These are a compilation of poems authored by my grandfather, the late Ronald Leonard Draper.

Ron, as he was known, wrote sporadically at various points over his life, but was to find more inspiration for subject matter, more time to reflect and more ready passion for literary endeavour upon reaching his retirement from Northampton’s Boot and Shoe industry midway through the 1980’s.

At the time of his sad death in 2006 it was estimated there to be some 300 or so part or complete pieces of poetry, limericks, solidly-formed ideas and countless other thoughts that had struck with sufficient force as to provoke his reaching for a pen.  These works now rest in the possession of Ron’s widow, my Nan, and it is with her kind permission and blessing that some of these works have been reproduced here.

Almost all of this collection is drawn from the period post-retirement, where from his observation point as a father, grandfather and great-grandfather bearing witness to events that were to shape the era – and indeed the seismic social changes that were to characterise the British Midlands over a good portion of the twentieth century – he was as well placed as any to comment and reflect on the life and times he lived through as he saw it.

Born in Northampton in 1925, the town served as the colourful scenery for Ron’s childhood, his young adulthood,  and marriage, and became the backbone to his work and family for the length of his life.

Accordingly, much of his poetry places the town at its heart, clearly reflecting with warmth and wisdom the sense of connection Ron felt to his place of birth and the roots of his family tree.  Its parks, public buildings, landmarks and people frequently take centre-stage within the poems’ lines: often with pride, sometimes with a shade of sadness, but always resonating with a profound sense of identity and belonging.

Alongside the love for writing verse, Ron was well regarded locally as a tireless, strong-minded letter writer.  He wrote about most things over the years, but topics that sparked his ire perhaps more often than others would generally be political in nature: local, national, international; bye-law or statute; local councillor or Prime Minister  – all were fair game and grist to the mill for Pap.  His name was to make made countless appearances in the letters section of local newspapers right through the 80’s and 90’s, and the published correspondence with other like-minded (and, just as regularly, conflictingly opinionated) individuals became one of the most entertaining and appealing features for the newspapers’ readership at the time.

However, whilst Ron’s letters do exemplify how his refined social conscience crackled in engagement with the changing currents of cultural mood, they are so plentiful in number and have such a broad thematic range, it was felt they should be set aside for now; perhaps to take their place in another, later volume, all of their own.

Toward the end of his life, Ron’s awareness and self-scrutiny of the advancing years naturally began to feature more and more in his poetry.  But though the rigours and indignities of old age were to become a subject he would bemoan and send up in equal measures through verse, one could never detect an undercurrent of regret for the life he led- neither in the poems’ make up; nor, indeed, in his.

Above all else, the hope is for this anthology to provide succour and provoke fond reminiscence for every one of those who knew and loved Ron Draper.  And to entertain, or perhaps even offer something of a sense of an impassioned, worldly-wise and big-hearted man, for those who never had the good fortune to meet him.

Ronald Leonard Draper. 1925 – 2006.

Beloved Husband and Paterfamilias for four generations.

Rest in Peace

Alistair Draper

January 2010

Chapter One

Memories and Times Past

An Epitaph for Myself

No epitaph for me should ever be interspersed with words of noble deeds accomplished.

For let it be said that here lived a man who loved his wife, family, music and literature, for in these things man can find everything that he desires to stimulate the emotional mind and body

 Memories 1925 – 1939

Fish and chips and batter bits,

Mrs Brody’s homemade sweets.

Bags of stale, broken biscuits –

Terraced houses and cobbled streets.

Sunday lunch with Yorkshire puddings

Stealing sips from Father’s beer.

Bowls of soaking, dirty washing,

Camphor oil in my ear.

Whooping cough and scarlet fever,

Epidemics by the score;

Goods bought on the never-never,

Cheap linoleum on the floor.

Carefree days spent over The Orchard

Playing cricket with the boys;

School exams, feeling awkward –

Wondering if it’s me who’ll win the prize.

Sergeant Freestone with his coppers,

School-board man on a shaky bike;

Undertakers in their toppers –

Looking sad; dressed alike.

The jet-black horses pulling hearses

The coffins decked with fragrant blooms,

Churchman chanting holy verses

In cold, pious and cheerless rooms.

Memories 1925 – 1939

Trams trundling down main streets

Power cables overhead,

Cyclists pedalling through traffic

Pushing for home –legs like lead.

Sewn up clothes with neat, round patches –

Not for us a tailored suit,

But a clean white apron every Sunday;

Bath, then church, in polished boots.

Scrumping with the lads at Wootton,

Stomach aching all next day,

Mum finds out from Mr Sutton,

Now they’ll be hell to pay.

Fresh brown bread with shrimps and winkles

Pavements cleaned outside the shops.

Streets alive with busy people:

Ice-cream carts and traffic cops.

Childhood days, long remembered,

Tempered by present climes,

Memories now but dying embers

Of a fading, distant time.

Creaking Joints

Oh! To wake up full of  joy

Leap out of bed and pull on my jeans

Instead of laying on my bed waking only to be fed

Oh! To wake up free from pain,

Supple, lithe and young again.

Do the things that must be done

All together in unison.

Oh! To wake up trim and fit.

Feel the lamps of life are lit.

Face the day with zeal and zest

and limp into bed for a well earned rest.

Hazy Days Long Gone

Holidays when I was a lad

Were always happy, never sad.

We romped in the sunshine, splashed in the rain;

Scratched and bruised but felt no pain.

The games we played were mixed and many,

The sweets we ate we could but for a penny.

We could play Whip and Top or have a game of Release,

No thoughts about war; just enjoying the peace.

Ball games were played – such as rounders and cricket

With a makeshift bat and a chalk marked wicket.

Days were spent in endless fun,

No time to stop for tea and bun.

Hazy Days Long Gone

Innocent time before the onset on youth,

Calling up papers and facing the truth.

Looking back they were wonderful days,

No-one got bored on our holidays.

We would be off to the park with a sack for a tent,

A bathing costume that a friend had lent.

We would paddle all day in the stream nearby

Eat our bread and cake, drink a bottle of “Kali”.

When the evening came we were tired and spent,

So to our homes we slowly went.

We could hardly wait until the next day

When all over again we ready to play.

Jug and Bottle

When we first had milk, it was left in a jug,

On the step, with a note, by the door.

Mrs Pontin would come with her pony and trap,

Hardly spilling a drop on the floor.

Then the new boys came, with a new kind of game,

Brightly coloured tops and all.

With their pasteurised and sterilised

They were only too happy to call.

Seabys and Brampton, found in Northampton,

Plenty of folk they could serve,

Tuberculin tested, Grade A and gold-crested,

Were sold with a new kind of verve.

Jug and Bottle

It was good for you then, that’s what we were told.

Good for your teeth and your bones.

Now it’s “Don’t drink that – it’ll make you fat!”

Said in such forceful tones.

Milk used to be such a simple drink –

All creamy and lovely and white.

Now it’s UHT, skimmed and fat free

I can’t touch it without taking fright.

So what is this liquid I put in my tea?

Does it really come from a cow?

I am not really sure, but the bottle says “pure”

It was once maybe, but not now.

Flash Floods

The day the floods came pouring in

Brought pandemonium and din.

The cries for help and yells of pain

The cold incessant pouring rain.

All this on a summers day

When troubles seemed so far away.

Someone said its an act of god

I can only hope its true

For he may listen to our prayers

Then we can start anew.

Floods came to Northampton not for the first time in 1998 and caused devastation in Far Cotton and St James End.  There was a lot of anguish and recriminations and enormous insurance payouts.  Flood defences have since been rebuilt, but with global warming getting worse the pundits wonder if they are adequate.

Birthday Blues

It’s my 80^th birthday today

And I am lost as to what to say.

Overwhelmed with presents and invites to dinner,

I prefer their presence and would like to get thinner.

I did have my wife and I’m thankful for that,

But my health isn’t good and morale is flat.

I try to stay bright and forget aches and pains,

But just like the weather it usually rains.

80 long years!

Where did they go?

I enjoyed them mostly – although some were low.

But I‘m looking forward to being 81;

With this life, I am not yet done.

Reminiscing

(This poem was untitled by Ron Draper so we’ve called it “Reminiscing” on his behalf.)

Reminiscing in my bed

Nostalgic thoughts run through my head

Of the way things used to be

When I had youth and agility.

I have a picture in my mind

When life was slower, sweeter, kind.

When I could wake up full of vigour –

Look in the mirror at a youthful figure.

Stretch ones arms and legs and body

Without assistance from anybody.

Pout and secure a lover’s kiss

Life with them a life of bliss.

Reminiscing

Take a stroll not fighting for air

Casting off all thoughts of despair.

My bed calls me back to sleep

My wishes and dreams will have to keep.

Northampton’s Jewel

Northampton racecourse is really a park,

And by all of the town it is treasured.

It’s a wonderful place with acres of space

Where your sporting prowess can be measured.

With its bowling greens and “Tennis Queens”

It has many a rising star

And when bat meets ball in the “Garnett Cup”

It’s no place to park your car.

Northampton’s Jewel

When the sun is out and the air is warm

There’s no better place to be

Whilst walking the dog in the morning fog

I feel calm, serene and free.

The racecourse is Northampton’s own,

An emerald jewel of a place

An open space that beckons you

Like the smile on a loved one’s face.

It’s a lovely old town

A jewel in the crown

Of a shire that’s pleasant and green

Where the country squires and old church spires

Lend charm to the rural scene.

Northampton’s Jewel

When you’re making your way

To the places of interest to you

Remember us please, come back and reprieve

There is a place for you.

Spers Yellow

(This poem was untitled by Ron Draper so we’ve called it “Spers Yellow” on his behalf)

There’s a spot in my garden

Where nothing grows well.

Favourite flowers die off as if under a spell.

One day in frustration I set an old Rose

It’s name was Spers Yellow, and oh how it grows.

In its corner, with a golden glow

Now other roses and bushes will grow.

Did old Spers Yellow show them the way?

Did it’s golden glow to the others say “Take heart, there is room for your roots to stay”?.

Mother’s Role

Mother’s Unique

Strong in adversity

Compassionate when we were ill

No lengthy castigations when her hopes we could not fill.

A light in the dark was she

A raft in a troubled sea

She was everything and more to me

Because she was my mum you see.

THERE WILL BE MORE TO COME AS I TYPE THEM UP.

#poems #writing