David Lewis Paget

David Lewis Paget Poems

Her hair was as black as a starling's tail,
Her cheeks as pale as a swan,
Her eyes, like two slim moonstones, glowed
And her mouth was the Holy Grail.

The black-haired girls are graceful, like gazelles,
Their haughty stares would strike a ‘lao wai' blind,
As they cruise on through streets, where rubbish spills,
Ignoring all, the poverty, the slime.

My brain has turned to ash, and yes,
My mouth is dust,
And love is grief, and death is
But the loss of trust;

The cat and I stare at the room
No-name the cat, the cat and I,
She stares at me, I at the gloom
The house lies still as a vaulted tomb.

There is the family photograph
That is your father’s face,
There is your father’s father
Grey-gathering years apace;

He met her under the willow trees
That grew by the valley creek,
He hadn't been able to visit her
For the best part of a week,

A sylph is passing my threshold stair,
Drifting her fragrance through the vine,
Promising dreams of a never-could-be
From the loss and the lapse of a former time.

I did but see you once, and that
Upon some distant screen,
You spoke of life and love, and death,
And wickedness, supreme;

He wandered along the decks by night,
Stood at the rails by day,
Kept to himself from what I saw
And didn't have much to say,

He knew that there must be something wrong
From the time he brought her home,
His mother had turned her back when he
Announced her as Alice Frome,

I'd been cleaning out the attic
And the gables in the roof,
Which were dusty, full of cobwebs
And a horror, tell the truth,

They came from a line of fishermen,
Way back, two hundred years,
The sons of a dour old Kentish man,
Who'd braved the First World War;

I lived in a block of service flats
Right next to a power grid,
The endless hum made my mind go numb
And infected all I did.

I take my seat at the Golden Grove
And watch the waitress, Xu,
She's sweet and pert, and her shortened skirt
Shows off a dimple or two;

Life, a Play
In three parts, now
Is two parts done.

What spark in you
Is this that burns
To comfort one
Whose well is pain,

(Ever remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot,
We see no reason why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot!)

I saw the note on the mantelpiece
When I got home, rather late,
I knew that something was wrong when I
First saw the open gate,

I’d only been home for a week or two
And Jeanine was acting queer,
Each time she’d pass the mirror she’d stare
And I heard her say, ‘Oh dear! ’

From Monday through to Friday and,
For some, on the weekends too,
There’s a constant round of students here
Attacking the Chinglish stew,

David Lewis Paget Biography

AUSTRALIAN POET. Born in Nottingham, lived in Great Barr, Birmingham, until the age of 13, when migrated to Australia. Lived in Adelaide, joined Air Force at 21 and became Instrument Fitter. Began writing poetry during duty crew and guard weekends. In 1976 fulltime to Flinders University of South Australia, Bachelors degree in English and History. Wrote and published a magazine for the unemployed called 'Bread'. Wrote and published monthly magazines 'Trader's Gate' and 'Central Yorke Peninsula Mercury' for three years in the late 1980's. Ran printing and publishing business Mushroom Graphics until 1990, then Cottage Print until 2005. Gave up poetry for five years, and wrote eight novels in the early 2000's. Until recently was Teaching English at Wenzhou Medical College, an arm of the Wenzhou University, Zhejiang Province, People's Republic of China. The experience there prompted another foray into poetry, leading to the current narrative style chosen for the second incarnation. Now retired and living in South Australia. Author of the non-fiction 'Arrows from Wenzhou', a detailed account of the twelve months spent in China. Concentrates these days on narrative poetry.)

The Best Poem Of David Lewis Paget

Swan Song

Her hair was as black as a starling's tail,
Her cheeks as pale as a swan,
Her eyes, like two slim moonstones, glowed
And her mouth was the Holy Grail.
She'd played in the dirt of the village street
So long ago, so long...
She'd swum in the pools of the mountain stream,
But now, that girl had gone.

While I still rise with the early bird
To tend to my father's fields,
As the only son of an only son
I watched the woman leave.
She cried sweet tears as she said farewell
And vowed to come back, and soon,
But the village streets of a western town
Hold nothing for Ling Xiaodan.

The weeks went by, then the months and years
And I heard of her now and then,
She was dressed in expensive clothes, I heard,
She was driving a shiny car;
She was seen at the Beijing Opera
By a man who worked at the door,
'She glided by like a Queen, ' he said,
'As her dress trailed long on the floor.'

And her wai po, down in the village square
Would brag of her daughter's girl,
'She will snare some man with a million yuan, '
She said, 'not a farmer's son.
Go home to your fields and forget her now,
She's not for an also-ran! '
And laughed, as the tears sprang into my eyes
For the love of Ling Xiaodan.

She came back once to the village street
To her home, as ever we must,
But carefully held her dress up high
To avoid the rubbish and dust,
I stood at the side and she looked at me,
Then turned, looked quickly away,
For Ling Xiaodan and a farmer's son
Had nothing at all to say.

But I saw her once before she left,
Alone by the mountain stream,
Her eyes were sorrowful, in remorse,
Remembering how we'd been.
'I loved you once, as a child, ' she said
'But the world is harsh, and grey...
We do what our fathers want us to,
And my father sent me away.'

I sat by her then, and held her hand,
Stroking her neck, and hair,
And kissed the cheek, so pale and wan,
And I cried in a deep despair.
'You must get on with your life, ' she said,
'Get a wife and a baby son;
I leave tomorrow to see the man
That my father has met in town.'

I heard that she'd wed a businessman,
And cried in the quiet gloom,
My dream had died by the mountain stream,
On that day, in the afternoon.
She worked in a shop her husband owned,
So they said, but I never heard
'Til the body was brought back home again,
That the love of my life was dead.

It seemed that she'd sold her favours there
In the rear of a grimy store,
To any man with the change to spare
While her husband played Mah Jongg.
He'd gambled his fortune, and lost it all
While his wife kept the fool from jail
With what she earned with her hands and hair,
And a mouth like the Holy Grail.

But then, a man who was ill or mad
Put his grimy hands at her throat,
And squeezed the life from the darling neck
That I'd once both loved, and stroked.
They buried her up on the mountainside
By the stream, in sight of her home,
And from where I stand in the paddy fields
I can see her pale white stone.

She'd played in the dirt of the village street
So long ago, so long...
She'd swum in the pools of the mountain stream,
But now, that girl had gone.
I married a woman I barely knew
And she bore me a black-haired girl,
With eyes like two slim moonstones, and...
A mouth like the Holy Grail.

10 March 2006

David Lewis Paget Comments

Keith Osborne 26 April 2013

Great story teller covers many topics and uses different poetry forms. I am now on a mission to read all of his work.

4 0 Reply
Rebekah Gamble 30 June 2008

This man has a truly unique voice in poetry. His work is riddled with personality and the jargon of life.

4 0 Reply
Amer Jaganjac 22 February 2013

Great poetry! Cheers man!

2 0 Reply
Margareth Ostendorf 15 May 2022

Hi Dave, how're they hangin'? Just thought id prostitute the queen's english, great to see your poems on the site, you always said that you and i were the last of the Romantics, trust all is well! !

0 0 Reply
Kumarmani Mahakul 02 October 2018

On behalf of all fellow poets, PH Family and our Mahakul family we offer a title of honour to poet David Lewis Paget born on 22.11.1944 born in Nottingham, England and lives in Australia, as, Royal Sun. From today-on wards he will be known as Royal Sun David Lewis Paget. We hope all poets and visitors will accept this. We congratulate and wish him all the best. This honourary title is conferred to him due to his long-time perseverance and valuable literary contribution.

0 0 Reply
Subhas Chandra Chakra 16 November 2017

You are a great poet Sir, whom I come to know lately. I would love to read all your poems and the creations in its entirety. Regards, Subhas

1 0 Reply
Ramesh T A 23 May 2016

Your poems are classic to read! You are one of kind poet in the world today! Writing your genre of poems only a few skillful persons can do! You are simply a Classic Poet here!

2 1 Reply
Barbara Reiff 26 March 2015

Edited......He has the uncanny ability to take us to places never before imagined....and we Savor the experience. Treat yourself to a Library of his works....Genius

2 1 Reply

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