Mike Jenkins

In County Derry : ‘Masters of War’

We were singing ‘Masters of War’


at the piano in the classroom

the green-eyed Gaelic teacher

with her waist-long hair

and slim body a country

I’d come to know much better


singing together ‘Masters of War’


I stood behind her, voice rivering

deep below the strata of the choir,

at home now in the harmonies

in a strange land of pointed barrels

which had met me from the plane


where my mind recalled ‘Masters of War’


when the Deputy Head burst in

and spotted two pupils giggling,

he quaked and cracked with anger

punishing every one of them ;

pain made their voices louder


sensing the meaning of ‘Masters of War’


at the window an army helicopter

before it landed near the estate,

squaddies with machine-guns ready to fire,

to lift suspects and drag them away ;

houses where the tricolor was raised


none heard us singing ‘Masters of War’


and as long as that song lasted

we were marching, fists held high

like those of Burntollet and Derry City

who had stood against batons and bullets,

pounding riot shields with music and rhyme


the power of ‘Masters of War’.


Note - ‘Burntollet’ and ‘Derry City’ – scenes of Civil Rights marches in the 60’s.



Mike Jenkins © 2011

A Poem Cannot Be Graded


A poem cannot be graded :

it is not a 1 or an A*,

or even a 5 or a U.


It sticks its two fingers

up at all examiners,

ultimately refusing to be dissected.


Even if you put it on the wall

it will come alive after closing

and hare down corridors.


A poem can have no criteria

to box in assessment :

emerging like a dream embodied.


It can be googled for meaning,

caught  in the net and pinned;

but its words will grow new limbs,


so it jumps through open windows

into the rain, snow or sunlight,

tearing off its uniform as it goes.


The Tree Council

{Tolpuddle, 1832}


Under the sycamore’s shade

our secret council gathered,

whispers joining the breeze.


We knew gentle blades would fly

just as others spread and grew

in the many places of the desperate.


The canopy enough to hide

our vows and our union,

our shares of the plough.


Six of us sat with promises,

knowing that to bend

was not to break in storms;


knowing that the masters

were experts with their axes ;

how easily resolve could be splintered.


There was a future, but no fruit

that we could reach and pick

to feed our needy families.


I spoke up, my brothers agreed,

each plan was a wind

to carry and plant those seeds.



Mike Jenkins © 2011