Tony Quarrington

Hard Times in Folkestone

Feb 1, 2026 by Me In My Frightened Silence

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
And where have you been, my darling young one?

I stumbled and I fell into a dozen large potholes
I slipped and I slid on a hillock of dog poo

I tripped and I got cut on steps to the harbour
I’ve been by the seashore where waves were a-lashin’

I’ve been stood by a tower whose paint was a-peelin’

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you see, my darling young one?

I saw piles of old clothes in empty shop doorways

I saw neglected buildings with sharp, shattered windows

I saw roadworks and barriers on every street corner

I saw half-eaten hamburgers tossed in the gutter

I saw discarded needles in the narrow, dirty alley

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, and it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?

I heard the sound of the seagulls circling the chip shops

I heard the whistling of wind around beachfront apartments

I heard teenagers speak with scanty vocabulary

I heard adults speak with swear words a-plenty

I heard a helicopter hovering above a small park

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.

Oh, what did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
And who did you meet, my darling young one?

I met visitors staring at signs near the station

I met lines of sad people queuing up for free food

I met rough sleepers drunk in a garden of flowers

I met men passing white packets to children

I met women who asked if I wanted company

And it’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard, it’s a hard
It’s a hard times in Folkestone.

Posted in Folkestone, General | Tagged A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall, Bob Dylan, Dog shit, dogs, English folk ballads, folk ballads, folk music, Folkestone, homeless, Lord Randal, poetry, seagulls, Tony Quarrington, Tony Quarrington author, Tony Quarrington poet, Tony Quarrington Writer | Leave a Comment »

Minnesota

Jan 30, 2026 by Me In My Frightened Silence

Three hours in a stuffy airport lounge

Is all the time I’ve spent with you,

An irritating blip on an autumn trip

To Atlanta’s tempestuous stew

On the day an English princess

Was laid to rest in shocked world’s view.

Home to Dylan and Lakota brave,

Iron mines, snow and natural ice,

Tonight, my tears flow long for you

Who have for your pride paid the price

By standing strong against the hate

Spreading love ‘gainst loaded dice.

If this madness should ever cease

I will, with you, come share that peace.

Posted in Personal, poetry | Tagged Alex Pretti, Atlanta, Bob Dylan, ICE, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, Lakota, Minneapolis, Minnesota, Princess Diana, Renee Good, Sioux, Tony Quarrington, Tony Quarrington author, Tony Quarrington poet, Tony Quarrington Writer, Trump, Twin Cities | Leave a Comment »

While Hate and Cruelty Maintain

Jan 27, 2026 by Me In My Frightened Silence

I have stood beside the crossroads

And massaged the liberty bell;

I have skied down lakeside mountains

And ridden rollercoaster hell;

I have peered into deep canyons

And seen eagles in desert skies;

I have sat aboard the L train

And tried on cowboy boots for size;

I have walked across great bridges

And crawled up long, steepling streets;

I have held gators in my hand

And witnessed giant sporting feats.

No more will I do these again

While hate and cruelty maintain.

Posted in Personal, poetry | Tagged Alligators, aMERICA, Bay Bridge, Bridges, Canyons, Crossroads, Cruelty, Desert, Eagles, Florida, Golden Gate Bridge, Hate, L train, Lake Tahoe, Liberty Bell, Philadelphia, poetry, rollercoasters, San Francisco, San Francisco Giants, Tony Quarrington, Tony Quarrington author, Tony Quarrington poet, Tony Quarrington Writer, United States of America | Leave a Comment »

Setting an Example

Jan 24, 2026 by Me In My Frightened Silence

The café door creaks open and a cheerless couple,

Thirty-five years together today, shuffle to an empty table.

Their order of two large one shot lattes,

And a slice of carrot cake with two teaspoons.

Is taken by the bright young female server.

Their coffees, which would earn a Neapolitan barista

Instant dismissal with their passable similarity to

The water in which the cups will later be washed,

Are delivered with another winning smile.

Husband and wife instantly reach for their smartphones

And settle into a prolonged and gloomy silence.

Not a word passes their lips, save for the occasional

Whisper to share the contents of an email

Or comment on a social media thread,

A sigh or nod the barely perceptible response.

They remain as wedded to their screens

As their thirteen year old grandchildren,

Whose own behaviour at the breakfast table

Incurs their disapproval and chastisement.

They leave the café as quietly as they arrived,

Avoiding the jaunty “thank you, see you soon”

From beside the espresso machine.

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Posted in General, Personal | Tagged Barista, cafes, Carrot cake, Cellphones, Latte, mobile phones, Naples, poetry, smartphones, Tony Quarrington, Tony Quarrington poet, Tony Quarrington Writer | Leave a Comment »

To Bob Dylan on his Eightieth Birthday (2021)

Jan 18, 2026 by Me In My Frightened Silence

Cool, cranky counsellor for seven decades,

Uncompromisingly honest and true,

Reluctant, slight but mighty mouthpiece

For our turbulent and troubled times.

Dishevelled, denim clad darling of Newport

Damned for declining work on the farm again,

And for demolishing and trampling on

The creaking doors of dull convention,

All before your first quarter century was done.

In two short years you changed the world

With that thin, wild mercury sound,

And poetry never more thrillingly

And controversially

Accompanied by electricity;

And then, mysteriously, you disappeared,

Resurfacing a backwoods family man

With new, but still astounding, songbook.

From basement jams and blood on the tracks,

Through rolling thunder and stadium tours,

I kept the faith;

And when a silver cross in San Diego

Drove you into the arms of Christ;

The onstage sermons may have grated,

But the venom and vengeful tone

Unleashed a sound of searing power.

Admitted Eighties drought and Wiggle Wiggle,

And blistering late nineties comeback

Came and went before a new century

Spawned reappraisals and new discoveries,

Sinatra tributes and mad Christmas album.

Through all your twists and turns

Of style, direction and belief,

And inveterate bloodymindedness,

Your integrity and talent has shone bright;

A body of work by aged twenty five

Enough alone for a lifetime’s legacy,

Yet you are the gift that keeps on giving,

Murder Most Foul but life most fair.

And then your voice, despised by many,

And, I’ll grant, an acquired taste,

From plaintive whine of ardent youth,

Through contented country croon

To veteran’s half spoken growl,

Child of a lifetime of heavy smoking

And punishing concert schedule,

Yet your phrasing remains unrivalled

In its clarity and passion.

No Oscars, Golden Globes,

Grammys or even Nobel Prize,

Will mean as much to you

As does the gratitude

Of the thousands of artists

Who have come after you

And cite you as a mentor.

Like Johnny Cash for you,

You are my north star and guiding light;

So, carry on being busy being born, Bob,

It’s still not dark yet;

We all gotta serve somebody I know,

And, for me, it’s you, my solace

In my hour of deepest need,

May you stay forever young

And your tour never end.

Posted in General, Music | Tagged Christmas, Forever Young, Frank Sinatra, Golden Globe, Grammy, Johnnny Cash, Murder Most Foul, Newport Folk Festival, Nobel Prize, Nobel Prize for Literature, Not Dark Yet, Oscar, Oscar Best Song, San Diego, Tony Quarrington, Wiggle wiggle, Wild mercury sound | 1 Comment »

Remembrance

Jan 15, 2026 by Me In My Frightened Silence

Somewhere, everywhere

In Northern France,

A clear, November morning

Surrenders to a pall

Of fog and drizzle.

A slim, dark haired woman

Marches her toddler daughter

Around a muddy field filled

With flowers and masonry.

They clasp each other’s hands,

As much in uncertainty and fear

As for protection against the chill.

Occasionally, the child

Cannot contain her curiosity,

And skips off in the direction

Of a prettily pruned rosebush,

While her mother commands her,

Quietly, to return to her side.

This is no casual Sunday stroll –

Ten thousand of the slain lie here,

Each simple white slab gives

Details of name, regiment and rank,

And most revealing of all,

Date and age of premature passing.

One division of this congested spot

Commemorates a group of lads

From a single Kentish village;

Seeming to stand apart from the rest,

As steadfast companions in death

As they would have been in life.

I grapple with grief and gratitude,

The first for lost and wasted lives

And the other for being granted

The peace to pay my respects today.

Wrapped in my turbulent thoughts,

I have forgotten about my

Fellow pilgrims to this place;

I turn to scan the silent cemetery

For the mother and her innocent child;

But they have slipped soundlessly away.

What might have been their story?

Were they, perhaps, descendants of a

Teenage tommy and a local girl?

What other reason might have

Brought them to this grim, dark space?

I hope they have by now returned

To a warm and welcoming home,

An ordinary everyday pleasure

Denied to all those young men

Still dutifully standing to attention

Across this sad and solemn scene.

Posted in poetry | Tagged France, Graves, Kent, Lafayette Cemetery, Northern France, November, poetry, Tony Quarrington, Tony Quarrington author, Tony Quarrington Writer, War graves, war poetry | Leave a Comment »

Frustrations Much Missed

Jan 15, 2026 by Me In My Frightened Silence

To climb those hundred, hollow creaking stairs

And shuffle onto tiny wooden benches,

And listen to those around me,

With their home counties accents

And rude sense of entitlement,

Grumbled that their squashed up seats,

Even with their paid for padded cushions,

Aweayre too narrow, too cramped, too hard,

Too damned uncomfortable for their

Four hundred years evolved backsides.

To queue for what seems hours at the bar,

Jostled, muttered at, and splashed with beer

By every sweaty, tie-dyed passed by

Who left it late to heed the bathroom call;

And drenched again as hey return,

still attending to their open flies,

(No washing of hands here),

To catch the band’s favourite song of theirs

And muscle into my dancing space

Beneath the players on the stage.

To search, perchance to find

That cherished corner in the church

Of coffee, cake and ten thousand books.

Wherein I can plant myself for hours

And pen these verses or plan new work;

Only to find that a young family of four,

Day trippers from their wide eyed curiosity,

Have been patiently lurking all the while

At the end of the frantic, noisy counter.

Ready to claim the table that belongs to me.

To cram in the case that last best pair of shorts,

Only to find the balance tipped on the scales

Cursing the traffic on the motorway approach,

And then to be told of a delay of three hours;

To lose wifi, and thus your boarding pass,

At that most crucial moment beside the gate,

To spend eleven hours imprisoned in a box,

Wedged in by by the largest passenger on board,

And learn your entertainment system’s out of order

And your sole preferred meal option has run out.

All these, and a thousand other irritations

That filed our lives with strain and care,

I crave that they might yet soon return,

For every one I could now gladly bear.

Posted in General | Tagged Bar, Coffee shop, holiday, Packing, poetry, San Francisco, Shakespeare's Globe, Theatre, Tony Quarrington, Tony Quarrington author, Tony Quarrington poet, Tony Quarrington Writer | Leave a Comment »

For Paddy Moloney (St. Patrick’s Day 2022)

Jan 15, 2026 by Me In My Frightened Silence

When Paddy first played the pipes for me

I was transported back to ’68,

To a Skibbereen bar on a Saturday night

Where songs were sung of rebels’ fate.

Sixteen years old with fresh shaven head,

Rarely to be cut for five more years,

Heedless of the history of my hosts,

Oblivious of their eight centuries’ tears.

My first bitter pint of porter downed

And just as rapidly brought up again,

But my Irish roots were now confirmed,

From Tipperary via Hounslow I came.

And then a father staggering to his feet

In answer to the locals’ “your turn” shout,

Sang “My old woman and ‘er seven kids

Were a pickin’ all the big ones out”.

Instant celebrities we had become

Through this doggerel of a cockney lass,

Free drinks proffered and prolonged applause

And talk of the church next morn at Mass.

Vouchsafed the keys to Mrs McCarthy’s pub,

On fishing boats in cold Atlantic waters taken

To catch a multitude of mackerel and skate,

All these did my Irish heritage awaken.

When Paddy first played the pipes for me

I was transported back to ’68

To a Skibbereen bar on a Saturday night

Where songs were sung of rebels’ fate.

Posted in Music | Tagged 1968, Catholic mass, Chieftains, Church, Cockney, Doggerel, fishing, Fishing boats, Guinness, Hounslow, Ireland, Irish, mackerel, Mass, Murphy's stout, Paddy Moloney, poetry, Porter, Skate, Skibereen, Sunday mass, Tipperary, Tony Quarrington, Tony Quarrington author, Tony Quarrington poet | Leave a Comment »

Let Me Die on a Packed Dance Floor

Jan 15, 2026 by Me In My Frightened Silence

Let me die on a packed dance floor

In the heart of a “Dark Star” jam,

In tie-dye shirt and Nashville boots

Among the folk I call my fam’.

Let me die on a packed dance floor

Beneath the lead guitarist’s feet,

Flailing about like the wild wind

To a loud unremitting beat.

Let me die on a packed dance floor

During a fierce “Terrapin” riff,

Amid the sweat and spilt beer stains

And that unmistakeable whiff.

Let me die on a packed dance floor

In the heart of a “Dark Star” jam,

In tie-dye shirt and Nashville boots

Among the folk I call my fam’.

Posted in Music, San Francisco | Tagged Cowboy boots, dance floor, dancing, Dark Star, Grateful Dead, Guitarist, Jam, marijuana, Nashville, poetry, San Francisco 49ers, St Pauli beer, Terrapin, Terrapin Station, tie-dye, Tony Quarrington author, Tony Quarrington poet, Tony Quarrington Writer | Leave a Comment »

Eyes on the Vinyl

Dec 28, 2025 by Me In My Frightened Silence

It all comes down to those eyes.

It was a raw September afternoon in York as Covid-19 restrictions began to ease. Scouting for a warm coffee shop my attention was drawn to a familiar face in the Shambles Market. And there she was, in the front of a jam packed cardboard box of vinyl records calling to me across the years, her impossibly big brown eyes pinning me momentarily to the spot.

But first, a short history lesson.

As a proud baby boomer born in the early fifties, my music buying activity began with “singles” (45rpm), followed in my late teens with “long playing” vinyl (33rpm) records. With the advances in technology over the next thirty years, I “progressed”, like many of my contemporaries, to cassette tapes, courtesy of the then revolutionary Sony Walkman, and then compact discs (CDs).

The bulk of my vinyl collection (did we refer to it as “vinyl” then?) was voraciously snaffled up by predatory dealers lurking at boot fairs on Sunday mornings. Selling a box full of classic sixties and seventies albums was as much a thrill for me (in retrospect, a short-sighted one) as it was to the wily buyer.

A single box, containing an eclectic range of rock, folk and classical titles, remained, consigned to a succession of lofts as we moved home three times. The only purchases I made for the next twenty years were CDs, and the turntable gathered dust before being discarded altogether.

I had succumbed to the prevailing mantra that CDs offered a cleaner, more precise and, therefore, satisfying, sound. Even the vinyl comeback in the early years of the new millennium failed to convince me to abandon this approach.

The reason was primarily a matter of cost. I was not in a position to pay £30 for a new 180g pressing of an album I had bought fifty years previously for thirty shillings (£1.50!). And then there was the outlay that would be required on a new turntable to consider.

But as vinyl collection became increasingly fashionable again, I found myself pawing through boxes in the growing number of independent record shops and market stalls, joining in the arcane and, to some tastes, boring, conversations among boomers like myself that accompanied the pursuit.

But the likelihood of my leaving with an LP under my arm remained a slim one.

Until our eyes met as dusk descended over the Shambles Market.

I think it’s time I revealed the identity of the person whose eyes so transfixed me and drove me to a fateful decision.

None other than Linda Ronstadt, not only the most beautiful, but also the most versatile (country rock, Hispanic ballads, American standards, opera, the list goes on) singer of her generation. I was unable to resist buying her eponymous album (readers lacking a soul might suggest that I would have been better just cutting up the outer sleeve and framing it).

It still took a lengthy sermon from the guy manning the stall in the market to cement my conversion. Jackson Browne’s For Everyman and Van Morrison’s Hard Nose the Highway , each at an affordable price, sealed the deal. Within a week I had introduced them to a new, attractive yet moderately priced turntable.

And then the fun started……with a twist.

Cost continued to be a major factor in my purchasing strategy. But there was an even more important criterion – I would not, with occasional exceptions, buy an album that post dated the time I had previously stopped collecting vinyl.

To date, I have bought a little over a hundred albums in the four years since my Yorkshire epiphany, some “new” but the majority second hand from independent stores, fairs and market stalls, online retailers and charity shops, ranging in price from £1.99 to £35, most in the lower price range. I have rejected others if they looked as if they were damaged. Very few have disappointed.

I have striven to resist becoming a vinyl bore but there is no question in my mind that it has a warmth and spirit that is largely absent from the more clinical, “perfect” alternatives. Some surface noise only adds to the enhanced atmosphere.

And I have overcome my propensity to whinge whenever I have to get up every twenty minutes to turn the disc over!