“The Belperists, (so called because their “founder” came from Belper in Derbyshire) believes that we all are already dead and that Earth is itself “hell” and that we come from another planet to suffer hell upon this one.”
This was the first paragraph of a spoof article in my paper on one April the First. (Watch out for a spoof entry in this next April!). I wrote the piece in less than a hour and everyone was fooled.
Yes, they looked for the spoof in the paper, but thought a true story was it. The true-story clipping was about a boy of ten thrown off the bus because he didn’t have a ticket (or money for one) for his goldfish. As readers knew I loved kooky religions, the Belperists was thus taken as a truism, and even got their way into a guide-book!
Naughty me!
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In The “Crown & Thistle”
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“It was the first day of Spring” he said bitterly; “When she died.
“I arrived home and admired the daffodils growing in the garden, and I felt such purpose in life.
“I opened the front door to see a mass of puzzled women, all with strained eyes and useless words
“‘Baby’s dead!” came a hoarse shout from a world so far away and yet right next to me.
“I walked stunned into the living room and saw her there, covered with a tiny sheet.
“‘When, how?’ I had muttered as if it bloody mattered.
“As if it mattered, as if anything mattered at that moment, but the still bundle that had that morning put out her frail arms to me and said ‘Bye-bye dadda’”
He put down his still unsupped pint, nodded to us all and asked us the date as if he didn’t know.
Outside the pub, in the borders, daffodils had marked the coming of spring.
“As if it mattered” he mumbled. tears in his shrivelled eyes.”As if it matters this forty-two years on”
He picked up his darts and threw them with angry force onto the board.
“One hundred and eighty!” one of us gasped in amazement.
As if it mattered.
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Comment: As far as I can recall, I didn’t write a truly great poem on my two week South Wales holiday (though I did write five excellent texts!) But this poem I wrote two days back, was from a conversation I heard in a Mountain Ash pub.
All poets should listen to pub conversations, it’s when tipsy, that heartache comes pouring out. Pretending to read, I listened to this man saying how his baby died one spring day long ago, and he never had another child. He got home from work and someone said “baby’s dead.” the talker and listener then went off to play darts, leaving me suddenly not enjoying either my pint nor the small town that had changed so dramatically from how I remember it in 1959.
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Comments (9)
Love can do much more damage than hate.
Hate makes killing acceptable but love makes dying acceptable.
He means death .. not coloring things.
I would love to read the article about the Belperists. I can remember when I was a teenager believing that Earth was hell and that we were in purgatory doing time. LOL!
Death is just another transition. It hurts like hell to lose someone close to us, but we do survive it. How we choose to live out that survival is what’s important, I think. Ah – we poets are such deep thinkers, huh? LOL.
Belperists… heh… gotta love it.
Well, am back from a week of visiting and eating. Read your post and had to come in here first thing to read a bit. Am getting more and more from your writings. Imagine you full well know who or what was “Sweeney Todd”.
You need a Holy Book for the Belperists.
What a sad story!
who are you?
I worked in a Pub once…I always listened to what everyone had to say…I used to beat the men in stupid bar games…Once I was given a lipstick for a tip…it was Hot Chili Red….I used it to mark people’s foreheads when they could not have any more drink…they didn’t find it funny….But I did…I have since realized I am lucky I am alive….in more ways than one..Peace..Sheri