martin.j. schofield

martin.j. schofield Poems

martin.j. schofield Biography

Having grown up in a more rural northern english town, my move to London in 1987 became quite the adventure as a recent graduate from culinary arts school, I really didn't want to delite patrons with creative dishes from the kitchens dungeons; I felt more at home out front, part of my extrovert nature I suppose. When I arrived in London, I had 2 suitcases, had taken a train from some lonely posh home county village, from where I had that day walked out (actually I pretty much ran from their kitchen, I hated the sous chef after only 3 days) , IT WAS MY 18TH BIRTHDAY THAT DAY, and still he treated me badly so I walked. I ended up in Brixton at 8.00pm hoping to find my college buddy of whom I only had an address. I was lucky it was his only day off from the Savoy Hotel.)

The Best Poem Of martin.j. schofield

The Legend

Tall was he, immense in wrath,
With fields of bristles,
Covering his foreface, in aftermath,
Like a sward grown o'er with thistles and thickets,
Or a thorn capped peak, or a bracket with crickets.

Born of a breed, far gone in time;
The giants of the vale.
This king would be the last in line,
Ne'er again would his clan prevail,
Yet still he stalked the glens.

From yon valley to yon coomb,
From forests of pine,
To pasture abloom,
He would lay his track and line,
Wearing his iron-clad grimace.

None heard or saw his approach,
Clouded in mist,
People cowered and croached,
Afore the temptation, bound to resist,
To enter, they feared was ne'er to leave.

Inside his obscure mask,
Safe from prying eyes,
He could continue his task,
Searching forever for the golden tide,
Into which he could lay-
his weary bulk at last.

A curse from an ancient,
A spell and a lie,
Meant strong-will and patience,
before he could die,
Damned for his foolish sense.

He wore the armour of an archaic type,
Weaved and laced,
With golden stripes,
Armed only with his most deadly mace,
WAR HE DID NOT SEEK!

Folk oft' spoke his name,
May only with whispering tongues,
And told tales of long lost claims,
About his downfall and unlucky maroon,
In a world that was not his.

Centuries went by,
His stride still fervent, not resting much,
Yet a day came when he heard-
a merchant,
tell another such;
Of a place, where the shores were golden.

He listened intently, not known-
to hist host of glad tidings,
If he had wings, away would he have flown,
But restraint still, as his time,
He would have to abide.

Then the trader spoke of its location,
Far to the west,
So off he set with intrepidation,
A smile on his face, praying please, no jest,
For if it be, that merchant would pay,
And dearly with all of his savings from his cherished nest.

That day the sailors and boat-men,
Of that little port,
Did see a strange vapour,
Akin to that which seadogs,
Would never have sought;
Pass by their safe haven.

Shudder did men folk and women alike,
Children in dozens and dozens,
Poured out of the homes,
In droves, did they cry,
For all knew that way from the glens,
The LEGEND at last had gone with goodbye.

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