:: The Wendy House ::

was I going to tell you something?

can you remind me what it was?

In a small Siena courtyard the walls mimic windows,

forgetting to mimic shutters or reflections. 

Silence and darkness within the windowless rooms.

Protecting the people within from too much colour,  too much light,  noises from neighbours and the street,  from the prying eyes of passersby. 

In the silent darkness occupants can float on siestas unseen, unknown.

Freedom to dream of the luxuries of everything and nothing

dusty dry cold rigid fox deftly holding a long-dead bird in yellowed teeth.

Rustic pane

‘run, run, as fast as you can,  you can’t catch me I’m the gingerbread man’ 

I have fond memories of this traditional story (fable?)  at home and primary school.  Recently, I found this little chap in the canteen at work,  a real treat on a hectic day.  He escaped the hungry keyboard,  computer,  and phone but was no match for foxy silver-haired me.

I’m sorry sir, 

we have just run out of subtlety, 

will a double dose of concise frankness do?

It’s 70% off.

currently catless

Some times…   the TALLEST boy I know,  your hugs promise to lift me heavenward.

Other times…   the grumpiest old crow, my words secure cruel slashes from your sword.

Often times…   the proficient fellow,  our conversation easily ignored.

* please see entry on August 4th for more details.

So, I need to complete a form to get one of those?

Where can I get the form?
Counter-signed by who?
Submitted where
Wait for a reply
Then will I have one of those?

Oh, I need equipment?
how do I know what equipment will work?
Will the reply tell me?
Do I have to get the reply from somewhere or will it come to me?
After I’ve picked up the equipment will I have one of those?

Another form, how many forms?
How will I find the forms?
I need approval?
Approval from who?
Approval given to who?
Approval before, after or on the form?
Another form?

I should just wait… …it will all happen after I’ve submitted the first form, things will just happen, I should just trust that submitting the first form will start the ball rolling and it will roll smoothly to my getting one of those…

But I can’t submit the first form until I’ve got one of those,
How do I get one of those,
So, I need to complete a form to get one of those…

Raymond’s Birthday Poem

If a fellow knits stuff and does it quite quick
and never once tangles the wool on his stick
would you say of the clatter and say of the click,
‘Well, he’s not knitting knots at a fair old lick’?

And if he trained head-lice to help with the job,
gave them little needles, paid them a few bob,
explained how to cast on and then later cast off,
would you believe in the nits now not knitting knots or would you just scoff?

But the smaller the fingers the finer the weave,
and employing such workers is great, I believe,
for creating new woollens with panache and far
greater strength than is found in the cheaper Kevlar.

Some folk find this mixture of factors spot on,
more crafty than denim, warmer than cotton,
a wide choice of sizes for men and for women,
but not really clothing one should try to swim in,

‘cause wool absorbs water and clogs and weighs down
and encourages wearers to submerge and drown
which isn’t the greatest of hobbies to take up:
it ruffles your hair and smudges your make-up,

and no one really wants to be looking their worst
when they’re dragged from the river and offered bratwurst
(which is how in Bavaria they check you’re alive
(or so I was told by a fellow called Clive)).

But this super-tough knitted material’s handy
away from the rivers, where it’s dry and dandy,
for protecting the wearer from bruises and bumps
and contusions and grazes and fractures and lumps,

say out on a bicycle, whizzing downhill,
with the wind in your hair, no trace of the chill
thanks to the weave that covers you up
as you weave around litter and pooh of the pup

that’s been left in the gutter along with road-kill
and yesterday’s paper and one espadrille
and cartons and bollards and packets of krill
split open and slimy and a rickety grill

that covers the sewer, well almost, not quite,
and in England the cars are all on your right,
hooting and braking and fucking about,
opening doors and letting kids out,

so thank God you’re in wool that’s been knitted by nits
and is doubly-woven on your private bits
‘cause a million things are waiting to do
harm to a person as lovely as you,

watch out for the stick that gets stuck in your spokes,
watch out for those tumbling stray artichokes,
watch out for the kid who runs after his ball,
watch out for the dog who runs after his ball too,

watch out for the dangers that you least expect,
the unlikely ones that will make you eject,
the uncanny, perverse, bizarre things that disturb
for instance, who’d think?, a guest starring kerb.

Thank goodness for wool, thank goodness for knitting,
thank goodness for not having grazes with grit in,
thank goodness for bikes that keep us all healthy,
and poets with patrons who are quietly wealthy.

A.F.Harrold

(PS publication of this poem does not in anyway coincide with Raymonds actual birthday,  which is,  one of natures mysteries)

Christmas day 1999

After christmas I found this note from my 6yr old niece tucked in the cover of a book I’d been reading.  It now marks a poem drawing parallels between life and staying on a hospital ward where we do not make our beds but we do lie in them by Roger McGough in his book “The way things are”. 

The note cleverly demonstrates that the word hasea hoase house, unlike home, is terribly tricky to spell.  Probably because there are three of those infamously tricky vowels conglomerating in ‘house’. 

not just slightly-inconveniently fatal

seriously fatal

not funny-ha-ha-fatal

seriously fatal

I’m glad we’ve cleared that one up

seriously glad

Scent of autumn arrived this week.  Rolling in through a bedroom window on fine morning mist to greet my emerging consciousness with cool fingers.  Welcome.

Auntie Wendy’s Aunty. 

Is preparing to die.
The thought makes me cry.
She knows how and why I love her
But I should double-check.  Just make sure.

Spring to our 20’s, 
Summer to our 40’s, 
Autumn to our 60’s.
Winter to our deaths.

Winter is in my elders house. 
Please wrap-up warm.
Take a scarf and hat.
Can I hold your hand?

Poem inspired by the photographed letter from mumzies sister, received the day before my brothers-daughter’s birthday.  My neice, my namesake on a day when I am thinking of Auntly things. A day when I am glad that I’d booked a full 2 week holiday in the UK covering Christmas to be both aunt and niece in the same day, in the same company, in the same room.  

I did not return to Britain for her brother’s funeral.  I wrote letters, a poem and promised myself that I would join the family this Christmas.

*part 2

*just a title and footnote

taking my life as I take my alcohol

uncloudy, straight, not on the rocks 

It’s unclear how I get mixed-up

where the clouds come from

The sunrise thrust an orange glow through the undressed window onto the freshly painted brilliant white bedroom walls.  A small, sparsely decorated, warm, dry first new home.  The bedroom empty,  save a matress upon which is scattered a duvet, pillows, sleepy him and I.  After unpublishable morning exercise two large mugs of tea joined us in the bedroom.

wendy:  this could be the most exquisite, happiest, moment of our whole lives.   it’s all downhill from here

him:  it’s not far down from a matress on the floor

wendy:  lets remember this morning for the rest of our lives…  

 him:  a little more exercise and another cuppa will help secure the memory

wendy: …mmmmmm….. (unpublishable)

beautiful and dangerous as the wind

drowned in its cuming

Mr. AFHarrold’s recent book contains hand drawn pictures of animals doing surrupticious animal things and real handwriting to explain thier naughty subversiveness in a child-friendly manner.  It’s also quite funny.  AFH has a talent for insight into the secret lives of furrifriends,  rhyming words and prompting a giggle.  But best of all,  for me, this book sneaked into my mailbox on a grimm drizzly evening and is making its way to my handbag for those emergency, on the road, poetry moments.

Arsenic and broomsticks.

This post might be deep and meaningful. It might not be.  This post maybe “PMT treatment #2″ mascerading as miss-spelt, miss-placed, confusionisim…   … a desperateness and peacefulness meeting in a moment,  shared..

and maybe knot

The man who lived in the bath
made waves with his belly laugh,
joyfully farted bubbles,
and lost track of his troubles.

Warm wet water caresses,
cleaning bodily messes,
and some self-massage, perhaps,
lured him to turn on the taps.

Drinking a liquid diet,
Reading books in the quiet.
Friends ceased to stop by, or call,
Soon, he saw no-one at all.

Wrinkles started the first day,
then, loose skin floated away.
Things started getting weird
when he just disappeared.

Scientists start to conject,
what really did happen next?
Did he just let himself go,
float over the overflow?

Forensic bathometry
helped to solve this mystery
beyond reasonable doubt.
We know he never got out.

Ph. unbalanced water
lead to untimely slaughter.
Bath residue, inspected,
Confirmed what we suspected.

Like bath salts roughly sprinkled
Soften skin tightly wrinkled.
The secret is resolved,
He actually dissolved!

Poem inspired by Mr. AFH’s prediliction, the many forensic TV programs broadcast on US TV and a really humbling experience at work.

I said something stupid.

Your motionless face sang disdain.

In search of conversation,  I ejaculated a purile triviality.

Your face wrote painful tolerance.

Unrescued by the facially generous conversational cavalry

my lack of small-talk and I would prefer to be alone, or,

in the company of cats.

Poem inspired by an evening of gawkiness in the company of strangers, following an evening of inarticulateness in the company of friends.  Its an accident.  It’s predictable.  Like a broken finger-nail or a drip from the spout of a teapot.  Conversational gawkiness.  It doesn’t end,  teenage-hood stalks you throughout your life.

My niece wrote this on her white board. 

The co-existing contradictions in her statement and action induced a bout of dizziness. 

I had to set-down my cup of tea lest I fall over. 

If her whiteboard had been a blackboard I may have anticipated and read the word ‘black’ instead of ‘blank’ and missed the subtle genious of her creation.

And there isn’t ANYTHING you can do about it  …he he he….ha ha ha…he he he….

how can you resist a hat

with its jaunty stylish flair?

Ecstatic manes tamed. Quite-flat.

hiding dull or      …unwashed…      hair.

Sunshine can not harm your skin

shaded ‘neath a dashing brim

reducing signs of agin’

by keeping the daylight dim

Wear it as a shower cap

parade it in the high street.

Stay together as you nap,

apart,     …you’ll be….     ….incomplete.

No more whiplash, yelping, shocks

in bed reaching for your Tea.

He didn’t rest ’pon your locks

they’re not sprawling knottily*

Nov. 2006.  2 verses and an attempt to rhyme is a major achievement for me. Yay!  Local friends and colleagues can testify to my persistent use of headgear in a crisis.  I do indeed wear them in the shower, the bath, at work, on boats, planes  and trains, while napping and occassionaly in bed.  Before I took to wearing a hat in bed my ex-fiancee would accidentaly lay on my hair causing my unanticipated whiplash style yelpings of pain. 

*for this poem knottily is pronounced to make it difficult to distinguish from ’naughtily’.

What little luxuries light your proverbial fires?

As a child I thought you peculiar, black hair, white skin, gawky behaviour.

Looking like the devil’s accountant, talking like a witty dissident.

Living alone?  Could you be gay?  It didn’t matter either way.

Antique bayonets, guns, swords, stamps, supplied your fun,

the Sunday Times shown your patience in our home.

Cryptic crossword skilled, five down quickly filled.

A place we’ll leave on Christmas eve, 

our lounge chair, you’re not there,

Goodbye Uncle

Vaughan

The inspiration for this poem should be self-evident.  Don’t worry, normal service will be ressumed after a brief bout of the traditional sadness-ranty-insomnia.

The people I’ve asked so far have said they have used poetry books as resources to:

• help make a speech entertaining at a wedding
• find poignant words to say at a funeral
• sharing a recognition,  reading a poem to my parents that reminds me of my brother
• I was asked to find a scarey poem to read at a Halloween party

What about you?  Yes, YOU! 

• what poem or verse have you used? (i.e. tell us the poet and poem)
• what made you start looking for this poem? (e.g. I had to make a speech and I’m not too good at that,  school homework, I needed to cheer myself up… etc)
• how did you find this poem? (e.g. browing in a library,  internet search,  recomendation from a friend, parents read it to you as a kiddy,  remembered from school, ex-lover sent it to you…  etc)

Example comment from my usage:

I am looking for a poem to send to my mother that will say something to comfort her while she arranges the things that are necessary when putting her brother to rest.  I haven’t found anything.  yet.  I’m looking through the books on my shelves.  My own words are shared, they feel insufficient.

please share your stories of seeking and finding (or not) poems as comments on this blog post  

he picks up a dusty glass sphere

is this really meant to be here?‘

it had rolled behind the lagoon

I lost it while cleaning in June

with her cuff she de-dusts the globe

this cunjurs a genie in robe

your wish is my very command!

suprised, the globe falls from her hand

could you tidy, clean, our home? 

No sooner said, then,  it’s done

Poem originally inspired by the opportunity to provide comment on a pre-published poetry book.  Started to illustrate that giving comment to a specialist is articulating what they already know.  The home-cleaner*  already knows the paperweight needs dusting and moving.  It is confirmation and direction.  The paperweight should be cleaned and placed in the sunlight where the glass will refract the light beautifully.  The paperweight that represents the known but unarticulated thing was a present from my recently deceased uncle.  Known yet undiscovered in death.  The broader theme is ‘lost’, people loose things.

The genie hijacked my imagination as a vehicle to express my dislike of my belief in the need to clean my own home.  Attempting to rhyme ‘home’ and ‘done’ may be easier with my accent than others.  I stretched and twisted the point and the vowell.  I particularly liked the surreal image of having a lagoon in your home and the thought that something could roll behind a lagoon to become mislaid.  Small point.  Amused me no-end.  Probably inspired by Monty Python’s ’Four Yorkshiremen’ sketch where one man claims he had to live in a lake.  My mother and her family were all from Yorkshire.

written on Remembrance Sunday - 11th November 2006

* apologies for gender stereotyping the home cleaner as a girl.  My excuse is that she is based on me.

it’s firework’s night in the UK,  401 years since the gunpowder plot.  Below is a rhyme topical to the time of the event.  Most contemporary English people know the first verse and if you say the first line out loud will join in for the second line.  According to Wikipedia the latter verses were gradually lost to shared memory due to lack of use through content offensive to catholics:

Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I see no reason why gunpowder treason
should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes,’twas his intent
to blow up the King and the Parliament.
Three score barrels of powder below,
Poor old England to overthrow:
By God’s providence he was catch’d
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, make the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!
Hip hip hoorah! 

A penny loaf to feed the Pope.
A farthing o’ cheese to choke him.
A pint of beer to rinse it down.
A faggot of sticks to burn him.
Burn him in a tub of tar.
Burn him like a blazing star.
Burn his body from his head.
Then we’ll say ol’ Pope is dead.
Hip hip hoorah!
Hip hip hoorah!

Bonfire night is an annual English event that, for me in the US, is emotionally replaced by July 4th (fireworks celebration) and US elections on November 7th. Today’s bang! started on the November 4th at a friend’s birthday party. 

Hoorah! 

(imagine a couple of Hip swings for good measure)

Fun and beer all around,  in mouths and beards.   Memories of fireworks from July 4th in the US that make me feel closer to the November 5th celebrations in the UK:

Even better, a present (US = gift) turned up in my post (US = mail).  It isn’t even my birthday.  It is,  however, close enough to call this a surprise Birthday present