               O Angeu-eth! – I die! – cymru am byth!

6- The Roundheads

Narrator

               In sixteen-hundred-and-forty-six

               In Parliament, by knavish tricks

               Our sovereign lord quite lost his head

               And Cromwell took his place instead

Roundhead

               These Royalist dogs and their cold bitches

               With Papist plots, warlocks and witches

               Shall now the power of Cromwell feel

               With Roundhead flesh and Roundhead steel

Sabrina

               This fellow's pretty hot, he thinks

               He'll get no favours from this minx

               Or rather if he dares to touch

               He'll burn from fingernail to crutch

Roundhead

               Come lass, forget your bonnie Charlie

               Now with a real man you'll parley

Sabrina

               O Soldier brave, you little know

               Just quite how far this wench will go

 SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

Roundhead

               My God – the she-devil’s cooked my goose!

7 - The Cavaliers

Narrator

               In course of time, the good Lord willed

               That Ironsides' ardour should be chilled

               So Cavaliers now roamed the land

               And freedom reigned, naught more was banned.

Cavalier

               By Royal command I've ridden far

               Please show me to the nearest bar,

               I'm thirsty and uncommon dusty

               Just find for me a girl that's lusty !

Sabrina

               Whether their heads are round or Royal

               There's but one thing that makes them boil

               I'll not object to a little loan

               But me they'll never call their own

Cavalier

Fair lady! Let me but now thy praises sing

               And I will grant thee everything

               I'll bring you lutes and daffodils

               If you would only cure my ills

Sabrina 

Such honey'd words his lips have passed

               'Tis such a pity they're his last!

 SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

Cavalier

               Thou treacherous Woman - I am undone!

8 - The Irish

Narrator

In eighteen-hundred-and-sixty-two

               The Railway came, the town pierced through

               And snorting trains with fiery funnel

               Rushed proudly through the newbuilt tunnel

Irishman

               My name is O'Malley and I came to dig

               Not to roister or rampage: although the jig

               Which I dance on a Saturday night is fine

When I ravish their women and drink up their wine

Sabrina 

               Here's importunate Dublin and confident Cork

               And sometimes there's action as well as the talk

               But they'd better take care if they tangle with me

               I'll not be seduced by a riddle-me-ree

Irishman

               Oh look at the beauty of this Bridgnorth maid

               The glory and ecstasy of how she is made!

My dear English darling, my heart's at your   feet

               I crave but a kiss, like the soup before meat!

Sabrina 

A kiss you shall have, but hungry you'll be

               For no more will you taste the sweet joys of Tralee

 SHE KISSES HIM AND HE DIES  

Irishman

               Begorrah! I’ll never drink Guinness again!`

9- The Airman

Narrator

               In nineteen-hundred-and-forty-two

               At Stanmore trained the boys in blue

               They came from every land and nation

               And Bridgnorth was their comfort station

Airman 

Saturday night, a forty-eight

               Don't miss the bus or we'll be late

               The pubs are open, the girls are willing

               I'm glad I took the Sovereign's shilling.

Sabrina

               They may be rough at times I know

               But when to war the lads must go,

               They do deserve a little fun

               Before they face the horrid Hun.

Airman

               Good ‘eavens! Miss, you're quite the best!

               You're even better than Mae West!

Sabrina

               Farewell, my friend, away you fly

               Not from my lips will I send you die

               I must be getting sentimental

               I though he was, though rough, quite gentle

               WAVES AIRMAN AWAY

10-The Tatung

Narrator

               From cleverness born in the East

               In Low Town grew a powerful beast

               Where once the peasants listless hung

               To Bridgnorth came- and later went - Tatung

Tatung

               This occidental place is strange

               They do not know our latest range

               And if a salaryman feels randy

               All he can do is dream with brandy

Sabrina

               It's sad our friends from the Pacific

               Now have gone - but it’s terrific

               That they're not really far abroad

               But ten miles north to great Telford

               EXIT TATUNG WITH ORIENTAL BOW

11-The Tourist

Narrator

In nineteen-hundred-and-eighty-five

               Bridgnorth really came alive

               Divorced from juggernaut and truck

               Relying on part skill, part luck

               The By-pass-men did pass us by

               And tourists now to us do fly

Tourist

               I am the Tourist, last of all

               Now to Sabrina's wiles I'll fall

               But will she accept me? What must I give?

               Can I but love her, and still live?

Sabrina

               Yes sir, you can; the others' mistake

               Was never to give but only to take

               So welcome, Stranger, come to my arms

               And I will enfold you in my charms.

               THEY KISS  

 

WHOLE CAST

               So friends, you've heard our wondrous story

               This land is part of England's glory

               So join with us this lovely day

               And shout aloud Hurray - Hurray !

                              HURRAY!!!

The Shadow by Geoff Speechly

credit Gencraft

Dark is the shadow on my baby’s face

As I look at her in this awful place.

The soldiers broke the bedroom door

And smashed our lives; blood on the floor

Is the only carpet we have left; no, not we, but I-

For they took my man, and said they’d try

Him as a terrorist; he, who’d never raise

His voice much less his arm in anything but praise

For friends and peace. The shadow on her little cheek

Is red; she is so tiny and so weak…

I hear her feeble breath and mine begins to falter

Oh, I love her so much, my man-bloodied daughter,

And pray, with all my failing strength

That God may grant respite throughout the length

Of our poor country, and if we have to die

Let it be for freedom that we cry.

(First Published in a Hightown Writers Anthology A Book of Delights 2016)

Midsummer's Day at Morville by Val Pedrick (for John)

they found a sacred place there; cool, white columns embrace,

heart-leaved mulberries shade; ‘proud Titania’ may have played

by an ancient tree – a still canal reflects – what will

await; unsought, sweet, unfathomable thoughts

in a garden of delights, two lovers, hidden from sight;

foxgloved fingers caress, playful lips press

incensed with passion, elated emotion,

caught unawares, carried beyond earthly cares, where

midsummer sun swags fragrant rose bowers

pale bell-flowers whisper through timeless hours

mutual ecstasies found, their universe becomes unbound

in a confusing maze of known, yet unknown, ways

the Temple of the Hours weaves its magic spell

in a garden, as in true love, time does tell …

(2018) 

Pebble Myth by Kay Yendole

Is it a myth that penguins give their partners pebbles from the beach?

They search for the smoothest pebble perfect stone,

To give to their intended as a symbol of their love.

You did that too each time we visited a shore.

You scoured the sands to find the perfect rock for me.

And I in turn would do the same for you

A ritual we instinctively felt.

A necessary task to seal our love.

We’d take them home to our own nest.

From foreign shores around the world

And label them with places we had been.

They fill our home with solid memories

Of treasured times.

A myth maybe but fact that you my love

Are my perfect pebble rock.

(First Published in a Hightown Writers Anthology A Book of Delights 2016)

Winter Aconites by Val Pedrick

 This piece of writing first appeared on the blog in January 2021

credit: Wikipedia

 snagged flurries

veil an old pear tree

with the suffocating

shroud of a final winter

 

ebony talons

rake brooking skies

search for borrowed blue

scraps of summer

 

gnarled digits

knuckle ivory drifts

clutch golden goblets

of mulled memories

 

frosted branches phantom

sprigged spring blossom

through snow’s coverlet

gilded promises gleam

 

Winter Aconites

brighten dark days

their glowing lanterns

herald new beginnings 

(Val Pedrick nee Plante: first published 2003, edited 2014)

The Shadow by Geoffrey Speechly (1930 - 2021)

We remember with sadness the passing of Geoff, our friend and a founding member of Hightown Writers' Workshop, who passed away three years ago today. He brought a lot of fun to our meetings and we have missed him. He spent much of his working life trading with the Soviet Union and was acutely politically conscious. We repost today one of his social reflections which feels particularly apt for these troubled times.

Dark is the shadow on my baby’s face

As I look at her in this awful place.

The soldiers broke the bedroom door

And smashed our lives; blood on the floor

Is the only carpet we have left; no, not we, but I-

For they took my man, and said they’d try

Him as a terrorist; he, who’d never raise

His voice much less his arm in anything but praise

For friends and peace. The shadow on her little cheek

Is red; she is so tiny and so weak…

I hear her feeble breath and mine begins to falter

Oh, I love her so much, my man-bloodied daughter,

And pray, with all my failing strength

That God may grant respite throughout the length

Of our poor country, and if we have to die

Let it be for freedom that we cry.

(First Published in a Hightown Writers Anthology A Book of Delights 2016)

(This post first published on 16 March 2022)

HOPE - Healing by Val Pedrick

rain

like broken strings of pearls

strafes

winter windows

 

gulls arc tearful skies

cry

 

in a quiet house

Mother rests

daughter looks out

 

outside

a piece of rainbow jewel

pins hope to the horizon

 

doves sooth

croocoocoo, croocoocoo, croocoocoo, coo!

from sunset -gilded roof

 

inside

laughter catches 

a night and a day in the life of a cat without a cat-flap by Val Pedrick

for Brin 

as autumn nights draw in

our cat, flat, black against

frosted back door, flashes

peridot eyes; pats

pleading paws on glass:

‘Let me, in, niaow, purr-lease!’

 

in bed by eleven,

cat flat between us;

purrs serenade sleep, but

visits to the loo at midnight,

one, and then, two, disturb her:

‘Let me, sleep, niaow, purr-lease!’

 

four a.m. flying cat clatters at

bedside – one of us – is oblivious!

I rise, don slippers and robe;

top of the stairs, puss pauses- for effect,

trots down, another pause, licks paws:

‘Let me, out, niaow, purr-lease!’

 

alarmed at six-thirty for work;

one of us – (me) – is oblivious;

sleepy-head, breakfasts

in bed; worker dresses and

leaves, calls, ‘puss at the door, get up!’

‘Let me, in, niaow, purr-lease!’

 

escorted to kitchen and fed, cat

runs, jumps onto bed, flops flat

for a fuss, quick wash, then snores …

to tackle the chores, I rise, while

velvet paws fold furry face and flat-cat sighs:

‘Let me, sleep, niaow, purr-lease!’

 

worker returns, for croissants and lunch,

cats stirs for her ‘crunch’, selects a spot

in the flat for her post-prandial nap, then

clicks at the carpet, when it’s time to go out;

a flick of the tail, gallop, trit, trot, downstairs:

‘Let me, out, niaow, purr-lease!’

 

in the cat-flat without a cat-flap,

flat-cat pops out and in for drinks

and snacks; a tiny, cold snout nuzzles

our knees, to say ‘ta’ – (“a-a-ah”)

for leaving our flat-door ajar:

‘Let me, in and out, niaow, when I, purr-lease!’ 

McGonagall and Me by Val Pedrick

We remember and thank you Val, today, on the Sunday which would have been your 80th birthday for your friendship and the gift of your poetry: a pleasure which keeps on giving.

If I appear mute

In this illustrious company,

I suggest you be astute

And leave me to my reverie!

My muse is William Topaz McGonagall,

My thoughts form in verse.

My penchant is to chronicle,

Then pour out like a curse,

On colleagues, friends and family,

In rhapsodic rhythm and rhyme,

Birthday tribute and workday homily,

‘Which will (not) be remembered for a very long time!’

 (2002)