Haverfordwest folk club, 1965
The club had characters and balladeers,
satiric tilts and big vibrato chords,
our chairman Pete, a northern ballad man,
and Spike, composer, weaving yarn-made songs
of dreams and depths and drifts and dying falls.
We also had a lanky lad from Roch
who came one week in three, strummed fun,
and roistered us his Froggy song each time:
Old Froggy went a-courtiní, he did ride.
Mmm hmm. Mmm hmm.
And we had Dylan, Baez, poetry.
The times were changing fast. We too. We too.
We travelled with the timesí extravagance.
Some folk, some blues, the Froggy song. Mmm hmm.
We postured certainly, pub socialists,
who sang ideals and ballad-strumming days.
I think of all that hasnít happened since
but still regret no whit. We had a club
with characters and chords and talking blues,
where folk was song was youth was hope. Mmm hmm.
If you have any comments on this poem, Robert Nisbet
would be pleased to hear from you.