I will try to write some good poetry this year and will not be deterred by political happenings.We must live as well as we can whatever the situation.We have homes ad computers so we are the richest people of this
And a special thank you to Mike Flemming for letting me use his fine photographs for several years including the ones of New Zealand wild creatures here.
Imitation meals are lined up here
Chicken pie, half roast potatoes, peas.
Beside the bottles of dark, Irish beer.
In the long lit cabinets, it’s clear;
The top layers know that eating’s a disease.
Divination,seers, are laid back here
Once men hunted flowers and chased false tears
While women washed, reaped wool and smiled to tease,
Frowning people maimed black bitter here.
Grinning apes hang from our unshed tears
As asthmatics lust to have their wheeze
Imitation meals are lined up, are they fare?
Spiders, tadpoles, newts are christened here
They will ignore the nobles who must seize
And drown inside the bottles of black beer.
Women labor and downplay their creed;
Even as their uteruses bleed
Irritating meals are labeled weird
Trumpelstiltskin, who shall us now lead?
Who will halt the damage and secede?
Imitation, real, is lined up near.
We hear the chortles of dark, Irish beer.
I am going shopping today, Mary informed Stan.I have decided to buy a corset.I am too fat.
I hope it’s not a whalebone corset, Stan teased her. gently
Are they still allowed to use the bones of whales? she asked.One whale must have massive bones.Why not use dog’s bones?
Well, Stan said, you may be plump but don’t torture yourself for beauty.I love you as you are, sweetheart.
Mary got onto her bicycle and rode into town , passing some lovely magnolias and forsythia.She locked her bike to the church gate as sinners cannot be trusted especially just after Confession.
Hello, I’m looking for a whalebone corset, she informed the lady in the lingerie department.
What!We don’t have them anymore.They ran out of baleen which is horny material in a whale’s mouth.
Was it their teeth , asked Mary tremulously.
Eeh, I don’t know said the assistant.Anyway, now we have shapewear.It looks like underwear but it’s elasticated.So it keeps your curves in like those minimiser bras
Mary burst out laughing as she imagined wearing an elasticated vest which would push all her fat up round her neck or down onto her bum .Or an elasticated pair of knickers which push the fat upwards. onto her abdomen.And furthermore, how easy would it be to get them down in the bathroom? Worse still, if Stan took her to a restaurant and she could not pull them down for a wee…should she take some scissors?
Mary stopped laughing when she saw all the staff staring at her,
Are you alright, madam? one asked rather ferociously.
Yes, it’s my dwindling hormones.They make me laugh hysterically from time to time.It’s better than getting those hot flushes ,in my view.
Why not have HRT? the lady replied.
Excuse me, said Mary, but I do not wish to discuss my health matters in public but thank you for your concern.She was rather pleased with that having just read
“A woman’s guide to compassionate self assertion.”
Although she did wonder why it was addressed only to women.Emile agreed when she discussed over milk and cat niblets which Mary had to eat when she ran out of food.
As Mary stood in the Shapewear department she remembered the time she tried on some denim jeggings as they seemed to be in fashion.They looked very nice but she had such a hard time getting them off she thought she would have to buy them and cut them off at home.
So all of a sudden she picked up her Mondrian PVC shopping bag and her green handbag and ran out of the door into the button and wool department.
My, you look hot, her friend Gail said.I am buying some merino wool for neckwarmers.Do you ever knit nowadays, Mary?
Only with whales bones, she murmured.And it’s so hard to find them now.
Well, whales must still have bones, dear, otherwise they would collapse.
Surely you don’t expect me to catch my own whale.Mary cried in fear having seen a film on this topic.
And how about Jonah?Suppose I find a prophet inside the whale?
That could be just who we need, Gail said.Someone who can tell us what God wants us to do.
Would people listen, Mary asked Gail tremulously
Only if he went on Twitter I suppose.
Could Donald Crump be a prophet? Mary muttered
No, he’s too big for a whale to swallow even if the common people swallow his nonsense.He sounds as if he’d like to treat women the way they do in some countries like Saudi Arabia.40 lashes for taking the morning after pill.
It could be hard to have,”the night before” in a place like that.
The two women gazed blankly in front of them trying to remember their youth and their mad love affairs.
Let’s go into the Cricketer’s Arms and have a drink Gail said.
I’d rather have coffee,Mary replied.So off they went arm in arm humming
“I believe in angels “very loudly to frighten off any evil spirits from the lingerie department.We know the Devil loves bras and suspender belts with lace trimmings as he is, in fact, the god Pan who was a goatherd with a horn on which he played his music to tempt the weak; some even say he was half goat half human but we never did that in the maths department.
We only studied shapes and forms and symmetry.Well, I know it sounds suggestive but we only dealt with it in an abstracted manner.That’s why you see mathematicians with all sorts of undies hanging off them as it’s the geometry they need to learn and how better than on a field trip to a department store. Anthropologists go to Samoa and mathematicians go to Sex and Undie shops.They have no choice.They need to see those conical bras.Conic sections!Ellipses.You get my drift?
She said she was writing free verse
Trying to be pointed but terse.
But the rhymes kept on appearing
So she gave then a hearing
And she copied them all, which is worse!
As for meter, she thought it was gas
Which sooner or later would pass
So I said to her, Rita
Why not look up meter?
She said, I would rather sound crass
It’s all in the music of mind
To sing too is extremely unkind
So we sat on the sofa
And I admitted I loved her.
So we went to lie down , to unwind.
I heard her call, would you like tea?
I wanted her to sit on my knee.
We both kissed and made eyes
Then ate apple pies.
It seems like a daydream,we’ll see.
I don’t know how to write about irony
It’s not simply sarcasm, you know.
It’s not meant to cut
But simply to put
A comment with a questioning glow.
When referring to political tyranny
Wit may serve better than steel.
Contempt is not good
For if not understood
The bleeding wounds may never heal.
But talking of Hitler and Stalin
And all who encouraged great sin
Irony ‘s out
Clear speech leaves no doubt,
The inmates had possessed the Great Bim
Spoken words are part of a complex,
Of gesture, touch, expression, and desire.
They are not cut off separate, nor perplexed.
The sensuous world contains both word and fire.
To concentrate communion to mere tongue,
To ignore all expression but our words
Seems to be a folly and a wrong
For all happens cannot but be heard
Our hands, our eyes, our movement create shapes
With speech, we learn to give shape proper form;
And as a love in his bed may grope,
His heart seeks for the words which work as charms
There is no split between our worlds and minds
Their conjunction gifts appropriate signs
Oh gas fire, keep me warmer and relaxed
For frost has bitten and my lips are chapped
I must wear more lip salve but perplexed-
I wonder if wild apes protect their lips?
We were not made to sit by a gas fire
From Africa, our ancestors roamed far,
But did not note the chill of Lancashire.
Nor plan to use a train or drive a car.
Instead of adaptation to the cold
We made use of beeswax and sheep’s oil
While men hunted for pigs,both wild and bold
We women used rich substance to beguile.
Charles Darwin’s theories may be as far as this-
Yet why would lips be tender but to kiss?
Oh.bedside lamp, how much you have deceived?
You glow with light unnatural late at night.
You see with jolting start what I received
And never show your torment, or mis-sight
On my Nook , here’s Sylvia Plath again.
I feel a sorrow deep and wild and strange.
Without your light, she’d never know a man
But in the day time, Plath is out of range.
You saw me thin and supple as stem,
With painted lips , and eyes, and dew of skin.
Then later when I stumbled , rose again-
You lit me up , when man could not begin.
O, bedside lamp I wonder what you know.
Do you take notes in Hebrew as you glow?