I’d like to apologise to those interested in my writing, as my latest collection Work & Play due to be published a while ago is again held up through no fault of mine. I thought you might like to read one of the poems from the collection. The casuals on Belfast cross channel docks, of which I was one back in the fifties and sixties were called, among other things Arabs. They were proud of this title, and took it as a compliment. A DAY IN THE LIFE OF AN ARAB is a nostalgic look back at the fifties and sixties when we were young and harmless. There wasnt much in the way of entertainment in those days, or work either. I was as much a dreamer then as I am now, and it all seems so long ago. Many of the lads and men who worked as casuals on Belfast dock have went to the big schooling pen in the sky, but I’m sure there’s a few still around who remember those days. … The Chat mentioned is the ‘Buroo’ in Corporation Street where we had to sign on every day there was no work. A DAY IN THE LIFE OF AN ARAB.. Id love to go back to the old days When life wasnt such a big strain. When I stood at the corner of Earl street And mused in the soft falling rain, Or sat by my mas old steam wireless And listened to housewives choice And thrilled to the singing of Crosby, Or marvelled at Frankie boys voice. On mornings no work was forthcoming, We’d walk round the town in a bunch, Harassing the pretty young shop girls Before going home for our lunch. Afterwards back to the dock pen, Along with the rest of your lot. The foreman schools all of your buddies, So you wander alone to the *chat. To kill time you visit the bookies Though you havent the price of a bet. You study the form out of boredom, And puff at your last cigarette. A fella you know backs a winner, And invites you round for a drink. He stuffs a few bob in your pocket As into a big pint you sink. You sit in the warmth of the bar room, Enjoying the crack like the rest. His money burns hot in your pocket And so you decide to invest. You dander around to the bookies, With careful precision you choose, Then back to the pub and the teevee, To watch as your three horses lose. You make an excuse and you exit, Return to the corner again. The punter has been more than decent, But carrying friends is a strain. Three hapennies you pay for a Telly, From the vendor at Gallahers gate. You thumb through the large printed pages, For killing an hour, readings great. Theres a musical on at the Troxy; Your Mall maybe lend you the dough. Two shillings should cover the outing, For buses and ice cream and show. Maybe youll see the wee red head, The one whos been catching your eye. Shes got a nice face, shed be lovely to chase, When you smile shes embarrassed and shy. Youll have a wee court in the entry. Of course shell be wise to your tricks. Youll try to act just like the hero, You watched from your seat in the flicks. You dander her down to her doorstep, But dont ask to see her again. You havent the money to court her, She thinks its because you are vain. Shell fall in with some guy whos working; He’ll save up and buy her a house. Shell tell all her friends youre a miser, Who treated her just like a louse. You finish the paper and fold it, And soon at your supper you sit. Adrift in a dream world you linger, As songs from your radio flit. A day in the life of an Arab. A life filled with boredom and pain. I wish I could find me a time warp. Id love to go back there again. John Campbell. 1961.
Posted on: Sat, 02 Nov 2013 21:24:57 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015