Beaumaris

REMEMBERING…

By David SelzerAugust 29, 20150 Comments2 min read1.5K views

…watching the circus – breath taken, mouth
open – in the red and orange striped
big top on the Green with Miss Monica
from Budapest high on the silk ropes
then walking on the pier like any mortal…

and losing your splendid red and blue kepi
to a mild westerly on the steep steps
that zigzag down South Stack cliffs, seeing it
whisked just out of reach over the wall
and lodged in a crevice where only gulls go…

and cruising up the Straits to Puffin Island,
seeing the seals, the porpoises, the shags,
the cormorants, the kittiwakes, the lighthouse
up close – returning, taking the spray, seeing
the yacht stranded on the Lavan Sands…

and walking through what was Newborough Warren –
now a forest of Corsican Pine where
Common Cow Wheat thrives and occasional
Red Squirrels are seen – the redundant
buggy over laden with our beach gear…

and shooing the gourmet gulls while eating
fish and chips and mushy peas and curry sauce
by the paddling pool in the playground –
then making friends in the water as
Tornado jets practise surveillance above…

and swimming with Mummy and Daddy
off Ynys Llanddwyn for the first time –
as the fast tide comes in covering
the gritty sand and the still rock pools
and crabs of all colours and sizes …

and crabbing on the pier with Mummy
and Daddy, with the line and bucket bought
in Cromer and the offal from the kiosk
for bait and putting them gently back
at the water’s edge with the gulls hovering…

and finding a young, frightened black spaniel
on the secret steps in the garden –
banked high with buddleia and butterflies –
and running to tell us and helping
rescue him and learning his name is Henry…

But what will you remember of all that?
Not new best friends or storytelling
with Grandma or blowing raspberries
at Grandpa – the best thing, you tell us, was
the old castle playground.

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By David Selzer

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POETRY

CASTLE PLAYGROUND, BEAUMARIS

By David SelzerJuly 22, 20142 Comments1 min read1.7K views

I think of those we love the most, recall

their playing here four decades apart –

as she and I sit at a picnic table

to finish her ice cream then rehearse

our vaudeville act. ‘I say, I say, I say,’

she declares, with barely a lisp or

hesitation, ‘my dog has no nose!’

‘Your dog has no nose! How does he smell?’ I ask.

‘Terrible!’ she says, and runs to the swings.

She can swing herself now, pushing against

the air, holding the chains just as she should –

as her mother did – beneath this unfinished

curtain wall built from local grit stone.

Determined to be free, she must go ever

higher – because we will catch her or because

the future seems always distant and safe.

I stand behind her – ready to push or catch –

and see the embracing, soothing horizon

of abiding mountains and perpetual sea.

This little one, as yet focussed on each

intensive, encyclopaedic moment,

sees only her splendid new trainers, feels

only the pendulum of blood in her veins.

‘Stop now,’ she calls and, once free, runs across

the putting green to the bouncy castle.

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POETRY

THE EDGE OF HISTORY

By David SelzerNovember 26, 20131 Comment1 min read1.8K views

From the holiday cottage near the top

of Allt Goch Bach – Little Red Hill – west

and south is ancient woodland of ash, oak,

beech and holly. North, down the steep incline,

is Beaumaris – with its redundant castle,

gaol and quays, its narrow streets and low,

thick walled houses. East are the Menai Straits,

the A55 and the Carnedd range.

Some say the ‘red’ was the blood of the last

of the Druids – or the Royalists. Now

the hill is covered with spacious ‘80s

bespoke bungalows for wealthy pensioners.

From here, there is a landscape of invasion:

Roman, Saxon, Viking, Plantagenet

(Norse, of course, by any other name) –

and, last, the so-called ‘English’ (residents

and tourists), accidental imperialists.

Inland, Welsh thrives. Here, it is seldom heard.

On Sundays, stray notes and chords from the town’s

brass band drift up – Italian opera,

a Methodist hymn. I cherish this place:

the hill; the town; the changing beauty,

shapes and colours of the tidal straits

and treeless mountains; the sense of being

always on the edge of history.

Where I live, over the mountains, far away,

is now a disunited kingdom – violent,

corrupt, gangrenous with injustice and greed.

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POETRY

SAFELY THROUGH THE DARK

By David SelzerOctober 29, 20121 Comment1 min read1.5K views

At twilight from the hills across the Straits, a sudden

drift of smoke – then a fire’s deep orange eye blinked.

We talked of cruising the Nile; of moon rise and sun set,

of the narrow compass of the earth’s curve;

the river pilots’ open armed, hand-on-heart salaams;

and the stars rushing through the night.

Later and sleepless in the early hours,

I kept watch at the bedroom window.

The hotel sign lit a faded Union flag,

threadbare at its outer edges.

The only hint of the far shore was

sporadic lights on the A55.

But the stars were unequivocal. In a cloudless,

unpolluted sky, how they teemed!

I saw the constellations pass

and the random magnificence of things revealed.

Understandably, you preferred to sleep.

And journey safely through the dark.

Note: The poem was originally published on the site in October 2009, under the title, BULKELEY HOTEL, BEAUMARIS, YNYS MÔN – https://davidselzer.com/2009/10/

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By David Selzer

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POETRY