Vernon Scannell

Vernon Scannell Poems

1. Nettles 1/13/2018
2. Schoolroom On A Wet Afternoon 1/13/2018
3. Silver Wedding 1/13/2018
4. The Men Who Wear My Clothes 1/13/2018
5. The Terrible Abstractions 1/13/2018
6. They Did Not Expect This 1/13/2018
7. Where Shall We Go? 1/13/2018
8. Wife Killer 1/13/2018
9. Tightrope Walker 1/17/2018
10. My Three Hoboes 1/17/2018
11. The Great War 1/17/2018
12. Formal Problem 1/17/2018
13. An Old Lament Renewed 1/17/2018
14. Killing Flies 1/17/2018
15. Epithets of War—I: August 1914 1/17/2018
16. The Telephone Number 1/17/2018
17. The Old Books 1/17/2018
18. My Pen Has Ink Enough 1/17/2018
19. The Loving Game 9/8/2015
20. Wife Killer 1/13/2003
21. Juan In Middle Age 1/13/2003
22. Makers And Creatures 1/13/2003
23. Death In The Lounge Bar 1/13/2003
24. Lesson In Grammar 1/13/2003
25. The Terrible Abstractions 1/13/2003
26. A City Remembered 1/13/2003
27. Where Shall We Go? 1/13/2003
28. Silver Wedding 1/13/2003
29. The Men Who Wear My Clothes 1/13/2003
30. They Did Not Expect This 1/13/2003
31. Incendiary 1/13/2003
32. Ageing Schoolmaster 1/13/2003
33. Schoolroom On A Wet Afternoon 1/13/2003
34. A Case Of Murder 1/13/2003
35. Nettles 1/13/2003

Comments about Vernon Scannell

  • Victoria Vyvyan (6/16/2018 8:18:00 AM)

    Please add The Last Human

    1 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
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  • Malcolm Wakeman Malcolm Wakeman (4/20/2014 12:50:00 AM)

    'Nettles ' An original and perceptive work, finding the philosophical in the prosaic. What father would not have cut down the nettles and not reflected on his son's future.

  • Betsy Hosegood (10/21/2013 5:12:00 AM)

    Please add A Day on the River, which is fabulous.

Best Poem of Vernon Scannell


My son aged three fell in the nettle bed.
'Bed' seemed a curious name for those green spears,
That regiment of spite behind the shed:
It was no place for rest. With sobs and tears
The boy came seeking comfort and I saw
White blisters beaded on his tender skin.
We soothed him till his pain was not so raw.
At last he offered us a watery grin,
And then I took my billhook, honed the blade
And went outside and slashed in fury with it
Till not a nettle in that fierce parade
Stood upright any more. And then I lit
A funeral pyre to burn the fallen dead,
But in ...

Read the full of Nettles

Where Shall We Go?

Waiting for her in the usual bar
He finds she's late again.
Impatience frets at him,
But not the fearful, half-sweet pain he knew
So long ago.

That cherished perturbation is replaced
By styptic irritation
And, under that, a cold

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