There's not a lot of poetry about nudism around - or is there?
If you know of a poem by a recognised poet about nudism, then send
it in (see contributions in
contact us). Reproduced below are poems we have been sent, some
written by members (more of those please!).
It doesn't do to get too bogged down in nudist politics so sit back
and enjoy this small collection.
- Countdown. By
- The Saga of Sonia Snell. Indeterminate origin and unknown antiquity.
- December. By an
anonymous contributor .
- Behold! By Ron Kermode 1998.
- Latecomers. By Ron Kermode 1998.
- Skindeep. By Ron Kermode 1999.
- Intermezzo. Anonymous.
- Sailboards. By Alan James Kinsman 1992.
- Free Beach. By Ron Kermode 1996.
A cautionary ode from the Bard of Llangennech,
One "grand" is not complete until
the thousandth note is counted in
but lies repeated oft enough
acceptance as the truth can win;
and Mammon seeing glint of gold
in seams of world-wide celebrations
declared the last to be the first
and broadcast their miscalibrations.
Now numberless innumerate
count nought to nine on desk PC,
agree to be short-changed on time,
and join illiterate cries of glee.
Like wooden-legged centipedes
(whose steps sound nine and ninety., bump)
the years from one to ninety-nine
are not a century but a rump.
The Greenwich dock ticks on THROUGHOUT
two thousand to the millennium end
when salesmen, having "found" the truth,
can bleed us with another spend.
Meanwhile the worldwide web of lies
produces huge commercial profits
and Advent brings no Revelation
delighting those who scorn the prophets.
But keep one thought within your mind
while one year early we all feast -
"millennium" of nine nine nine years
REFLECTS the number of the Beast.
The Second Coming, so we're told,
will be when men are fast asleep.
perhaps the real millennium bug
lies buried in the cosmos, deep,
to end the world at time foretold
(when we have partied prematurely).
You cannot face two thousand's end
without some trepidation - surely?
A cautionary paean indeed from Ron, who adds the explanatory note:
2000 is the "millennium year" during which the 2nd millennium and,
of course, the 20th century ends (31-12-2000), the new millennium starting at
the beginning of year "one" (1st Jan 2001).
I couldn't agree more: to celebrate the millennium on the 31 December 1999
would only have been right if there had been a "year zero" which of
course there wasn't. The calendar was changed - arbitrarily, retrospectively and
wrongly - to renumber the Roman years 753 and 754 AUC as, respectively, 1 BC and
Of course, the real reason our political masters were so insistent that 31
December 1999 was the end of the millennium was to put another year between the
gigantic cock-up that we witnessed at New Year 1999/2000 and the next General
Election, during which extra year they hope we will have forgotten about the
My favourite "milleniumballs" (to adapt a Private Eye column
the Daily Mail's condescending explanation of why their edition of the
end of the nineteenth century -reproduced in facsimile - was dated 1st
January 1901. It was, they said, because at that time "it was believed
that the century ended at the end of 1900", as if the passage of time
were marked by some quaint superstition.
The other one came from an ITV reporter, who told us breathlessly that
"This is a special Milliennium Party, and most people (sic) will never
have seen anything like it before!"
This poem is
of indeterminate origin and unknown antiquity. The best guess is that it was
written in the dim and distant past by a member of a medical school rugby team -
certainly the first time I heard it was at a rugby club do over 35 years ago. It
has nothing to do with either nudism or Studland, but it's witty and - something
of a rarity for rugby ditties - contains no rude words! The scansion and syntax
may be suspect in places, but it's pretty good for a rugby-playing,
beer-swilling medical student!
This is the tale of Sonia Snell, to whom an accident befell;
An accident - as will be seen - embarrassing in the extreme.
It happened, as it does to many, that Sonia had to spend a penny,
And entering, with unconscious grace, the properly appointed place
There within the railway station, she satin silent meditation,
Unfortunately, unacquainted the seat had recently been painted.
Too late did Sonia realise her inability to rise,
And though she struggled, pulled and yelled, she found that she was firmly held.
She raised her voice in mournful shout, "Please, someone, come and get me
A crowd stood by and feebly sniggered; a signalman said, "Well, I'll be
"Gor blimey," said an ancient porter, "we ought to soak 'er orf
The stationmaster and his staff were most polite, and did not laugh;
They tugged at Sonia's hands and feet, but could not shift her off the seat.
A carpenter arrived at last and, finding Sonia still stuck fast,
Remarked "I know what I can do", and quickly sawed the seat in two.
Sonia arose, only to find a wooden halo on behind.
An ambulance came down the street and bore her off, complete with seat;
They rushed the wooden-bustled girl quickly to the hospital,
And grasping her by hands and head, laid her face down on a bed.
The doctors came and cast their eyes upon the seat, with some surprise.
A surgeon said, "Now mark my word, could anything be more absurd?
"Have any of you, I implore, seen anything like this before?"
"Yes," cried a student, unashamed, "many times, but never
If that brought back happy memories to you, then let us know.
anonymous contributor had pen to paper during a very cold month a few years ago,
and came up with this evocative little ode:
Old Omar's moving finger, having writ,
Moved on; so is it with the march of Time
Upon these sands and heathlands, dunes and woods.
December's gales, fresh from the eastern steppes,
Scour from the open sand the signature
Of Summer (lately gone to warmer climes)
And the foul detritus of the grockles.
The tiny shells, half buried on this strand
Create a moonscape, stark and uniform
Of miniature sand dunes, each of which
Hides, fancifully, a minute creature seeking
Shelter from the wind, whose cutting edge
Chills to the marrow. Larger dunes,
Carved to fantastic shapes in softer sand
That won't survive the next veering gale,
Capricious as a flighty girl, give for a while
A haven to larger creatures: there we sit,
Our skins blasted and sore, resting for a minute
Or an aeon - ho can tell? For time is relative
And in this timeless place is what we make it.
© The Bare Essentials 2000
Three more whimsical pieces from Ron Kermode:
Her breasts have lost their bloom.
Life's cares have lined her face
Grey streaks invade her hair.
Her body shows the scars
Of scalpel, childhood spills,
The razor of despair.
Her belly, slack, protrudes.
And as I see her so
From tears 1 cant forbear.
How beautiful she is!
© Ron Kermode 1998
When I answered the door
nude - my preferred dress -
the Jehovah's Witnesses
assuming I was bathing said
we'll come back at a more convenient time
When I answered the door again nude
Jehovah's Witnesses assuming I don't know what said
nothing - and did not retum
Fortunately for them
they were not in Eden
before the apple
by their God's creation.
© Ron Kermode 1998
The plumber is a bashful man
and asked for confirmation
my lady friend would not be there
to cause him consternation.
Assured that she would not be
he still showed trepidation
for knowing we were nudists
he feared a confrontation.
I noticed in his toolbox
a top shelf publication.
Does he dislike a naked wife
© Ron Kermode 1999
And now a short piece by a member who prefers to remain anonymous, but who
tells us it is part of a much longer work he has been toying with for several
Today I went alone
And sat behind the dune where once we lay
ln blazing warmth. No sun today: his winter weakness
Sapped by roiling clouds, till not a trace was left.
The gusting onshore wind chilled even more
The grey, drab day; the sea's proud thunder
Muted, dull and sullen.
I tasted solitude, and felt
The lonely absence of your company.
© The Bare Essentials 1999
Alan Kinsman sends in a very professional piece of work. He tells us it was
originally written in 1992, but I'm sure you'll agree it remains highly topical
and thought provoking.
Sitting watching sailboards skimming in the sun,
Over shining water, before the wind they run.
Master of the ocean, mistress of the sea;
Young, and strong, and beautiful, supple bodies I see.
Coming out of nowhere, weaving in and out
Speed the water scooters. With no care they flout
All the safety by-laws by the council passed,
Till lying in the water, motionless at last,
All are sailboard swimmers, gripping sailboards fast,
Bobbing up and down they are furious and aghast.
Off then fly the scooters, laughing, full of glee,
Straight towards the ferry, they no danger see.
Ferry sounds its foghorn. Scooters speeding on
Right beneath the ferry, drowning every one.
They little thought when on their spree
They'd have to pay old Charon's fee.
Davy Jones's locker now is their abode,
Across another river, they will be rowed.
Up upon the sailboards climb the girls and boys,
Setting sail into the wind, playing with their toys.
Now the flying seagulls, with grace and harmony,
Are copied by the sailboarders with consummate mimicry.
Over shining water, before the wind they run,
I am watching sailboards, skimming in the sun.
© Alan James Kinsman 1992
The poem below was the first to be submitted (in June '96) by
- guess who? - our most prolific poet Ron We begin this new feature with a little poem from
Ron Kermode, for which many thanks.
Ron lives not far from Carmarthen Bay and is clearly an astute observer of the
They reach the beach, the mother, father, child
and undress as the weather's mild.
Being far from other beach folk they don't don
beachwear that the rest put on,
but enjoy sporting naked in the sun
Nature, free to everyone.
Two children drift along the sand and call,
Soon all five play with bat and ball;
but macho father, wishing to be seen
the wife-guard he has never been,
ignoring wife's plea "Don't" stalks overland -
full hundred yards across the sand
(not calling from a distance - no, not he
but close where he can better see!)
takes offspring from their fun, then off to get
police, because "his wife's upset".
The tearful children come to wife, now grim:
embarrassed not by flesh, but him!
The nudists dress and go with child in hand -
leave only footprints in the sand.
More generous than nudists, "macho" 's lot
do not hold tight to all they've got
but leave behind -
a ruined afternoon
and a plastic spoon.
© Ron Kermode 1996