Thursday, March 13, 2014

Hobo Magazine - Poetry Pages 1973 / 5 (Part 1)

The following are contributions of poetry that were either published in Hobo or sent in for publication c 1973 / 5

Al Yedd

THE BACKWATER by Al Yedd - 1973.
Published in Hobo No 4 Summer 1974

It had been shortly after midday when the two men had
steered their cabin cruiser into the backwater.

Two snow white swans glided passed, turned and sat
motionless on the water studying the cruiser.

Must be nice to be a swan” David said.
Marc was gazing at the sky.
Yes” he agreed absently “But don't worry about that 
now; it looks as though we're in for a storm.

Dark storm clouds, which had blown up while they had
been talking, finally blotted out the sun.

David was not listening:
 “Only two swans on this section of the river as far as I know…..”
a titanic peal of thunder cut him short: The reeds,
which looked emerald green under the dark sky, shivered
with the noise. A jagged white sear ripped the sky
apart, almost immediately followed by another clash of
the aerial cannons. David glanced up and spoke quietly: “Dry lightning. Won't last too long. This part of the world is noted for its freak storms."

Up above them the peals and explosions continued and
the lightning illuminated the cabin cruiser. Presently
the storm, with its echoes of violence and destruction
of ages past and to come, ceased. Peace returned to
the backwater.

Four swans glided downstream past the now empty cabin cruiser.

THE CORRIDOR by Al Yedd 1973
Submitted to Hobo but not published at the time owing to space.

The Corridor exists. It occupies a place in creation.
The Corridor is long. It has no end. No beginning.
*                                     *                             *
The Corridor was inhabited. Along the white part 
walked man 1. He had lived there all his life. Man 1 
stopped. The Corridor had changed. It was no longer 
white. It was grey.

Man 1 did not think or speak about the change, 
rather he noticed it instinctively. Man 1 walked on. Why?

He stopped. Terror washed over him in waves which 
threatened to drown him. A few yards in front of him 
stood a figure.

Gradually the terror subsided. Man 2 moved closer.

Terrible images in man one’s brain accompanied the
 approach. He saw a figure stretched out on a floor, 
writhing in pain. Man 1 knew that Man 2 was offering 
this to him.

He started to run and was followed by a terrible noise 
called laughter. (The Corridor walls had changed colour 

Man 1 ran down the now black walled Corridor, followed 
by Man 2’s laughter and the chance to experience pain 
(really pleasure), unaware that he was vainly trying to 
flee from his other (evil?) self.

THE SAVED by Al Yedd
Submitted to Hobo but not published at the time owing to space.

In a place of perfection, in a time of morals, there
exists a square, white room. In the centre of the room 
there is a small, white, square table supported by delicately 
curving legs.

On top of the table are two champagne glasses 
and a large bottle of champagne. Occasionally a man 
and a women arrive. They are dressed in white suits, 
their pockets bulging with money. They drink some 
champagne and then depart.

They are citizens of Perfection, dwellers in 
Morals. They carry their god in their pockets.
But is not their god called the Root of all Evil?

The man and the women. The saved and the Damned - who can say?

Al Yedd and Trev Teasdel in Hobo Issue 4 summer 1974. Graphic by John Alderson

ODE TO A STORM By Gray Buckley
The crystal drops fall
From the heavens above
On to the silk-edged roofs
And the couples in love.

Into the surge of the gutter
And the turbid pipe-mouths
On the convexed ‘brellas
And flock o’ primitive shrouds

Archways and doorways
Bus shelters and canopies
Are all engaged 
in a task of mercies.

People hurry, guardians appalled
Their figments discouraged
The aged plough on, the pompous
Step about like frogs undernourished

The leaves and the plants collect
Water in their arms so plentiful
When the rain ceases
The sky no longer dull.

The procured liquid extends
Welcome to the passing bee
Therefore the gay life
Extends it’s help to ecology.

The domestics in the field
Bow down to the rain
Their legs folded beneath, upon
The vacant grass.

The bird of the wing
Has no desire to sing
For his plumage is drowned
His appearance quite profound.

The storm will soon pass
Leaving prominent scars
But releasing us of this gloom.

Gray Buckley - Published Hobo Issue 3  February 1974

It was Gray Buckley who introduced Al Yedd to Hobo through this letter - 

 By Trev Teasdel (WRITTEN JUNE 1970)

Multi-storied cities growing to the sun.
Multi-storied people in abundance.
Consuming congested oxygen
through a piping system designed by the electronic architect.
A computer for the Queen is launching a porcelain replica of the earth 
to cater for the anticipated increase in population, 
said likely to double present numbers very shortly.

The Pope, now ruler of the earth, 
still forbids the use of contraceptives.
New born babies are fitted with synthetic digestive systems, 
designed to digest human excrement,
as food is very scarce.

There’s so many people, that they are all contained in blocks, 
standing on each other’s shoulders.
Every necessity comes via a pipe or complex pulley system,
periscopes are fitted for the aristocracy.

Between each bank of towns is a small reservation 
for controlled exercise and breeding purposes.
A special mansion is allocated for the appointed maintainers of the cities 
and the robots fold up into a draw. 
Boredom is their plight and schizophrenia breeds like flies. 
Computerised music harmonises their idle thoughts. 
All music must be computerised and the musician’s union has been dissolved. 
Creativity is dead.

Comment From the Hobo Vox site 2007


  And you wrote that in 1970, mm, well before Coventry adopted the claustrophobia as a design element.

Posted by: BroadgateGnome | 03/08/2007 at 11:18 AM

This link takes you to plans for the re-development of Coventry's City Centre.

SKYMEN by Trev Teasdel July 1970
Published in Hobo Issue No 4

Skymen must look to
        To a 
colourful firmament
                                    of fields
                                And forests….
And the cities (multi-storied)
            G like clouds;
                    Like fluorescent

From HOBO No 2 August 1973 - Comment on the Scene! Trev Teasdel Aug 1973

There was a community of Greenflies and all the Greenflies were bored and each greenfly told the other how culturally apathetic their community was. “Nobody ever does anything ‘ere’” they were heard to say. One or two greenflies noticed that all the greenflies were saying the same thing as if it was only the others that were at fault. So they decided to get up off their butts and let the other greenfly know of this situation and that no fairy.

by Trev Teasdel - also published in Hobo issue No 2 - written 1968 

You came crashing through my cornea
Like a well aimed spear
You floated through my aqueous humour
With the speed of a rumour
My pupils opened wide
When you rushed in like the tide
My lenses did expand
When you showed your magic wand
But through the vitreous humour
Things must've got too hot
Because you played around
In my blind spot.
You forgot to look around the curve
When you landed on my optic nerve.
This poem also appeared in Trev's book  ESCAPED POET  - Poetic Licence Collective 1984

12/18/2006 from the original Hobo Vox site

Poems by Veronica Zundel

By Veronica Zundel – from HOBO No 4 1974

Your hand burns through my belly
               This knife steady I say
I can’t keep still much longer
                The knife slips
                          My belly burns through my head.


Veronica is now a published author - here are some links to her sites and work. Her work comprises poetry
religion & theology, women's studies. She also gives seminars/workshops, talks to adults, writes reviews and
writes for magazines/newspaper. She has produced - Compiler of 3 anthologies for Lion Publishing. Author of 'Going Out' (Hodder 1990) Regular writer for BRF 'New Daylight' notes and 'Woman Alive' magazine. Guardian article on Veronica

An interview with Veronica for Rebecca Writes

Veronica Zundel's poem in Hobo Magazine Summer 1974


Another Coventry poet who submitted work was Bob Davies. One of his poems appeared with Veronica's in the hobo page above. 

By Bob Davies (Willenhall Wood) from Hobo No 4 1974
 Her baby blue eyes
               Gave the impression of
A gentle creature
                Serene and placid.
Her beauty shining like the sun
                I know you shouldn’t go by looks
But I couldn’t help myself.
                She was far too good to be true.
She had the appearance of tolerance
                 All the sweetness of a flower.
But as we talked and time flew
                 I noticed a nasty streak,
Like a SPHINX, half-women, half lion
                 So I thought any minute
If the mood took you
                 You might pick up that brick
And smash my skull.

The Last Tourist
By Bob Davies Aug 1973
The last American tourist
Ambles his way through
A ruined Cathedral,
As the first art student
Approaches the polytechnic.
          The end of the Summer.

The tramp sleeps on the
Parkbench for the last time this year.
The artist makes his last sketch
Of a great masterpiece no one will ever see.
The poet in his trench coat looks
Cynically around, accessing his
Fellow man, then writes his last line
Of the hottest summer since 67
           And the pigeons remain
Tenants’ year in, year out.
Bob Davies 1974

Finished Paintings
 I have paintings on my walls
But they don’t make me happy
They sit there staring,
Dead to the world around.

Their flesh is fading,
The smiles of long ago are false now,
As they were so many years ago,
Paint is flaking, falling like
Feathers to the floor below
Bob Davies 1974

By ALAN – Earlsdon, – published in Hobo No3 1974

·        The crystallization of the material world becomes void after the concept of wealth becomes the ulterior motive.
·        It does not really matter whether you’re old or young; the sparks of idealism become potent with the passing of time.
·        To be born with the idea of truth in its natural form is irrelevant to the course of mankind.

This next one didn't make Hobo and I'm not sure now who it was from! His note is included here.

I look out on the city

On the golden neon lighting.

And I think about the morning

and the people in the sunlight.

Songs I have written

but never known the meaning.

Things I have looked at without seeing.

Like the enemy's I've made

before I've known them.


I received a couple of letters from Coventry musician and poet Michael Curtis in 1974 - here is one of his poems. This poem didn;t make it to hobo - mostly because the magazine was hard to fund and energy went into organising the Hobo Workshop gigs from the autumn of 1974.

by Michael Curtis (Written in pembrokeshire June 1974)
his tethered eyes reached after
a lark
string-snapped kite, tugged and dallied
by the wind to a cloudless noon -
the cell
within his vision
twisted this way, twisted that
tied in its tantrums
unable to take wings
whistling and jabbing
and in the end soaring
out of sight.

Letter 1 from Michael Curtis 1974

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