1. NEW MALDEN WRITERS: Rising Stars

As you get on the bus, there is no fuss. A seat with priority is there. Photograph Phil Hall

---

Poems by John Grant

I Do Like a Ham Sandwich

I do like a ham sandwich with slices of tomato,
But a sandwich of roast chicken, no stuffing.
That’s the way to go.

At Christmas, swap chicken for turkey
With perhaps some cranberry sauce.
Follow that with Christmas pudding
But warm up the custard, of course.

If after that you’re still hungry,
Try a couple of mince pies.
A delight for the taste and the stomach,
As well as a treat for the eyes.

---

The Three R’s of Advancing Years
(Retirement, Redundancy, Regret)

You work all your lifelong, your motivation is strong.
You work all your lifelong, your motivation is strong.
And now you are on your own. No status is shown.

As you get on the bus, there is no fuss.
A seat with priority is there; they get up to share.
I’m retired, not old. They will not be told.

As a professional, I had position, status.
I would give my opinion. That was the past.
I’m free at last.
To do what?
I forgot.

Poems by Tom Frank

---

Silt: A Discussion

It clings to its bed, a comfortable nest.
The wise heads decree, their voices possessed:
“Don’t put it back in the river’s flow—
To do so is a sin, you must know.”

But what do we do? Where can it go?
A dozen ideas, yet nobody knows.
This silt is black gold for the starving soil,
A prize for the farmer to bless his toil.
He would pay for the privilege, thank you and say,
To take this rich sediment away.

But the valley is steep, the journey too far,
No lorry or tractor can traverse where we are.
So how do we move it? The desperate cry.
“Put it back!”… that verdict is final. But why?

As the river runs free from the lake’s calm gate,
That action, they warn, would seal our fate.

So what is the plan? Store more winter rain?
Flood broader valleys, again and again?
Find hollows where people and memories stay,
Pay them to leave, then send them away?
How far can we stretch this logic, unsound,
Where solving one problem creates lost ground?

We can use the river, the ancient, free train
That moved silt to the sea time and time again.
We can siphon it out, with energy spent,
A technical fix, a temporary rent.

But this is all folly. Just look at the stream!
What good does this silt in a landfill dream?
A river starved of its earthy load
Invites the salt sea up its weakened road.
Sand bars shift, experts sigh in the heat…
While the fertile delta shrinks, bitter, incomplete.

---

The Three Pigs: A Promotion for Brick

The three pigs is a promotion for brick.
Wooden houses soon fall to a stick.
So why build? So why fire doors made of timber?
So crazy—you finish with a cinder.

Wood has another weakness: its grain.
From the side, it is strong, that is plain.
But from the top down, it will split.
As with an axe, you can easily show it.

Why build from this stuff at all,
When so easily it will fall?
Plywood, the start of the fight-back,
For those who naturally don’t want to lack.

Now, a new form does appear:
Cross-laminated Timber
Now it has new fangles,
Another weapon built in.

A wood house is so comfy within.
In December, it keeps in the heat.
In July, it’s a cool retreat.
But you cannot build high…
Oh, now that’s a lie!

The Ascent building in Milwaukee is tall,
The highest built so far
And each house made of wood
Stores carbon for good.

---

The Gate-Legged Table

There is a gate-legged table in the shed,
Which was bought for Grandma when she wed.
It was always cared for with pride,
In the front room, never to hide.
All the best guests came in there.
A table made with craftsman’s care
Is now confined to a shed,
Stuffed on its side under a bed.
Oh, how times change.

Surely such a thing of beauty,
Could find still a domestic duty.

Poems by Phil

---

The 1812 Overture

A soft choral introduction,
But gets slowly faster and faster.
It leads to a cavalry charge,
Followed by explosions.

To really get its full effect, you need cannons.
BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM, and BOOM!
You can imagine the horses, galloping to their doom.

(Now, Tchaikovsky was really writing about Russia…
but whenever I hear it, I can’t help but think of—)

America’s War of Independence,
A war of enormous consequence
Over a British colony,
Now the self-proclaimed land of the free.

---

Limericks

There was a young woman called Pam
Who at acting was a bit of a ham,
But she was fairly good looking,
And as far as her cooking,
She could do wonders with spam.

There was a young lady called Pam,
Who always looked spick and span,
But she looked her best in her tennis dress,
With a racket in her hand.

Poems by Karl Rutlidge

---

Silt. Reprise

It’s counterintuitive to take up the silt
and place it back in the water.
The experts will tell you new holes must be built;
to put back is not what you oughta!

Yet here we learn that if you thence would
bulk up your defence and gird up your loins
‘gainst needing an ark to cope with the flood,
then return the silt and save yourself coin.

For new life may emerge when silt in the estuary
there settles and nurtures the land.
Noah will not thus be seen in the Vestry,
and people will give you a hand!

So dear Tom, O wise Tom, forth on you must go
with this message of keeping the silt,
and even if the self-righteous should crow,
press on, dear friend – do not wilt! 

AI AI

Here is a truth: I cannot lie,
it’s hard to trust this modern AI!
ChatGPT is not my cup of tea,
and Alexa keeps saying she cannot help me.
I daren’t even look at Elon Musk’s Grok;
the newspapers warn me that it runs amok!
My phone’s full of Gemini, but I am a Taurus,
and predictive text only adds to the chorus
of apps all which claim they can lighten my load,
even turn off the lights in my humble abode.
Yet, Luddite though be I, I long for a past
with humans on stage and forming the cast
of my life’s great play, where I write the script.
I’d happily bury AI in the crypt!
There’s no substitute for paper-based methods,
and thus will I go, back my own forwards.
‘Dumb’ is the new ‘smart’ in my brave tech-less world,
so I’m off to write poems, with quill tip unfurled.

---

The New Malden Writer’s Group was set up in 2023 by Phil Hall. If you want to join, come along to Wesley’s Café at the Methodist Church in New Malden on Fridays at 11am. The group meets for two hours. We take it in turns to read things to each other and share our thoughts on the things we read and listen to. We are informal and very friendly and sometimes there are biscuits and chocolates. The coffee and tea is very good. We have a mixture of people of different ages and from different backgrounds. Some of our members have a lot of experience with writing for publication, others have very little or none. 49 High St, New Malden KT3 4BY