Early Works - Maurice
The devil’s lady flames have lit
the IRA have bombed the manuscript
never mind there is no relaxation
this time it might get to Glenda Jackson.
A week gone by far away
here comes the Cadbury kid with his Milk Tray.
He is ready for dangers to face,
some more literary grace.
Comedy in an inert expression
there is no regression
Maurice sits in solemn pose
pondering in degrees I suppose
conscious of all repetition
inherited in the pieces at their presentation,
criticism is slight,
but a meaningful insight.
So here, I sit in deep dispose
trying to write poetry and no prose.
Maurice sits in elevation
listening to my deviations,
the adventures of a bar of soap
oh, my is there any hope.
Regression, repetition, inhabitation
is there any compensation.
The sweet bird of youth
from heaven will fly
words of solemn prose
an ode to a dying rose.
No laughter as began the page
only silent rage.
This poem was only for fun
so no harm done.
Date unknown, probably 1979.
Author’s Note:
This was written as a bit of fun for my tutor, mentor and friend Maurice Callard. The Devil’s Lady was a play he wrote and sent it to a London Agent. During an IRA bombing campaign in London, the Agent’s office was destroyed along with Maurice’s manuscript of the play. He had written it with the actress Glenda Jackson in mind to play the Devil’s Lady. However, I do not think she ever got to read it. How many copies of the manuscript still exist I do not know, but I have one. With the Cadbury Kid, it was a bit of fun Maurice wrote to amuse us in his class.
With reference to my own work in the last stanza ode to a dying rose it relates to a poem posted up here called A Rose With A Tinted Past.
poem by David Harris
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In Loving Memory
A long time ago,1976 to be exact
a friend said I should go along
to a writing class he had joined.
Therefore, I did and met someone,
who was to change my life.
However, I did not know it at the time.
For the first couple of years he was simply my tutor.
However, as the years rolled on,
he became my mentor,
and most of all my friend.
For every year, we knew one another
the friendship grew stronger than before.
Before I met Maurice,
he had published four novels
and I have every one.
He started with A City Called Holy,
next came The Splendour and the Havoc,
and then The World and the Flesh,
and finally Across the Frontier.
He also wrote plays,
produced, directed and acted
in them with his wife Peggy.
When I met him his books
were out of print,
but through the years,
I found them one by one.
After a friendship that lasted
over seventeen years Maurice died.
However just before he passed away,
he told me how his local library
had approached him, wanting to know
if he had any copies of his books,
as they only had one left.
He did not and felt sadly about that.
As he told me, I made a promise to myself.
Not matter how long it took,
or how much it would cost,
his local library would have,
those books of his they did not have.
More than ten years passed from the time of his death,
until I was finally able to fulfil my promise.
I collected through the years
the books the library was missing.
In January 2006, I presented them to his local library.
It was a way of saluting a special friend,
helping keep his name alive.
I did it because of the special gifts,
through the years he gave me.
His friendship, his knowledge and help
with my writing no one had ever given before.
Therefore, any success
that I may ever achieve
can be contributed to him.
A gentleman of words,
my tutor, my mentor,
and lastly a very kind and special friend.
(For the late Maurice Callard)
poem by David Harris
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I’m Maurice Chevalier’s Niece
I’M MAURICE CHEVALIER’S NIECE
I’m Maurice’s niece,
I am French like he.
I painted the Eiffel tower,
where he was born,
He is happy, too bad he’s gone.
I could have been
in a movie
with him,
He would sing
to Melodie
'Wonderful Things'.
Like “Thank Heaven For Little Girls”
Thank you Maurice, you’re the
Sweetest Frenchmen in the world.
Now, he is in a photo at piano
with Marilyn Monroe,
they were going to be in
a movie together I thought
you should know.
Now we have
his and Marilyn's
movies, photos and songs,
to play day or
all night long.
See you in Heaven
Maurice Chevalier,
I will sing for your birthday,
a song with Melodie Mezoree’.
Written on March 22nd 2011 by Christina Sunrise
poem by Christina Sunrise
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The Devil, In Sheep's Clothing
Perhaps the only way to look at it now
Is to see her as the necessary evil that she was;
As hard as it is to accept, she was the vesssel that did allow
You to come into my life-no matter what she does,
She will never be able to take away this gift!
If I had known in advance, all she would take,
I would still allow it to be-the uplift
To my heart, of your existence alone, could make
Up for anything, many times over again-
The joy that it brings, makes up for any pain!
There is no other way to look at all that has transpired:
A lady I once most ardently admired,
Turned out to be the Devil, in sheep's clothing;
Though she gifted you, she also earned my perpetual loathing!
-Maurice Harris,25 July 2011
poem by Maurice Harris
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Early Works - Tooter
For Maurice Callard
The Great Gatsby in his forte
from the old man’s tears
to a group twinkling in the garden.
Alas, this is not my exercise,
I am supposing to big head the tooter.
I am supposing to what?
Oh yes, what he represents to me.
Well, let me see
a fellow author, a good-looking fellow.
Yes, I would agree with these.
Now what about his bad points?
You say he hasn’t any.
Well just one or two.
What are they you ask?
You cannot think of any at the moment.
Well, never mind we’ll discuss the good points in some depth.
A fellow author.
Well, yes, he is good in fact,
some might even say quite brilliant.
A good-looking fellow.
Well, with the romantic look of Robert Redford
and ruggedness of Clint Eastwood
need I say anymore?
A good teacher,
I don’t think there are any complaints.
Look, I’ve been going for five years,
but maybe I’m a slow learner!
A very helpful fellow.
Yes, I would agree with this.
I agree with anything,
but above all my comedy
and jest my work purposes.
I find him a good friend and honest critic
no author could ask for more.
25 March 1981
Authors Note:
This was written tongue-in-cheek about my good friend for nearly twenty years. When I read this out at one of his classes, everyone had a good laugh including Maurice himself. To me he was not only a teacher, friend but at times a surrogate father as my own father had no time for my writing. Although he is no longer with us all who knew him, miss him.
poem by David Harris
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I’m Maurice Chevalier’s Niece
I’m Maurice’s niece,
I am French like he.
I painted the Eiffel tower,
where he was born,
He is happy, too bad he’s gone.
I could have been
in a movie
with him,
He would sing
to Melodie
'Wonderful Things'.
Like “Thank Heaven For Little Girls”
Thank you Maurice, you’re the
Sweetest Frenchmen in the world.
Now, he is in a photo at piano
with Marilyn Monroe,
they were going to be in
a movie together I thought
you should know.
Now we have
his and Marilyn's
movies, photos and songs,
to play day or
all night long.
See you in Heaven
Maurice Chevalier,
I will sing for your birthday,
a song with Melodie Mezoree’.
Written on March 22nd 2011 by Christina Sunrise
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Rose Across The Sea
For My Good Friend JoAnn McGrath
Not so long ago I was joking
with a young lady across sea.
I told her that I was a vicar,
or at least pretend one.
My name was Dodgy Dave the Vicar.
A little while later
she wrote a poem aptly named,
The Vicar Is Quicker.
Since then she has written
quite a number more.
I tell her a funny story about me.
No sooner do I tell her the story
it appear as a Dodgy Dave Poetry.
In the time I have known her
not once have, I wrote a poem for her,
that rose across the sea.
She thinks of me as her big brother.
I find that as a compliment you see,
as my own real sister
does not want to know me.
Therefore, I have an adopted one
far away from me,
a rose across the sea.
Therefore, Joann
this poem is just for you,
from your friend,
that Dodgy quicker vicar
who rhymes with liquor.
A substance he never touches,
but I will raise my cup of tea
and say again,
this poem is just for you,
my rose across the sea.
poem by David Harris
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In the spirit of Rumi - 67 - To Rumi
I’m not too proud to say
please write a new poem through me
and I promise not to claim that
I wrote it myself…
or if that’s too much to ask,
just a line somewhere, that I’ll watch
as it writes itself and know
that you, not I, write it
or if that’s too much to ask,
open an old book at
a page that smells just faintly
of attar of roses, and know that
Rumi read this page too
or sitting quietly waiting for a poem,
or after a poem, and there’ll be
a slight breeze for a moment
carrying the memory of a rose
from an old Persian species
mixed with the faintest scent of wild herbs
after desert rain
or if that’s too much to ask,
just the occasional memory
that you lived, and wrote,
and a poem comes to mind
as if you’re reading it first to a friend
and I’ll smile and look at
the rose in the blue and white vase over there,
neither of us caring about time
while your book lies open by the window,
the breeze turning the pages gently
as if it knew which poem to choose
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Lost poem
It was on this page, then gone
Like feathers blowing in the wind.
Where is the prose I wrote?
Not a letter is in sight.
I am looking with all my might.
Oh where is the prose I wrote?
Today I wrote a new poem,
Was it lost in cyberspace?
I hope not for I might not know it,
Even staring at me in the face.
Give me a break, my memories are at stake.
Oh where is the prose I wrote?
Two schools of thought.
.
The lady chose to take offence
Although I said she wrote fine prose
She may not know the difference
between poetry and prose
She thought that she wrote poetry
But what she wrote was free form prose.
I offered no apology
It was not my fault that she chose.
Not to learn the basic rules
defining prose and poetry
Two very different writing schools
in which to show your artistry.
The so called experts can’t agree
and coined the term poetic prose.
Though writing cannot possible
be classed as poetry and prose.
If it’s not metered it is prose
no matter how poetical.
But you’re entitled to compose.
Fine prose and call it poetry.
Though I suggest respectfully
you should be proud of writing prose.
As some do most successfully.
But it was poetry I chose
Thursday,11 March 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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A New Life (Heaven Sent)
A new life; new surroundings in a new place,
These are the circumstances that you face
When you search for yourself and a new beginning;
You never quite know if you are losing or winning;
The battle wages within, to define yourself anew;
Everything seems to unfold so slowly before you
That you begin to wonder if time itself has slowed
To a point where you no longer dwell in the abode
Of the spatial and the temporal-both are altered;
You play back in your mind any area in which you may have faltered-
But still, there is nothing-you are left wondering still-
Where is the life of wonder, when will my dreams fulfill! ?
When it is least expected, this is when it will present-
You will not know from whence it came, only that it is Heaven sent!
-Maurice Harris,24 March 2012
poem by Maurice Harris
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Distance Between...
Distance between...betwixt me and my beloved,
Nary shall there be a time whence I may not ruminate of!
To assess blame is not a solution;
To rectify the wrong shall provide conversion!
Saddened am I by lady's absence,
Await do I time's enemy, jurisprudence!
Your attempt, feeble as it may be, to transmogrify
Me into the monster you need of me, truth nullifies!
You know better than to proceed as you did,
Behind ghosts of our past you hid!
No matter how you spin your tale of deceit,
Your falsities and fallacies, truth shall defeat!
What goes through your mind as you ponder,
The tangled web you have woven is what I wonder! ?
Maurice Harris,29 June 2008
poem by Maurice Harris
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Happy Birthday America
Happy Birthday America, tried and true;
235-years-old, but with precepts that keep you new-
Not enough say this, but 'I am so proud of You! ',
The colors that do not run-The Red, White And Blue!
The bastion of Freedom, sweet Lady Liberty,
Thank you for the Honor, that you give to me:
To be counted amongst those who may say,
'I was fortunate enough to be born in the U.S.A.! '
Sta young still, my dear, beloved friend-
You began a 'revolution', now do not let it end;
To Thine Own Self remain true,
Yet, also stay true to me, as I shall, to You!
Happy Birthday America, I wish you many more indeed-
Continue to shine as a beacon, for many more, in need!
-Maurice Harris,3 July 2011
poem by Maurice Harris
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Good Morning Princess!
Good morning Princess, Daddy misses you dearly!
I hope to see you again soon to enjoy your laughter and smile!
I call to you, in prayer, each and every night...do you hear me?
Hopefully you have been well, it has been quite a while!
I hope that you are taking care of your little Sister and your Mom!
I am sorry I could not be there with you
For the past several months! I will be be back soon from
Where I have been. I shall be, again for you, your Father, true!
I am confident that you kept with you all I did teach,
To ensure that every day you grow into a more refined young lady!
I am so proud to be your Daddy, to help you reach
All your goals-to grow and do yourself proud...this, pray we!
I was lucky enough to receive two miracles, in one day-
You shine brightly, a diamond, with resplendence to always stay!
Maurice Harris,21 January 2008
poem by Maurice Harris
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Totally Biased
I do not often write free form
to me it is not poetry.
Freely admit my prejudice
I think it’s just a passing phase
Although I can appreciate
poetic and well written prose
This does not make it poetry
When I consult my dictionary
it makes it very clear to me.
All writing must be one of those
It can’t be both at he same time.
Prose poetry cannot exist
an obvious oxymoron
Though modern writer still insist
that what they write is poetry
.It may be really beautiful
and well presented on the page
but definitely not poetry.
Why can they not be satisfied
with their well written thoughts in prose.
Why do they call it poetry
a dandelions not a rose.
Its meter defines poetry
it doesn’t even need to rhyme.
Even free verse had its rules
but writers seem to think today
There are no rules anything goes.
I nail my colours to the mast
Not afraid to let my bias show.
31-Jan-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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I Love You, Yet Not
What will need be, in for your mind
To leave all you allege, finally behind?
You know better than to paint a picture, so fantastic-
Alas, you know deceit supplanting truth is tragic!
Why then, where truth is needed the most
Would you subvert the actual, in chase of a ghost?
Where be the lady to whom my heart doth belong-
What thee allowed, not what's meant by head-strong!
I love you, yet not do I want mine hand be forced-
My demands are stern, not as others, coerced!
Maurice Harris,18 June 2008
poem by Maurice Harris
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A Life, Lived Alone
What good is a life, lived alone,
With no one to share the adventure?
This is a 'failure', for which I need to atone;
But, I will not assent, until I am sure
That the lady meets all the needs
Of my heart, soul, and mind-
My want to love more than I do myself impedes
The 'progress' that causes others to leave behind
All of their hopes and dreams, to settle for less!
I refuse! Perhaps I will fall prey to my own stubborn pride-
What will happen is anyone's guess,
But this has been my stance since the day I died!
I am not here to collect relationships-I am here
To find a mate for my soul, and to do so, without fear!
Maurice Harris,24 July 2011
poem by Maurice Harris
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This Little Note
This is just a little note, to let you know I adore you;
No surprise I am sure, yet, never forget this, I implore you;
Perhaps one solitary moment you will find yourself
Reading these very words, and remind yourself-
That, no matter where you may then be-
We are made much the better, when we
Allow ourselves to be loved-and to love, in return;
With you considerate-the former is granted, the latter, I must earn;
I know our worlds have been quite desparate-
Yet I know, there is a world of wonder, here before us;
The Fates wish for us to consort:
This is our destiny, I shall allow naught to detour us;
Perhaps one day, far removed from whence first, you did read this little note,
You will be gladdened that you did heed this little note!
-Maurice Harris,14 January 2011
poem by Maurice Harris
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She Looks Just Like You!
'She looks just like you! ', it says, on the back of the photograph;
Alas, this photograph (and others) is all I have,
To remind me that my importance has not faded
And that I need restore the Natural Order that He created
For a beautiful little lady, who knows not, her 'Dad';
Oh, if only I could share with her, the dreams I had
For a future that put her in the forefront
And not this 'present', subjugated to what others want!
So long as the status quo is maintained, they are satiate,
Yet, with their near-sightedness, they fail to appreciate
What is of paramount importance is this Father-Daughter bond;
Until our consort's reprise, I hold onto memories, most fond,
Of a little lady, I, sadly, no longer know...
And watch emotions that could be no stronger, grow!
-Maurice Harris,5 September 2011
poem by Maurice Harris
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Somehow, Some Way
Somehow, some way, I knew you'd not gone away,
Warm thoughts of thee ensured you'd always stay;
The lovely young girl I knew when I was young
Has become the most beautiful lady among
All mine eyes hath e'er lain: somehow even then
I knew that you would come back to me again!
Lest I had forgotten the awe in me you did inspire:
You are everything in a lady that I do admire!
Once in a lifetime, if you are most fortuitous,
You find someone, that is truly special and glorious!
Far more lovely than ever I could fathom,
The same heart you set aflutter, you also calm!
Wish do I to bear witness to all your prescient glory,
To once again recount to the world our precious story!
Maurice Harris,21 August 2009
poem by Maurice Harris
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To Her, I Am Just 'Moe
To most, I am Maurice-but to her, I am just 'Moe';
To most, I must explain everything, but with her, we both just know
What the other is thinking, at any given time:
We could not live OUR dreams, until we were both prime!
With others, I am quite the enigma;
With others, she must face a perceived stigma
Attached by those, who know not, our ardor:
This is a posit, with which we care not, barter!
With others, the love needs further explication-
With others, there lives varied negative sentimentation-
Yet, with us, nary does there exist doubt;
Any that may linger, we cast it out!
poem by Maurice Harris
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