On 14 October 1888 Louis Le Prince made what is believed to be the first moving picture in the garden of his in-laws at Oakwood Grange Road, Roundhay, Leeds
Out in the garden
by the dining room window
the women turn circles
as the men run around them.
In the time of two heartbeats
the movement is captured
and can be repeated
so the men and the women are able
to see how they looked
for less than two seconds
when the women turned circles
as the men ran around them
by the dining room window
out there in the garden.
The death of Brian
Clontarf, Easter Day 1014
All rivers ran with blood that day
Throughout the continent, skalds say.
So much blood—and such rich blood—flowed.
The pilgrim on the rutted road
Could find no place to drink for blood.
A distant battle caused the flood.
And yet—so contradictory—
A king lay dead in victory.
Now ninety and nine hundred years
Have passed with this tale in our ears
Because a poet thought to say
All rivers ran with blood that day.
The death of Al Bowlly
17 April 1941
Al Bowlly died in his bed.
I'd always imagined him singing,
In front of a dinner-suit band,
Crooning goodnight to the dancers
Out for the night in tuxedo and gown
In West End escape from the blackout
As heavy explosives rained down.
But Al Bowlly died in his bed.
Al Bowlly died in his bed.
The 10:34 from High Wycombe
Brought him back through the darkness
From topping the bill at the Rex
(Al Bowlly and Jimmy Mesene,
'The radio stars with two guitars')
To his Helen at home in Duke's Court,
Where Al Bowlly died in his bed.
Al Bowlly died in his bed.
He thought he was charmed in the air-raids,
Unscathed by a daytime attack.
So while Helen went down to the shelter,
He stayed in the flat, ignoring the sirens,
Tucked into the sheets with a book.
Maybe he hummed The Last Round-up
Before Al Bowlly died in that bed.
Al Bowlly died in his bed.
A parachute landmine caused that,
By hitting the Jermyn Street pavement.
The blast rocked his second floor flat.
No whispered 'goodnight' for his Helen—
Just blackness, while there on the floor
The cowboy adventure lay open
And Al Bowlly lay dead in his bed.
Let us praise the founding mothers
Let us praise the founding mothers
and their mothers before them
who watched the seasons, milled the grain,
who spun their yarn and baked their pies,
who raised their sons and milked the cow,
who tittle-tattled in the store,
who sat with neighbours on the porch,
who saved up scraps to stitch in quilts,
who took no hostages in life
for which they knew the Lord provides,
whose great-great-grandsons have been told
by sons of founding fathers to take Baghdad
to defend the founding mothers' way of life.
A Kansas fire chief, George C Hale,
Created tourist trips by rail.
His big idea (no, please don't laugh):
To use the cinematograph.
The train stood still, the world rolled by.
The carriage rocked, deceived the eye.
His cameras strapped in front of trains
Shot scenic mountains, rivers, plains.
His shows toured cities far and wide
As audiences sat there goggle-eyed.
He made a fortune. His success,
Though quite short-lived, brought happiness.
Let's travel back to see Hale's Tours.
I take you through the carriage doors,
I seat you on a red plush chair—
You see it, but it isn't there.
You look through windows left and right,
You see the world in black and white.
With wanderlust to stir your blood,
See townscapes, mountains and the flood,
Norwegian fjords, the Holy Land,
The golden road to Samarkand.
No need to move—my words, you'll find,
Create the journey in your mind.
No tickets, waiting or delay,
No checked-in bags to go astray,
No wings or wheels or horses' hooves.
He travels far who never moves.
On 6 March 1987 the Herald of Free Enterprise ferry sailed out of the Belgian harbour without properly securing the car deck doors and 189 people lost their lives.
Flying up the lowlands North Sea coast
to Amsterdam above a sheet steel sea
two days after disaster filled the bulletins
Above waves breaking on a harbour wall
and round an upturned ship so close
an agile man could jump from quay to hull
From the bird's eye view
an open door leads to catastrophe
as well as opportunity
© David Fisher 1962-2019