My Name is War

MY NAME IS WAR

Always wakeful, never sleeping

My dogs slip through the smoke that's reeking

From the havoc I have wrought.

Sergeants to their charges urging

Bravery through hellfire burning.

This mayhem's mine, this holocaust

On which I'll gorge and then make more.

Pleased to meet you,

My name is War.

Although secure you think you slumber

Hear my gunfire's distant rumble.

You'll not be safe past this day's dawn.

Enjoy your times of peace and plenty

I only need one stomach empty.

Another martyr for my cause

Comes knocking at your kitchen door.

At your service,

My name is War

I may be grand, I may be subtle

Ten thousand troops or a snipers rifle.

Perhaps I'll bomb a shopping mall.

I'll take your soldiers and your children

I'll help your women weep for fallen

Sons and daughters in the long roll call.

My herald is a nitrate roar.

The pleasure's mine,

My name is War.

I'll make you rich beyond your dreams

Stretch your markets at the seams

There'll be no need to advertise.

The profits from my global tension

Far exceed your comprehension.

Invest in arms, you'll find it wise.

In strife and conflict rockets soar.

Its my delight,

My name is War.

I'll shift all you can produce

And neutralise the prayers for truce.

I'll blow your prices through the sky.

Then in clandestine dealing moments

We'll sell the same to both opponents

So secretly they won't ask why.

You question what I do it for?

I work for love,

My name is War

Beware lest the fourth reich arise

And terror burn in gentle eyes

© Patrick Ellis

Doggerrel

DOGGEREL

Alone he came through swirling mist

In coat of gold with heart so sore.

Who knows what drove his single quest

He, clear of eye and firm of jaw.

Who trod his path at dark of night,

To the house where burned the welcome light.

The weary traveller to the open door,

To the comfort of that threadbare floor,

They knew him by his mystic paw

Twas Ben the psychic labrador.

Perhaps a Pharoe from the flowing Nile

Long since embalmed to rest in grace

Or an Inca from a city high

On mountain top 'twixt earth and space.

How far he'd travelled no one knew

Some claimed he was a dog who flew

Some claimed the wisdom of his eyes

Belied his canine shape and size

While some just gazed in silent awe

On Ben the psychic labrador.

Maybe a dog or maybe ... what?

A force whose heart beat echoes love?

A soul that burns with healing heat?

Why now a dog and not a dove?

But this spirit hound from the astral shore

This warrior from the cosmic war

Who wagged his tail by the open door

Found speculation quite a bore.

He'd come to walk the earth once more

As Ben the psychic labrador.

Walkies

©  Patrick Ellis

Busking Festival in Ferrara

Twenty years ago this month saw the first world tour of the folk/roots duo Absolutely No Dogs. Actually it was not so much a world tour as it only included one country ... ltaly ... and it couldn't really be described as stadium rock. Absolutely No Dogs, (which shall from now on be referred to by their acronym AND) was 50% John Howes who played bazouki and guitar and 50% my good self, who contributed on guitar, mandolin and harmonica. We both sang. AND had been invited to perform at the busking festival in Ferrara.

To explain further, Ferrara was one of Swansea's twin towns. A city whose architecture was a piquant mix of contemporary, medieval and renaissance styles. As a result it was, and still is absolutely gorgeous. For its 10th anniversary the festival had decided to invite an act from its twin.

We gathered on a rainy Saturday in Swansea's Castle Square for the selection audition. To cut a long story short AND was selected. At the time l was working as Parks Project Officer for Swansea City Council, and as the festival was organised by Ferrara's City Council, l was not particularly surprised.

Busking is illegal in Italy so with typical contrary mediterranean zeal the city decided to hold a festival of street music ... during which time the prohibition against busking was to be relaxed.

Our material was, as it said on the tin, a mixture of traditional and original melodies and songs. We were the core of the Absolutely No Dogs ceilidh band who played at weddings and ceilidhs. For the latter we would engage the services of a caller, i.e. someone who knew, or claimed to know, the steps and wasn't afraid to make a prat of him or herself. Occasionally we would be booked for concerts and festivals.

The deal was we were to have free flights to and from Bologna, return train between Bologna and Ferrara and free board and lodge when we got there. In return we were expected to perform on the streets. We were to play sets of 60 minutes alternating between one and two a day.

Food was provided by a local open air restaurant. Best described as basic but good. Although the patron expected us to buy alcohol to go with the food ... and seemed a little miffed when neither of us did. I guess l should take the blame for that. I have had difficult experiences with alcohol in the past so l was reluctant to partake, especially far from familiar surroundings. I'm not sure why John didn't drink, maybe he didn't consider the prospect of being drunk on his own with no English speakers with whom to share his intoxication particularly attractive.

I suppose I should sympathise with John because when later we met an ex-pat, he seemed desperate to speak English almost as if his life depended on it. (Just goes to show how vital it is to one's psyche to share one's experiences in one's mother tongue.) So we chatted to him for a bit.

We were put up in a refurbished monastery which had very thick walls decorated with tromp l'oeil. You know the sort of thing. Painted on columns and drapes to give the appearance of sumptuous furnishings on what were in any case quite attractive stone walls. I suppose the monks needed something to do when they weren't praying. By the time we arrived, several centuries after the paint had been first applied, they were beginning to show their maturity.

The busking was fun. We met a lot of musicians from other European countries. There was a flamenco act from Holland of all places. These were fine until they came to rehearse outside our door, we had separate adjoining rooms of course, at two o'clock in the morning. Which, considering the acoustic properties of solid stone corridors, was more than a little disturbing.

One particularly interesting act was a guy with a home made instrument that sounded like a hybrid between a lyre, an electric guitar and an organ. It was obviously electric, happily the organisers didn't show any prejudice in that respect. The musician had dressed himself as a character out of Romeo and Juliette. Which was quite appropriate considering the architectural style of Ferrara

Our trip was in the days before the Euro so we ended up with loadsa lira .... which was disappointingly not worth a lot. I'm not sure what the exchange rate was at the time but if we take a starting point of one million lira being worth about 11/6 in old money you could get some idea. But the agreement was we could keep what we earned.

The flight home was, as it had been coming out, in two stages. Via Frankfurt. I can't remember the seating arrangements on the first leg. But the second leg is burned into my psyche. John and l didn't sit together, I was wondering why when a scrawny guy plumped himself down in the next seat.

He was dressed in a tea shirt and shorts. And had a wild rangy look about him and was obviously exhausted. Apparently he had just finished a cycle tour of Japan's north island. I was obviously one of the first English speakers he had encountered after the three weeks he had been cycling ... so he downloaded onto me big time. (See earlier comment re importance of having a common language.)

He explained that he had been cycling solo .... as if l couldn't have guessed ... and proceeded to give me the details. Which l have now forgotten. I was pretty tired myself. But trawling through my memory l seem to remember something about Mars bars being an excellent source of energy. Also as far as l remember, he assumed l was as frantic an athlete as he was. I did not disabuse him of that fallacy. Just kept schtum.

I awoke as we landed. He was getting off. l was forced to follow him by the crush of passengers but to my relief we lost each other in the disembarkation meleé. But l haven't forgotten him. That lone cyclist's experience is etched on my cerebral cortex.

The other thing l remember is an image of my precious guitar complete with its protective case flying  through the air as the baggage handlers threw it from the hold. The sight of which almost gave me a stroke, but I thought I'd leave it till I was older and could appreciate the experience better.

We got back to Swansea and AND hibernated for a while. We had had an adventure and seen a few sights. Now we were seasoned travellers which would stand us in good stead for our UK tour which happened a couple of years later. But when I say tour of course I mean we booked to play a festival in Lincolnshire which was where one of the guys who had called for us now lived. That was also an adventure, but in a different way.

© Patrick Ellis August 2017