[Alex Pepple]

Dear Erastophereans,

I am pleased to announce our newest moderator who needs no introduction around the Sphere, especially, at its Deep End. He’s our very own John Beaton! John will lend even more reinforcement to the Deep End alongside Clive and Oliver. Here is more about the man and the poet:

• John grew up in the north of Scotland then emigrated to Canada. He now lives on Vancouver Island. His interest in poetry developed from recitation. This started formally at Burns Suppers. Then his wife, Joyce, created a musical band called “Celtic Chaos”, which began performing to fund-raise for charity. They found that John’s humorous story-poems provided well-received variety in their musical performances. From that start, John has recited regularly on stage with them and with other musical performers touring the Island. Through participation in The Deep End, he developed a strong interest in formal poetry and his work has appeared in various on-line and print magazines, and in British Columbia newspapers. He is an actuary by profession and has five children.

Please join me in giving a warm Eratosphere welcome to John!

Cheers,
...Alex

[Jim Hayes]

Absolutely wonderful!!

Well done John.

[Katy Evans-Bush]

John, congratulations! The Deep End is getting deeper and deeper by the day.

KEB

[Kate Benedict]

Wonderful news! You've developed into a wonderful poet in your years here and an incredibly insightful critiquer; those stars on your epaulets are well deserved. Anyone else remember John's comical original screen name?

[Robt_Ward]

Originally posted by Kate Benedict:
Wonderful news! You've developed into a wonderful poet in your years here and an incredibly insightful critiquer; those stars on your epaulets are well deserved. Anyone else remember John's comical original screen name?

Yeah, he was some sort of gawdawful hound or mutt of some sort Then we started losing our animal names...

Robt.

[Jim Hayes]

No!No! No! He was gruelface, puddingface, mashed potato face, oh, something like that.

[David Anthony]

Well, when I first knew him he used to post under Hamish, his real name.

He abandoned it when some Brit TV character took it over.

This is the first poem by him I came across, and I was so taken with it, thought it brilliant, still do.

Wolves
by Hamish MacBeth
Gumball

Red eye of sunrise yet a hidden menace,
Full white the moon and bright the frost as day;
Earth's chest pants slowly, ground-mist exhalations;
Predators are prowling,
Silent high-pitched howling;
They shatter mental crystal
And shiver dreams away.

I'm wakened, drawn towards the ice-thin window,
To witness scenes as spare and still as death.
How bare the hills; how bare the trees and meadows,
Sky's pale-roofed maw, star fangs,
Horizon-hinged it hangs;
Night's curled lip sneers on shadows
Of mountains bared like teeth.

Two bow-waves shear the median of the valley,
Iced hayfield moves as feral muscles glide;
Hoar-frost disturbed by wakes of live torpedoes,
Grey shoulders breach and lope,
Implode and telescope;
They salivate their credos
Of chilled and ruthless pride.

The wolves tear savage furrows down the dreamland,
Their eyes are shined with blood, their mission clear;
Grass swings back shocked to green behind their passage:
Swift train-less tracks impale
The smoky pallid vale,
Paired scars in frost their message,
The wolves, the wolves passed here.

[Robt_Ward]

Originally posted by Jim Hayes:
No!No! No! He was gruelface, puddingface, mashed potato face, oh, something like that.

Yeah, but it was the name of his dog wasn't it? jejeje™

R.

[Jerry Glenn Hartwig]

The Deep End is getting deeper and deeper by the day.

Yeah, and these low-top boots just aint cuttin' it, any more *wink*.

Hopefully, John's entrenchment as a mod will encourage more critiques out of him. I can't think of anyone better for the position.

[Jim Hayes]

My tribute to John, if I may be permitted;

The Man From the North

Where is the man from the North,
the man from the croft and the byre,
the man from the Firth of Forth
who piped on the Mull of Kintyre?

Where is the voice that stirs,
the burr of words heart-felt,
the ancient song that blurs
the weepy eye of the Celt?

Good on ye John.