Tom Kelly poems in the recusant magazine

Hunga, Hunga

everyday’s blessed
with nothing.

Hunga, hunga,
never escapes,
my dad’s chant.

Hunga, hunga,
each bugger’s face
lined with want.

Hunga, hunga
hangs in the air:
hunger pains.

Breathed It Everyday

Aa back number,
ye wor born
aa lossa,
you never said,
breathed it every day.

You were brayed
soon as look at you,
love faraway as the moon
you never said,
breathed it every day.

I borrow your voice,
breathe you,
hear you, see you,
breathe it every day.

Dad in the Rain

1933:
I’m talking to you,
rain sheeting down.

At the end of an alley,
harsh cough rattles,
phlegm spreads.

Grasping his coat,
fingers chain the collar,
cold barb-wires your face.

Words dry up
in the rain.

No Laughing Matter

Living next to dread,
close to the lip
of everything but food.

Standing on corners
pushed by police,
poor whites
-violence caged.

1930’s hard;
then a wild practical joke,
you’re a prisoner of war,
no laughing matter.

You were never surprised
what life threw at you,
quality always poor.

‘Nye Bevan Dies’
(Wednesday 6th July, 1960)

Three words
made dad cry.
I did not understand,
“Nye dead,”
the reason for his tears.

He had passion,
came from Wales,
spoke for the working classes,
dad said.

Dad read ‘The Herald,’
canvassed for The Labour Party:
Nye was a saviour-
“with feet of clay,”
Tony Benn said.

Tom Kelly
All appear in the recusant ezine
Here’s the link:

Tom Kelly