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Thursday, December 25
Two haibun for Christmas
by
Charles Christian
on Thu 25 Dec 2008 10:54 AM GMT
Shimmering in gold, two little angels – halos askew – frolic on a petrol station forecourt. It must be school nativity play time again. That, or the start of the Second Coming. deer moving cautiously in my garden – their bones remember the wolves ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Caught in the car headlights, an old man and his chubby dog out walking on a snowy Boxing Day afternoon. Over his shoulder, the old man carries a log. For the rest of the drive home, I keep a look out for King Wenceslas and his page. raucous cries in a twilit sky – rooks heading home to roost Tuesday, December 23
Three dimensional haiku
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 23 Dec 2008 03:51 PM GMT
This can best be described as a three-dimensional haiku. The text reads:
for one brief moment we brightly burn – then darkness falls 
Still Life at the 11th Street Diner
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 23 Dec 2008 03:44 PM GMT
This is another relic from my art school days – I was attempting to create with photography and words the 21st century equivalent of those Flemish 16th/17th century vanitas paintings...
 STILL LIFE AT THE 11th STREET DINER At the 1950’s style, chromium-sheathed 11th Street Diner, on the corner of Washington Avenue in downtown Miami Beach, the short-order cook looks like Samuel L. Jackson would look, if he were playing a short-order cook in a 1950’s style, chromium-sheathed diner in downtown Miami Beach. Except the white’s of this cook’s eyes are permanently bloodshot and inflamed, from the long hours spent working in the hot fat and steam-filled atmosphere of the diner’s kitchen. The 11th Street Diner is just around the corner from the Wolfsonian Foundation, the home of Miami Beach’s biggest collection of Art Deco. On a slack Saturday lunchtime in April, there are still more people in the diner than there are in the museum. Perhaps the people here prefer to live out their heritage in realtime, rather than view it through the toughened glass of museum exhibit cases. As I eat, I hear the short-order cook speaking into his mobile phone, he is interceding on behalf of one of his customers, remonstrating with her boyfriend that he is not paying the mother of his child the respect she deserves. On the diner’s sound system American Woman by The Guess Who is playing.
It's ekphrasis time !
by
Charles Christian
on Tue 23 Dec 2008 03:25 PM GMT
During my recent – and very short – studies on an MA course at a local art school (I think I would be described as an immature mature student) one of the topics I was encouraged to look at was the concept of ekphrasis – the relationship between words and images. Here are three pictures and the words they inspired...
 SALVATOR ROSA Salvator Rosa, Salvator Rosa, with your hippy hat and your insolent stare. Looking like Lennon, looking like Jesus. Acting like Guevara. Talking like Buddha. Salvator Rosa, Salvator Rosa. Client of cardinals. Befriender of brigands. Street-fighting satirist man. Seventeenth century, saturnine cool.  CHAGALL: FIDDLING WHILE ZION BURNS Your uncle, the village butcher, used to whisper soothing words in the ears of the cattle, before he slit their throats. But when the storm-troopers and the commissars come knocking at the doors of Vitebsk, they won’t be so considerate. Then, all the cherubim of the Tanakh will never bring the chassidim back again. The wandering fiddler still plays but his violin will soon know only one tune – a kaddish – a funeral dirge that will be played six million times and more. It’s playing now but you cannot hear it. You are far away, dreaming of cockerels. And candlesticks. And snow white virgins, with snow white breasts.  LENKA: SHE KNOWS This is not the idealised Chinese Girl, the submissive Green Lady whose face used to glance down from a million suburban living-room walls. This the real woman. This is the woman who knows you will betray her love. This is the woman who stares out from your own living-room wall, whose eyes watch every screaming-til-you-are-red-in-the-face argument you have with the wife you went back to. This is the woman whose portrait you dare not sell for fear of guna-guna. If you’d stayed with this woman, you would have become a great artist. But you followed the money. This is how Jesus looked, when he gazed upon Judas at The Last Supper. (Lenka was the mistress of the artist Tretchikoff during the Second World War.) Monday, December 22
Haiku and senryu
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 22 Dec 2008 08:17 PM GMT
The traditional distinction is between haiku – usually serious and/or with a seasonal tone – and senryu – lighter subject matter usually commenting on the foibles of mankind. I've just lumped them all together, life's too short to lose sleep over the distinction. Incidentally, some purists may object to some of my haiku (which in this batch also includes some sci-faiku) – that makes us equal as I object to some purists.
dusk at the office – even the computers are falling asleep sick, I work from home no sympathy – with email no one can hear you sneeze Published in Blithe Spirit (14/4) - December 2004 middle of the road – a very dangerous place to be Published in Other - The BHS Members Anthology 2004 growing old – more hair sprouting from my ears than on my head Published in Blithe Spirit (14/4) - December 2004 as I fondle, she watches over my shoulder – for her last bus home Published in Blithe Spirit (15/2) - June 2005 everything is work in progress – including life Sunday afternoon my garden chair is calling – for a coat of paint The rainbow – nature’s way of saying sorry for an April shower Autumn at the mall – we turn away from the Christmas displays empty fields, green lanes cycling back a butterfly – races me for home footprints in the snow going their separate ways – leaving a party Published in Blithe Spirit (15/1) - March 2005 Boxing Day morning we go hunting – for batteries not included Published in Blithe Spirit (15/1) - March 2005 hoglets staggering drunk on fermented flesh – of fallen plums Family Christmas goodwill evaporates – like brandy on a pudding On the train home my How to Haiku guide stays open – unlike my eyes Published in Blithe Spirit (15/1) - March 2005 my ego is ok but my karma – just ran over my dogma Published in Blithe Spirit (15/2) - June 2005 Burgandy in winter red wine – Beaune cold the inspirational speaker inspires me – to go home early Published in Blithe Spirit (15/3) - September 2005 Goodwill to all men - we even laugh at the jokes we've heard before Published in Blithe Spirit (16/1) - March 2006 Suddenly the swifts have all flown No farewells, no goodbyes September Burgandy at dawn – lazy frog hops and plops into a stone lavoir Published in Blithe Spirit (16/1) - March 2006 after a hard week I look in the mirror – and see my father staring back the road sign says ‘cats eyes removed’ – is that a threat or a promise? carrying her harp to music school she wishes she’d studied the flute Published in Blithe Spirit (16/2) - June 2006 middle age calling designer jeans out stretchy waistbands in she’s getting old now she mainly sees her friends – at funerals Published in Blithe Spirit (16/2) - June 2006 a late spring the daffodils do not open till the clocks go forward Published in Blithe Spirit (16/2) - June 2006 back for a class reunion the only face I recognise – is mine Published in Blithe Spirit (16/2) - June 2006 its exotic scent belies the primitive looks of the sweet brier rose Published in Blithe Spirit (16/3) - September 2006 An English summer – drought orders signed the deluge begins Wimbledon, Henley – and Big Brother Summer is only a gameshow time travel – seeing tomorrow today and yesterday tomorrow Published in Ultraverse (3/5) - September 2006 space time dilation – when I return the only face I know is mine Published in Ultraverse (3/5) - September 2006 13th JULY 2006 black smoke over Haifa – this summer katyushas arrive with the dawn white con trails against the blue – tumbling bombs glitter in the Beirut sun in Gaza life ebbs from a fallen phone one message waiting – unread Ari – are you ok? me and the cats and dogs are waiting for you The Oracle at Delphi – Sun so bright we squint to see the ruins Published in Other - The BHS Members Anthology 2006 ripening brambles powder blue sloes – children drag their heels to school Published in Blithe Spirit (16/4) - December 2006 con trails against the blue tumbling bombs glitter in the Beirut sun Published in Blithe Spirit (16/4) - December 2006 dry at last the winter’s clippings burn in an early evening sun Published in Blithe Spirit (17/2) - June 2007 beneath opening blossom two buskers exchange mobile phone numbers Published in Blithe Spirit (18/2) - June 2008 gone jogging – gathering footprints before dawn Published in Blithe Spirit (17/3) - September 2007 Las Vegas in June – the hissing of sprinklers on astro turf Published in Blithe Spirit (17/3) - September 2007 St Martin's summer butterflies still flittering over poppy wreaths Published on Ink Sweat & Tears - November 2007 Halloween sunset – sky the colour of ripe pumpkin Published in Blithe Spirit (17/4) - December 2007 sky-racked oak 500 years history – gone in one night Published in BHS Members Anthology Storm - 2007 Birdstrike – falling like snow across the highway so many feathers Published in Blithe Spirit (17/4) - December 2007 passing the old house blinds pulled down – Ornette Colemen playing Published in Blithe Spirit (18/1) - March 2008 rain dripping into a bowl – ticking off time til it overflows Published in Blithe Spirit (18/1) - March 2008 after the gale – the old garden bench on its back, bleached frame skywards Published in Blithe Spirit (18/1) - March 2008 like a moth I’m drawn to your flame – an ember on the wing last niece married – only funerals to bring us together now Published in Blithe Spirit (18/3) - September 2008 shirt off, cross-legged a brickie takes a break – the buddha of the frogs Published in BHS Members Anthology Building - 2008
Haibun - where prose meets haiku
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 22 Dec 2008 07:53 PM GMT
One of my favourite poetry genre – much under-rated and with huge potential – more people should try them...
THEY DON’T TELL YOU THIS They always tell you Las Vegas is the wedding capital of the United States. As I’m waiting for a cab to the airport, I get talking to the couple in the queue next to me. They’ve been in Vegas to get married at one of the big casino hotels and took a honeymoon suite with 1800 square feet of floor-space. “That’s bigger than many homes in the UK,” I say. “That’s bigger than many homes in the United States,” they reply. Honeymoon in Vegas – in a bridal suite bigger than the home they’ll share On the flight home, I get talking to a professional gambler returning from a poker tournament. He says you can make a living out of poker – as long as you understand the math. “Every hand gives you a slight edge or slight disadvantage. Professional players always take an edge in their favour and shy away from hands where the numbers are against them. It’s not about luck – but I do like playing against people who think it’s all about luck, as that gives me an edge.” The King, Queen and Jack show no favours – they are all slaves to the laws of probability What they don’t tell you in the guide books is that along with being the centre of the gambling universe, Las Vegas is also the suicide capital of the United States. In the casinos, there is no day or night – just unlimited hope and unrealisable expectations I LOVE VEGAS It may be kitsch. It may be ersatz. It may be open to criticism on grounds of bad taste and of being one enormous well oiled, ruthlessly efficient money extraction machine. But it is executed with such style such audacity, such panache and on a truly awesome scale that you just have to admire it. No, you have to love it. Las Vegas in June – the hissing of sprinklers on astro turf Published in Gift (Gatehouse Press) 2007 TRUE CALLING At a stripped-pine table, in a French-style cafe near to Oxford Circus in the West End of London, sits an elderly Buddhist monk in crimson robes – I think he may be Tibetan. Taking advantage of the free wi-fi internet access available in this cafe, as he sips hot drinking chocolate from a large bowl, he surfs the web on an old Apple Mac laptop computer. he’s in cyberspace searching for enlightenment – on Google FLYING TO VIENNA Flying to Vienna. Out today and back tomorrow. Check-in, customs and security. No creams, no blades, no liquids, no gels, no toothpaste. Shoes off, belts off, phones off, take off. Viewed from above, the wind-teased cloud tops are the same colour and consistency as the froth on the cappuccino I drank in the departure lounge. at thirty-six thousand feet the sky is always blue Sachertorte, einspanner coffee, sturm, schnitzel and strudel. On the journey home, the only excess baggage I’m carrying is around my waist. Along with German MTV, ads for chocolate cake and dubbed episodes of Mr Bean, the in-flight entertainment video monitors display our location, our altitude, our speed and the outside temperature. framed against the curvature of the Earth the plane’s wing rimed with frost Published in Blithe Spirit (17/1) - March 2007 Published in Haibun Today - April 2008
More verse poetry - this time the longer stuff
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 22 Dec 2008 07:40 PM GMT
And 'yes' I'm still recycling – if there was a green award for poetry, I'd win it! There's also a lot of musing on mortality etc in this selection – don't worry, it was just a phase I was going thru and I seen got over it.
ANOTHER SLOW NOVEMBER NIGHT Six o'clock - and the start of another slow November night. I wind down my cobalt-blue blinds to blank out the gloom and watch, as switching on another light, fresh shadows fall across the warm titanium skin of my Apple Mac computer. Its voice - female, American, synthesised and talking with a slight lisp – announces the time. Time to send out the last emails of the day to friends electric in the virtual world while a voice on TV talks through the news from faraway places of faraway people still dying beneath faraway skies. Just another slow November night. Published in Obsessed With Pipework (33) - Winter 2005/6 Highly commended in Freda Downie Poetry Competition 2005 Published in Close to the Edge (North Norfolk Poets) 2005 DO THEY STILL DAYDREAM ON THE PARKINSON STEPS? Past the late night Warsaw Stores at the end of the road across the street from the Sikh temple by the traffic lights did the sign in that cafe really say Only one fork per plate ? Later, sitting round the kitchen fireplace at the house we shared on the Chapeltown Road we’d make French toast, drink cheap black coffee and watch unwanted lecture notes burn in the open grate as we’d talk long into the night about back-to-backs, Hunslett legs and the Quarry Hill flats. You were reading medicine, I was studying politics but that was the day before yesterday – half a lifetime ago when we were still so young and cool and wild and free. We’ve long since fallen from each other’s radar screens you never found that cure for cancer, I never changed the world. It’s been over thirty years since I last made French toast – and I don’t take my coffee black anymore. First prize Ver Poets Freda Downie Poetry Competition 2005 Published in Perhaps anthology (Cinnamon Press) 2005 Published in Poetry Now - July 2005 Published in Poems from Eastern Counties (Poetry Now) 2005 Published in Blithe Spirit - June 2006 Published in Obsessed with Pipework (38) - Spring 2007 MY MOTHER’S OLD FUR COAT Her once pride and joy the Tomb of the Unknown Mink who laid down their lives in one of fashion’s lost wars Too hot for summer and too precious to entrust to cloakroom staff in winter it never went to parties Now in old age politically incorrect banished to a wardrobe a retirement home for moths Highly commended in Freda Downie Poetry Competition 2005 DRESSED CRAB AND CINDER TOFFEE On a trip to Whitby among the narrow lanes and jet stalls we lose count of the shops with their hand painted signs selling traditional home-made cinder toffee peanut brittle and coconut ice Then at a small cafe while the waitress sings the praises of the dressed crab salad our elderly parents panicked by an unfamiliar menu order toasted teacakes Again REMEMBERING ROBERT PALMER (1949-2003) Small seaside town, Scarborough in the 1960s At school you were so cool even the teachers could feel the breeze On to college or a steady job was the order of the day back then But you escaped, for the life of a rock and roll gypsy You didn’t mean to turn us on But most people found you simply irresistible Gone far too soon at 54 As long as MTV continues to screen Addicted to Love You’ll live on, a legend like Jimmy Dean or Steve McQueen Not for you the fate of growing old, living off faded glories Nor sneaking around the nostalgia music scene You might as well admit it, some guys have all the luck Published in Pulsar (46) - September 2006 Published online in Slow Train (6/2) - October 2006 JUST ANOTHER ONE NIGHT STAND – 2968 AD galaxy tripping space tourist adrift in a gravity free pleasure zone you laughed out loud at my corny chat-up lines but I saw in your eyes you’d been lonely too long spending your time on a cruise to the stars when all you wanted was someone to hold tugging at zips with eagerly exploring hands shedding clothing and inhibitions, on the way yearning bodies entwined in weightless ecstasy afterwards... we floated like spoons til the hum of star drives said you must go languidly you dressed I took you back to your ship one final kiss, a smile then we waved goodbye was I the love of your life could you have been mine? too late now six hundred light years lie between us if you ever return you’ll find only dust in a time-worn tomb Published online in The Beat - October 2006 LEONARD COHEN PLAYS LEEDS 1972 You claimed you had a boyfriend – a hotshot with a Mercedes – that none of us ever saw Your attempts to catch up with me again all those years later only now I think I understand the reason why If only: you hadn’t always tried to impress If only – just once, you’d dropped your facade If only: I’d been bolder, braver, more in your facer and challenged your silly games But you played hard to get so I got another On such whims and foibles are our destinies changed future histories recast and dynasties ended before they’ve begun I still recall the way Cohen sang that night The upbeat arrangement he used for So long, Marianne How the backing singers sang the line “to laugh and cry, and cry and laugh” And how you looked, when you smiled WAKES WEEK 1970 Day-tripping Wakes Week lass adrift in a Northern seaside town laughing out loud at my corny chat-up lines as we toast our lust in Merrydown, lager and lime Tugging at zips with eager exploring hands rolling on the beach clothing and inhibitions all cast away in the sand Afterwards you reapply your makeup languidly dress, then slowly I walk you back to your bus One final caress, a fleeting smile and we wave goodbye Could you have been the love of my life? Would I have been the man to change your world? Too late now, in a swirl of diesel fumes you are gone Back to the 9-til-5 to the assembly line the supermarket check-out the telesales terminal the typing pool Published online in Poetry Monthly (130) - January 2007 BOURBON EYES 6:30 in the evening You finish your third Jack Daniels roll yourself another cigarette then turn to me and say: Sure I’m really happy with the way my life’s turned out You smile tightly and quickly turn away in case I notice your eyes are lying Your eyes are lying They are lying to me and they’re lying to you You’re heading for the rocks and a bottle’s the only wreckage you’ve got to cling on to 6:35 in the evening You order your fourth Jack Daniels and roll another cigarette Published in Global Tapestry Journal RANDOM COINCIDENCES NOTED WHILE SURFING WIKIPEDIA Jack’s dead he’s been off the road 40 years he died the same month I began university mid-way between the hippy apotheosis of Woodstock and the gotterdammerungan of Altamont Dean Moriarty’s dead Carlo Marx is dead Sal’s in paradise or maybe somewhere else Timothy Leary, Jerry Garcia, Ken Kesey all flunked the final Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test the Beats are dead the Hippies are dead the best minds of two generations destroyed me ? I must have been brain dead it was 40 years before I read Trip Trap and The Dharma Bums Japhy Ryder’s still alive and I’m not letting another precious moment slip quietly a w a y Published in Global Tapestry Journal HARRY’S DEAD Harry’s dead he’s fading fast exposed to the sun for too long even the colours in his old photographs are leaching away Harry’s dead his hand-made suits attract only moths in charity shop windows his once cherished books feed the worms in council landfill sites Harry’s dead no longer remembered at parties for the sharpness of his wit or the way he could charm the women with his honeyed voice Harry’s dead his little deceits betrayals and infidelities almost all forgotten Harry’s dead now he’s gone just a dim recalled shade peering out from within a tarnished silver frame Harry’s dead he used to be someone Harry’s dead he used to be my father MONKEY BUSINESS Life starts to make much more sense once you understand the basics of animal psychology Take chimpanzees Watch them but not dressed up in human clothes at some silly chimps’ tea party And you will see that all their affections their fears, their reactions their communications, their loyalties their petty squabbles and jealousies oh, their jealousies and their cruel, savage tribalism exactly mirror those of our own world Now you know why a group of feckless youths will suddenly attack a stranger just because he wears a different shirt Or why one great nation takes up arms against another It’s not human nature It’s monkey business Scratch us and beneath the skin we all bleed 98.5 percent the same DNA We’re all monkeys some just better looking than others PAINTER PAINT NO MORE (FOR SP) Too late to wash those brushes. Leave those riggers, flats and filberts alone. No time to screw back the caps on those tubes nor put away the Payne’s grey and ultramarine you won’t be needing that palette today. Forget those runs, ignore that smear don’t even think how that last wash will dry. None of this matters anymore. Your last hare has leapt from its frame your horses have escaped their paddocks and all your birds flown their nests. Your final commission: a study in carmine coagulating, congealing, rising from deep within your veins. Published in Not Expecting Fish (Gatehouse Press) 2007 BUILD NO TACKY SHRINES FOR ME When they pull me from the wreckage and haul my twisted corpse away When my gore is hosed from off these streets and the police incident tape removed When they straighten out the lamp-post that cast its shadow on my passing Don’t mark the site of my last breath with a cairn of pastel-hued teddy bears Or a pyramid of petrol station forecourt flowers still shrouded in cellophane and wilted misery You can weep You can cheer You can laugh You can cry But please build no tacky shrines for me
Time for some verse poetry - the short stuff
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 22 Dec 2008 07:24 PM GMT
Here's my next archive – my shorter verse poetry...
24/HEAVEN the perfect way to spend the perfect day nothing to do and all of the day to spend it with you CHILLED Sometimes... I like to sit and talk And sometimes... I like to sit and think But sometimes... I just sit Sometimes GONE SOUTH Suddenly autumn and the swallows have all flown No farewells, no goodbyes no thank-you notes for all the flies November THE BONFIRE old leaves, old briar old clippings and branches no smoke, no fire rain dripping – damp matches CHESIL BEACH upon a beach, upon a strand I wondered what the tide could teach within my reach, beneath my hand the answer lay within a grain of sand BEACH BUMS Hot sun upon our backs warm sand between our toes After lying on the beach moist sand between our cheeks SISTER, SISTER You will never return but she bears a small tattoo in the small of her back to remind herself of you. It is a Chinese symbol a sign of her loyalty sympathy, sorority a memento mori of you. Published in Obsessed With Pipework (33) - Winter 2005/6 COCKTAIL PARTY EYES Cocktail party eyes looking over my shoulder scanning the room for someone – more important to talk to. They call it networking. Published in Pulsar (42) - June 2005 AT WALBERSWICKAn old grey rock, worn by the sea washed up on a Suffolk shore still clutching small fragments of creatures long ago dead Pitted with age, pierced by decay shall I string you on a pendant wear you as a lucky hag stone or throw you back to the sea ? THE LETTER ‘G’ IS DISPENSIBLE IN MARDLE Just missed you – I slept in late. Your breakfast cup of tea, half drunk still warm upon the kitchen table. Beside it, on a post-it note the hastily scribbled message... CUL8R Darlin’ – back soon! DOWN BY THE SCARBORO SPA The Palm Court is deserted now but once, upon the beach below our own private rock pool island losing the battle with the tides twice daily, to the sound strings: Max Jaffa and his violins. All gone, even the rocks entombed in concrete, a barrier to defend an indefensible coastline against a relentless sea. Published in National Poetry Anthology (United Press) 2006
Prose poetry - the archive
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 22 Dec 2008 07:13 PM GMT
Here – for your enjoyment (or not as the case may be) is a collection of the prose poetry I have been writing over the past couple of years. And 'yes' when you look at some of my other material, you will see that I do occasionally recycle ideas and phrases. I'm shameless...
SEVEN MILES HIGH Flying back from Vegas, crossing the Rockies at dusk, the crests of the mesas bathed all peachy pink. Christine McVie singing Songbird in my headphones. The girl in the next seat laughing out loud at an old episode of Only Fools and Horses. It’s minus 54 degrees Fahrenheit outside. Eight timezones to cross on a fourteen hour flight, clock faces a blur as their hands race to keep pace. I’m taking a trip halfway into tomorrow, before yesterday’s had chance to say goodnight. Five hours, 54 minutes – and 2502 miles from home. Seven miles below, the North Atlantic ocean, laid out like a crumpled, stone-washed, denim-blue dust sheet, waiting to catch all those lost hours and minutes as they tumble, irredeemably, from our lives. THE UNINVITED That was the time we heard them chattering late into the night. The carefree chatter that goes with being a freeloader. Squatting in someone else’s house. Eating their food and enjoying their heating, without ever having to put your hand in your pocket to pay your fair share. That was the time we decided... they had to die. Clutching my Chinese-made pistol (actually a Chinese-made air-pistol) I slide back the hatch leading up into their lair. Armed with the gun, a stash of poison and a piece of lead piping – in case it should ever come to face-to-face combat a-mano-a-mano – I am transformed. I am Clint Eastwood – preparing to take on the Mexican bandits in A Fist Full of Dollars. I am Arnold Schwarzenegger – stalking The Predator in the steaming jungles of Central America. I am... I am Inspector Clouseau on the trail of The Pink Panther, come to deal with a couple of scrawny rats that have moved into our attic space to shelter from the winter cold. Although now, half way into my mission, with my knees already creaking from slowly crawling along the narrow joists, I’m beginning to wonder whether the dust, thrown up by the loft insulation, just might claim me as the first casualty in this confrontation. THE ONE-EYED KITCHEN GOD It’s been sitting on the kitchen worktop for as long as we’ve lived in this house. Its chromium skin, now encrusted with limescale stains and steam heated smears. Its element, as furred-up as my own arteries, taking longer and longer to boil the water. I’d like to get rid of it. Perhaps replace it with enamelled one, in a colour that tones in nicely with the toaster. But then the toaster dies, so I’m glad I didn’t. “Never mind,” says my wife, “if I fill it with a half-and-half mixture of vinegar and water, then leave it to soak overnight, that will descale the element and have the kettle working as good as new by morning.” Although,” she adds, looking me up and down, “I don’t think the same could be said about you.” CLOSE ENCOUNTERS When we are out on the lanes walking the dogs, I’ll frequently pick a blackberry off a bramble bush and pop it in my mouth. I don’t wash it. I don’t cook it. I don’t waste any time getting to know it. I just eat it. It’s like being on a long and winding pick-your-own fruit farm. However, on this particular occasion, something – let’s call it intuition, sixth sense or even a survival instinct left over from our primaeval past – prompts me to pause and look at the berry I’ve just picked. There, clasping the far side of the fruit, is a big, fat, green, speckled, iridescent bug – looking for all the world like an alien creature, riding a burned out asteroid through the icy wastes of the Solar System. Of course it isn’t an extraterrestrial but, as I flick the blackberry and its passenger back into the hedgerow, the insect does, for one brief moment, experience the frisson of tumbling in free fall across the uncharted tracts of space. AT CHEZ GERARD In the restaurant, the waitress – with the piercing blue eyes – smiles at me when she brings me my espresso. Distracted by something inconsequential I do not see this gesture, only the looks – on the faces of my companions – reveal what I have missed. I USED TO HAVE A BEATLE CAP – JUST LIKE THE ONE JOHN LENNON WORE They say the brain uses the time we are asleep to catch up on its filing. Storing away the day’s experiences for cataloging and cross referencing against other memories. That’s fine by me – I’m more than happy for all the little neuron clerks that dwell within my cerebral cortex to get on with this job. Providing they do it quietly. Now normally my conscious brain shuts down around eleven PM and barely entertains another lucid thought until at least two cups of tea into the breakfast news. But, on this particular night, my little grey cells decided to take me on a multimedia jaunt down memory lane. It must have been about 2 in the morning when my mind began to hear music playing. It was an old Beatles number – In My Life off their Rubber Soul album – only this time, it was being sung by Jim Reeves. Jim Reeves... a man who managed to issue more records after he died, than when he was alive. When I was young, I used to lay in the bath on Sunday evenings listening to the chart show on Radio Luxembourg hoping one of the bands I liked – The Hollies or The Animals or The Who or the Manfreds – would be Number One. But no, it would be another rave from the grave by Jim Reeves. In 1966 one of Reeves’ singles – Distant Drums – sat in the charts for 45 weeks. It even kept The Beatles double-sider Eleanor Rigby and Yellow Submarine off the Number One slot. I hated him for that, with a visceral loathing. Forty years later, I find myself lying in bed once more brooding over the injustice of it all. I rearrange my pillow, turn over and try to drift back off to sleep – only to be disturbed by another sound. “Do you remember,” says a voice, coming from deep within my subconscious, “those Cuban-heeled Chelsea boots you used to wear? The way that soft, black leather fitted so snugly around your ankles, when you zipped them up? The shape of the sole,” it adds, “would probably help your fallen arches now.” “You used to have a really cool chocolate brown and mustard-coloured check shirt, with a button-down collar,” it continues. “You don’t see many of those these days. In fact, the last you saw of that shirt was on the back of Carol McKittrick. She never returned it when the two of you split up. Not that it would fit you now anyway.” Carol McKittrick? A girlfriend I haven’t seen or had any contact with since... since 1968? Girlfriend? She’d be a mature woman now – with a bus pass and a state pension. From somewhere else within my mind I heard the click, clack, clacking of an old manual typewriter. That’s all I need. I’ve had the fashion department on to me and now my brain’s creative team is converting this dream into a manuscript. Go away. I–just–want–to–get–some–sleep. If we have to rake over all this ancient history and pick the scabs off old memories, can’t we save it for a Sunday afternoon, when I’ve nothing better to do than nod off while watching The Antiques Roadshow?” I make a concerted effort to relax. To clear my mind. To think of something bland and soporific. Think of the incoming tide, gently washing across a shingle shore. Woosh, woosh. And it works. I feel my brain begin to wind down. One by one, my little grey cells stop whatever it is they are doing and head back to their dormitories. The typewriter stops. The music stops. Elsewhere, I hear the low rumble of filing cabinet drawers being gently slid shut, to avoid that annoying clump when the drawer finally slams home. “Goodnight,” it’s another voice – an irritatingly chirpy voice, with an equally irritating accent. “Did you know, that you were the first person in Scarborough to own a copy of John Lennon’s book In His Own Write? You’ve still got it on your shelves – although the last time you opened it was in 1964. “Oh, and you also had a Beatle cap, just like the one Lennon wears on the front cover. You wouldn’t happen to know where it is now?” “Get out of here, this is not the time to be asking me this!” Click. Click. Click. The lights are going out all across my nocturnal brain. Click. Click. And then the alarm clock starts to ring. NO HATS, NO BAGGIES At the hotel on the Las Vegas ‘Strip’ there are many places to eat. At the French restaurant, the dress code is NO casual attire. At the Italian restaurant, the dress code is casual. At the Japanese restaurant: casual elegant. At the gala dinner – business casual. At the nightclub: casual chic – open brackets, no hats, no oversized jeans, no baggies, no athletic wear, close brackets. At the all-you-can-eat buffet there is no dress code although perhaps there should be some warnings... Against Hawaiian shirts in patterns so florid they can induce instant migraine attacks. Against little old ladies, old enough to be my grandmother, who dress like cheap hookers – this is offensive to other diners, as well as to the sensitivities of cheap hookers. And against fluorescent body hugging lycra being worn by anyone larger than a size 8XL. Not least because anyone larger than a size 8XL really – no, really – should not be dining in an all-you-can-eat buffet. FETCHING IN THE LINES After discussing the metaphorical symbolism of Adam and Eve’s nakedness, or some other tale from my Children's Illustrated Bible, we’d have a supper of soup, accompanied by large hunks of bread. It always annoyed my mother that Margaret would hack the loaf into wedges, rendering the leftovers impossible to toast the following morning. My Aunt Margaret was a fisherman’s wife who spent most of her life working in the warehouses on the Scarborough Fish Pier. When I was young, she was my baby-sitter and evenings would be spent listening to her holding forth on her two favourite topics: The Old Testament, with a strictly fundamentalist, Elim pentecostal interpretation – and the Soviet penal system. She admired the fact Joseph Stalin, like the Lord Jehovah, was quick to smite down anyone who opposed him. I now realise the long years spent in the raw cold, mucking the salt-slaked long lines clean of debris, then skaning the mussels from their shells, had turned the knuckles of Margaret’s hands into arthritic claws, incapable of wielding a more subtle knife cut. ANGEL OF THE MORNING Later that morning she brought me satsumas and a mug of sweet green tea that smelled of toasted rice. The slogan on her mug reads I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed or numbered while the one on mine says I am not a number, I am a free man. She asks me when we’d meet again and I reply “soon”. At the time I say it, I mean it. But we never did make that second date. I am a free man and I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed or numbered. THE PERFECT MATCHING PAIR I’ve seen and handled a few in my time. All shapes and all sizes – and I can tell you this: No matter how good the underwiring, large naturals have a tendency to droop. They also have lives of their own, bouncing up, bouncing down, swinging right, swinging left, independently of each other. And, they are rarely a matching pair. These were different, in that they were not different. They were the same. They were identical. They were the perfect matching pair. Round. Rigid. Pert. Jutting out at a steady 90 degrees to the body – like two heat seeking missiles selecting their next target. From time-to-time, their proud owner would glance down at them, like a mother might gaze upon the heads of her new born twins. Admiring the handiwork of their creator – not god but a surgeon. And all the while smiling a smile that said: “That was money well spent. These will keep me in the style to which I wish to become accustomed. These will help me stay warm in my old age.” ICED TEA WITH ELVIS Last night I dreamed I met with Elvis. We were sitting in one of the departure lounges at Memphis International Airport. Drinking iced tea. Killing time. Waiting for a delayed flight. Here’s the thing: I’ve sat in one of the departure lounges at Memphis International Airport. Drinking iced tea. Killing time. Waiting for a delayed flight. But Elvis had left the building. All that remained of the King were the souvenirs on display in the terminal’s shopping arcade. On a wall, above the gents urinals in an adjoining restroom, there was a sign. It said the terminal was also an officially designated tornado shelter. As my delayed flight finally bucketed away into the night sky and a stewardess warned us to remain seated, because of the risk of turbulence caused by – and these were her very words – tornadic activity, the thought crossed my mind that I could be drinking iced tea with Elvis sooner than I had anticipated. THE MORNING AFTER Still wearing yesterday’s clothes, walking in to work from an unfamiliar direction. The subtle ache of unexpected physical exertion. The taste on your skin of a stranger’s sweat. The irrepressible smile that lights up your face, each time you rewind and replay the events of the previous 12 hours. Who got lucky last night? Are you going to see them again? Will they call you today? A HIGHER STATE OF CONSCIOUSNESS Far up on a building site a brickie takes a break. Shirt off, bare chested, he sits cross-legged on a window-ledge, basking in the mid-morning heat, clutching a mug of tea and smoking a roll-up. Like Buddha on a high rise. THE DOG DOESN’T DO SARCASM The dog is doing his little dance. The little dance he always does whenever he wants more biscuits. He has a limited repertoire. He’s never been to dog training and we were too poor to send him to stage school. As if, I say, I’m giving you any more biscuits when you’ve just turned up your nose at your dinner. A dinner of well-balanced tasty morsels that a team of canine nutritionists spent the best years of their lives perfecting. You, the same picky pooch who, given half a chance will happily snarf down six-month old roadkill. Then I realise I’m being sarcastic – to a dog. My dog doesn’t understand English. Even if he could, he’s old and deaf now. I begin to feel guilty, like maybe I’ve hurt his feelings. So I give him some more biscuits and explain that... I wasn’t laughing at him but with him. My dog doesn’t do sarcasm but he appreciates irony. Published in Not Expecting Fish (Gatehouse Press) 2007 AT LULWORTH COVE As they pose for their photograph to be taken, the two women self-consciously rearrange their ample bosoms with all the determination of hotel chambermaids fluffing up eiderdown pillows – but with all the pointlessness of a cook ladling a blancmange back into its mold. Their companion, with the camera, braces himself to take the shot, resting his naked paunch on a conveniently located tourist information board. The board explains how the cove has evolved over millions and millions of years. Nice to see all that geological research was not in vain. POST-OP One, the shape and consistency of an egg – lightly boiled. The other, the size of a Big Mac – strictly no fries. Two hours of my life lost in an anaesthetic haze. The next 48, a mental maze, as a cocktail of drugs drains from my brain. But at last I can reopen my diary and start to fill out all those empty days. I’ve also noticed my body has acquired some interesting new scars – which is cool. Or at least would be, if I were 40 years younger. THE WRONG SORT OF PEOPLE It’s morning and I’m heading into London on an early train. Somewhere around Chelmsford – just as dawn is breaking – I look out of the carriage window and see a close of dinky executive homes, on a dinky executive housing estate. They all have the same small, neat, eminently sensible gardens – are surrounded by a network of good roads – and are just minutes away from plenty of shops, places to eat and entertainments. For a moment I am tempted. I ask myself: why do I live in a remote house in the middle nowhere? Miles from shops or any of the other facilities that help make life comfortable. Where the simplest of tasks – like visiting the local post office – can involve taking a 4-wheel-drive down long, flooded, mudded tracks. Where I can’t get a decent broadband connection. Even if I could, every time the wind blows the wrong way, the power fails and the lights go out. Where I don’t have mains drainage. Where the house is cold and drafty – so cold that keeping it warm in winter consumes almost as much electricity as a small Third World country uses in a year. And where gardening is a constant struggle against briar, bramble and bindweed, as nature reverts to the wildwood on the margins of my plot. Then I snap out of it and remember: That those shiny new houses are built of nothing more substantial than sticky-back plastic. That the neighbours would start a petition every time I hit a power chord on my Telecaster. That I’d receive threatening letters from the council whenever I had the temerity to light a bonfire. And I‘d live in fear that if the ‘wrong sort of people’ moved in next door, it would reduce the value of my house. And then I realise: I am one of those wrong sort of people. Not for me the crumpled, Hugo Boss suit wearing, Ford Mondeo-driving but BMW aspiring, deferential golf playing, bad PowerPoint presenting, clingfilm shrouded sandwiches in the centre of the table slowly curling in the heat of a windowless meeting room in a budget hotel on the edge of a trading estate, executive lifestyle. I don’t want to be a respectable, responsible member of society polishing the hood of my car every Sunday morning, while discussing the merits of Waitrose Pinot Grigio versus Tesco Chardonnay with my neighbours until the day I’m screwed into a polished pine box and carted off to become mulch beneath a green-fly infested rosebush in a municipal crematorium’s garden of remembrance. I want to be me. On second thoughts perhaps I’m better off living in the middle of nowhere – much less unpleasantless all round. IN THE LECTURE THEATRE Halfway through the seminar, the girl with the henna-red hair and big copper earrings stretches, her upraised hands gripping the seatback as she arches her body to find a more comfortable position. This movement plumps up her already ample bosom to create a decolletage of such spectacular proportions that her breasts seem on the verge of making an escape bid. Simultaneously, the hem of her short black dress rides up, like a theatre curtain on opening night, across smooth lycra-clad legs to expose the rolling contours of her upper thighs. Time stands still. Then she relaxes and – as her clothing regains its decorum – returns to her notes. The image is gone, nothing remains – except a memory, seared into the retina of my mind’s eye. BY TRAIN FROM ELY Crossing the Fens from March, black smoke belching from the old brink kiln chimneys, fighting for airspace amid the slowly turning blades of the wind turbines. Now passing the McCains frozen chips factory. And in the distance... the squat grey bulk of Peterborough Cathedral contrasts with the viridescent capped domes of the mosque and its muezzin tower. Everything under one big sky, all uniformly slick in the same driving rain. MISSILES AND McCARTNEY The guy on the Minneapolis flight tells me he still misses the girl he met and loved in Suffolk, England, 15 years ago, when he was stationed at Bentwaters, near Woodbridge. We talk of Paul McCartney and Eric Clapton. I’d seen them both live, when they were still young – and cool – he only has their early albums. He says he has Chippewa, Bretton, Scottish and Irish blood in his veins. And that one of his ancestors first came over the empty tundra with the Hudson Bay Company’s trappers. Now he spends his days alone in the radio shack of an isolated airforce base on that same empty tundra, listening for missiles that will never arrive. He says one day he’s going to write his family history – and that he’d like to see that girl again. GONE TO TEXAS Late night in the sports bar, reclining on a stool like some latter-day caesar – but in a colour-coordinated Haiwaiian shirt and shorts rather than a toga – the man from Corporate America holds court, surrounded by friends and cronies. Against a background of clinking ice cubes against Jack Daniels, chalk dusted cues against 8-balls and the murmur of venomous gossip, a pianist fights a wave of indifference from drinkers, too distracted by the sight of the waitresses’ honey-coloured, bustier boosted breasts, to heed any of the tunes he plays. It is 2:15 in the morning and outside the temperature is still 76 degrees Fahrenheit. COMING TO AMERICA On the back of my visa waiver card it states that the public reporting burden for completing this form is two minutes to learn about the form. Plus four minutes to fill out the form. Making a total of six minutes in all. Someone, somewhere took the trouble to measure, record and report this information. Perhaps all that time, effort – and tax-payers’ money – might have been better spent reviewing and updating the questions? For example, the form still asks if I ever worked for the German Nazi party between the years of 1933 to 1945. In 1945, I would not be born for another five years. And to have been active in the Nazi party in 1933, I would now be pushing the far side of 90. Of all the bad guys who harbour ill-will towards America, perhaps stormtroopers, too geriatric and arthritic to goosestep one jackbooted pace further, are the least of the US Government’s worries. The form also asks me if I’ve ever been convicted of a crime involving moral turpitude. For one foolish moment I’m tempted to answer “No – but I do like the sound of that turpitude – where can I get me some?” But then I remember... the officers manning the immigration controls are all at least 8 feet tall, 10 feet wide, pack pistols that could halt a runaway bus and probably know 14 different ways to break my neck armed with nothing more menacing than an HB pencil. So I fill out the form unambiguously, hand it to the nice man with the big gun – and gain my entry into the land of the free. CARGO PANTS ARE OUT I’m on the 5:30 from Liverpool Street. Oblivious to any sense of irony or self-awareness, the overweight guy – sitting opposite me in the carriage – orders a Mars Bar and a large bag of cheese ‘n’ onion potato crisps to go with his Diet Coke. As we pull out of Manningtree, he phones ahead to an Indian restaurant in Ipswich to order a takeaway. If we are what we eat, then he’s about to become a Prawn Dansak, with side orders of Bombay Potato, Saag Aloo, Bhindi Bhajee, Pilau rice, two Peshwari naan – and a couple of vegetable Samosas thrown in for good measure. I am reminded of all this the next day... when I pull on a pair of freshly laundered jeans and find they are a little bit tighter than they were the last time I wore them. I’d like to think they’d shrunk in the wash. I’d like to think a lot of things. I’d like to think I still had the body of a 19-year-old. But I know that, short of kidnapping a 19-year-old, the days of slim-cut designer jeans are over and that a future of beige chinos – with elasticated waistbands – stretches out ahead of me. It's on days like this you wake up and know you’ll never again wear Madrass-check cargo pants, skater boi shorts, snakeskin cowboy boots, biker-style leather jackets, Liberty-print fitted floral shirts, horizontal stripes nor Chuck Taylor Converse All Star sneakers – although in the case of sneakers, this is because they can’t give you the support your fallen arches now need. It’s a coming of age acceptance that you can no longer pretend your straining button-holes are a deliberate fashion statement. Or that you are never going to lose those extra two inches that will make all your clothes fit more comfortably. It’s a coming of age recognition that some colours now make you look more washed out and washed up than you already feel. It’s a coming to the age when you have to admit some of those clothes never fitted even when they were brand new and that their purchase was always going to be an act of blind faith. It’s a coming of age thing, I say, as I finally pass over a bundle of little-worn clothes to the lady in the charity shop. NAMING THE NAMES So when I suggest ‘Oi you, Come here’ would make a good name for our new dog – on the totally rational basis that if it ever ran off, “Oi you, Come here” would be the first thing we’d say – my wife asks me if I’ve always been this autistic when it comes to naming things. It does cross my mind to dispute this remark – but then I remember my teddy bears. When I was a child, I had a large teddy that I christened ‘Big Teddy’. I had a small teddy I called ‘Little Teddy’. And I had a teddy with pink fur – I think my mother had secretly wanted a girl – that with equally excrutiating logic I called ‘Pink Teddy’. And then there was the last of my bears. It was given to me rather late in my primary school career, by which time I was already heavily into playing with toy guns, toy swords, toy soldiers and toy weapons of mass destruction. Had I been familiar with the stories of Evelyn Waugh – as distinct from plain war stories – I might have seen the whole Sebastian Flyte, Brideshead Revisited possibilities of having a teddy bear. But I wasn’t. So I didn’t. Instead – the bear having arrived just in time for tea – I looked at the contents of my plate for inspiration, and named the bear ‘Egg and Chips’. And ‘Egg and Chips’ it remained – until fake-fur fabric fatigue took hold and the little fellow succumbed to a terminal loss of kapok stuffing. With hindsight, I think the bear was lucky. I could have been eating a Spotted Dick pudding. Or Cock-a-Leekie soup. Or Toad-in-the-Hole. Or Fairy Cake. Or even Stuffed Faggots. And I still think ‘Oi you, Come here’ is a good name for a dog ! AFTER THE GOLDRUSH When I was a teenager, there was a hippy – we called him Wavey Davey – who lived in our town. We knew he was a hippy because – along with littering his conversation with plenty of “Hey mans”, “Peace” and “Out-a-sights” – he also wore a full length Moroccan-style kaftan. Nothing unusual about that you might think, except this was not the Summer of Love on a warm San Franciscan night – but an out-of-season seaside town on the cold, grey, fog-shrouded North Sea coast of England. Wavey Davey had two distinguishing features. The first was his artificial leg. He liked to suggest – although always stopping short of giving away any details – that he’d lost his leg in mysterious and dramatic circumstances. We all suspected the explanation was far more mundane – such as an accident at work – and that was why he always kept it hidden beneath the flowing folds of his kaftan. In fact it turned out the reason why he tried to conceal the leg – although the limp was a bit of a giveaway – was that he earned his living as a drug dealer and kept a stash of heroin in a cavity within the artificial limb. His second distinguishing feature was the tattoo he had around his throat. It took the form of a series of dots, beneath which were the words “Cut along the dotted line”. How he and his friends must have laughed when he first had that tattoo done. Unfortunately for Wavey Davey, one of his underworld acquaintances did subsequently follow those instructions – to the letter. The police found him with his leg missing – and his head six feet away from the rest of his body. After that, I don’t think I gave Wavey Davey another thought for perhaps 40 years. Then one day I came back from the dentists. I’d had a crown replaced and – because of its size and position – the dentist had recommended gold. When I got home, I pointed out the crown to my wife – and laughed about how much it had cost. She was preparing a meal as we spoke and had a carving knife in her hand. “Interesting,” she said, absent-mindedly tapping the blade on the kitchen worktop. “If these banks keep failing,” she added, “at least I’ll know where to go if I ever need to raise some cash in a hurry.” It was then I remembered Wavey Davey.
Light verse + political & kids' stuff
by
Charles Christian
on Mon 22 Dec 2008 02:40 PM GMT
This is an unashamed trawl of rag-pieces from my archives – some of it is very old – some of it is not very good – some of it is painfully derivative – and some of it deserves to be forgotten – although with the political stuff, I remain firmly convinced that politics is one of those areas of life where a few good but subtle lines by a poet can do more to drive home a message than any series of TV documentaries or newspaper editorials. In fact looking through some of this material, I'm appalled to see some of the things I was writing about in 1991 (the folly of City financial institutions) is still a major problem 17 years later...
AN ODE TO REFORM “Here is my long awaited Bill,” Said the Lord Chancellor, dour Lord Mackay. “It will promote the legal skills, And for the Bar be a poke in the eye. “As legislation goes, It’s a very weighty matter. But I do not suppose, That will make my critics scatter. “Reform of the legal profession, Has already been hotly debated. And to avoid further dissension, All decisions are to me delegated. “So shed no further tears, For the loss of all your old liberty. And let there be no jeers, For rule by advisory committee.” Published in Solicitors Journal – 15 December 1989 ODE TO A RAM CACHE When choosing a new computer, At the start of a fresh decade, Buying Micro Channel from Big Blue, Could be the best thing you ever do. Unless you happen to think That a system called Eisa, Offers an architecture, That’s considerably nicer. And if OS 2, Could be good for you. Just think how Unix, Could help in a fix ? Published in Practical Computing – January 1990 CITY LIMERICK There was a young lady from Sark, Who thought buying shares was a lark. Then down went the Index, And out came the Kleenex, The poor girl had misjudged the Mark. Published in Accountancy Age – 22 November 1990 Shortlisted for The Teacher’s City Scribblers Awards 1990 MORE DISINFORMATION You are surely taking the piss, When you claim not to know of Diss. Perhaps you were thinking of Liss – Or is your geography amiss ? Published in Journalists Week – 15 March 1991 HESELTINE’S TASK Imposing their charge on the nation, The Tories had hoped for elation. But the protests, they grew, And soon everyone knew, That Poll Tax was just a damnation. Published in Local Government News – March 1991 THERE WAS NOTHING LIKE A DAME And it’s farewell to Lady Shirley Porter, Who started life the man from Tesco’s daughter. Once you had Westminster beneath your thumb, Though critics said your policies were dumb, Like selling cemeteries for just fifteen pence, You must have known it would cause great offence. So while you kept the poll tax down of late, You’ve clearly passed your Party’s sell by date. Published in Local Government News – April 1991 THE CROOKED COUNTIES So say goodbye to dull Cleveland, Welcome back pocket Rutland, Cheer the return of the Ridings – Hope these reforms bring good tidings. Heseltine’s changing the countryside, Next to go – Avon and Humberside, As counties devised by Redcliffe Maud, All go back on the drawing the board. Published in Local Government News – May 1991 WHAT SILLY BANKERS The councils thought it would help raise some cash, But the House of Lords their hopes did soon dash, Now they’re impaled on the Town Hall railings, All caught out by their own rate swaps failings. And the banks thought they had a wizard scheme, But the profits proved to be just a dream, This brush with County Hall left them reeling, When they saw their loss on rate swap dealing. Published in Local Government News – July 1991 THE VIEW FROM THE LIVER BUILDING Liverpool, city in the northern sun, Your political life seems so much fun. Liberal, Militant and Labour come and go, Yet the council still keeps running out of dough. The Mersey Beat and the Liverpool Tate, Even Michael Heseltine’s garden fete. All were very warmly praised in the press, But none of them helped solve your financial mess. Liverpool, old heart of the Merseyside, Your chances have all gone out with the tide. Now it looks as if the folk you call scouse, Must permanently dwell in the doghouse. Published in Local Government News – August 1991 HALF A CHEER FOR THE CITIZEN’S CHARTER Nearly eight hundred years after, King John signed the Magna Carta, John Major, to muffled laughter, Unveiled his Citizen’s Charter. But what’s the point of a league table, Or tenants charters for town halls, When councils are not even able, To budget for Poll Tax shortfalls ? Published in Local Government News – September 1991 GIMME SHELTER Where have all the council houses gone ? They have all been flogged off everyone. How much did privatisation make, Was the policy all a big mistake ? The private rental market lies stone dead, So we pay for bed and breakfasts instead. Now Shelter warns there is a housing gap, Says we must put cheap homes back on the map. Published in Local Government News – October 1991 LIVESTOCK IN MY LETTUCE Mushrooms are cheap we pick them in the woods for free. Hello? Is that a toadstool on the plate in front of me ? Those free-range eggs our neighbour gave us yesterday her gesture was sweet – but should they really smell this way ? Plump red tomatoes hand-picked fresh from the vine. Yuk! That’s not very nice – there’s a slug crawling over mine! Today, while we were having lunch a caterpillar crawled across my plate. He was looking for his brother who I think I just ate. That’s it! This rural lifestyle may have much in its favour but tonight we’re off to the takeaway – fast food’s got more flavour! BLACK TIES AT SUNSET Invited to a gala dinner in aid of Third World famine relief we won’t be getting any thinner pigging out on fresh salmon and beef Now for the pudding course and coffee as some dreary raffle prizes are drawn Too much to drink – then home by taxi Black-ties at sunset, red-eyes at dawn ROOTS Apple pie without cheese is like a kiss without a squeeze After 30 years of living in the South my Northern roots I still betray by the food I place within my mouth Published in Body & Soul anthology (United Press) 2005 Published in Poetic Reflections anthology (Anchor Books) 2005 DRIVETIME Is there a God up there in Heaven ? who cares for us drivers on our endless journeys all along the A47 Some kindly Deity among the stars who created Milton Keynes to justify us buying satellite navigation for our cars ? THE KAFFOON THAT KADDANCES IN THE DARK You’ve heard tales of the Aye-Aye, the Kinkajou the cute Koala and the fearsome Krocodidledoo But have you heard of the mysterious Kaffoon? The Kaffoon that kaddances in the dark With his pinky baldy belly and his feet ever so smelly The Kaffoon is the laziest beastie there ever did was Oh the Kaffoon, the Kaffoon that kaddances in the dark He sleeps all day and he sleeps all night Just getting him out of bed takes us all our might That’s the Kaffoon, the Kaffoon that kaddances in the dark With his big wet nose and his long pointy toes In between sleeps he likes nothing better than to doze Wake up Kaffoon, the Kaffoon that snoozes in the dark When his tea’s on the table, he stretches and yawns In case he just might be able, to work up an appetite Get up now fatty, you Kaffoon that kaddances in the dark His idea of exercise, is a five minute stroll in the park Then he’ll kaddash around in circles, chasing his ktail for a lark That’s you dafty boy, the Kaffoon that khowls at the Moon Kaffoon, Kaffool, Kaffooey or Kaffoodle We don’t know your breeding but you sure ain’t no poodle You’re our Kaffoon, the one and only Kaffoon that kaddances in the dark Published in Funny, Furry & Frightening (Anchor Books) 2005 Published in Animal Antics anthology (Anchor Books) 2006 DOWNTIME My email service will not download the internet link is fried there’s no signal on my PDA and my wireless modem’s died My cell phone battery has run flat the voicemail system won’t play back so I’m logging off from work today and I won’t be coming back ENDED BEFORE IT BEGAN Lacking inspiration and destination We had set out with no clear journey plan Not the best way to start any vacation. By train to Paris then on to Milan But a strike at the cross-channel ferry Sent that itinerary straight down the pan. We adjourned to a bar where she drank sherry “I may as well go back to work” she said with her smirk. It was not just this trip we were going to bury. “This fiasco” she added “is all your handiwork I’m not sure you will ever be forgiven.” So I waved goodbye and walked away into the murk. Later, driving my car alone along the A11, I realised there really was a God up there in Heaven. Published in Materials of the Mind anthology (Anchor Books) 2005 THE MOUSEY WITH THE LONGIEST TAIL IN THE WORLD “First it was a little, then it was a lottle It used to be scruffy, before turning fluffy I used to love cheese but now I prefer nuts that sway in the trees with the breeze,” said The Mouse The Mousey with the longiest tail in the world “He used to be small but now he’s growed tall Perhaps he’s a rat – or even a cat !” said all the other mice that night in the house the house that called itself the home of The Mouse The Mousey with the longiest tail in the world “You dafties, you dunces, you are such silly mouseys” Said Henry the Hedgehog in his green plaid trousers “That mouse you think special is really a squirrel !” And that is the end of my tale of The Mouse The Mousey with the longiest tail in the world Published in Whispered Voices anthology (Anchor Books) 2005 COULD YOU DISPLAY MY POSTER AS WELL ? Don’t you know who I am ? I’m that dreadful woman Whose braying voice disturbs you in public places And in supermarkets jumps the queue, right in front of you Then, during rush hour, turns up at railway stations To ask endless questions about obscure destinations. I’m so full of my own airs and graces As for other people’s feelings, I don’t give them a thought In fact I’ve just left my car in your parking space But I do hope I can still rely on your support In the forthcoming electoral race? Published in The Many Hues of Life anthology 2005 FRIENDS REUNITED Old flames reignited Dangerous liaisons invited Current partners slighted Divorce lawyers sighted EAR TODAY AND GONE TOMORROW As my Mum cuts my hair she says I’ll be glad to hear she’s taking lots of care not to cut off my ear If she cuts off my ear I’ll be glad if I can still hear ! GENERAL ELECTION 2005 So Maggie Thatcher had to take a foreign holiday Rather than watch the Tories in election disarray. If only she’d left the country in the 1980s British industry wouldn’t now be in the state it is. BENEATH THE TREE We squeeze the gifts beneath the tree To see if we can guess what lies within. Hard and heavy – this feels like a book to me That's a pity, I was hoping for a DVD. This one rattles when its shaken Must be chocolates unless I’m mistaken. Then a bottle – could be sherry That’ll keep the old aunties merry. Here’s a brolly, how very jolly Tightly wrapped in paper decorated with holly. And who sent me a pair of slippers? They’re about as welcome as week-old kippers. Never mind here comes the Christmas dinner Roast turkey and pudding is always a winner. Then we’ll all sit back with bulging belly And fall asleep in front of the telly. Published in Goodwill to all Men anthology (Anchor Books) 2006 AT THE DINNER PARTY We’re like moths flittering around your Chardonay fueled flame Listening to well-honed anecdotes we’ve all heard before – and will certainly hear again |
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