Tag Archives: memory

Valediction

Home, Poems 13/04/2013 Comments: 3

Screen Shot 2013-04-13 at 19.28.33

A poem in response to today’s prompt by Jo Bell.

It’s probably not what she had in mind. Probably not what I had in mind when I started out either, but these things (poems) sometimes have a life of their own…

Follow Jo on twitter/facebook if you’d like to join in.

.

Valediction
.
 
I care not one jot
that you’re gone from this world,
flame snuffed out,
frayed wick caught in a spittled pinch.
My night will be not one watt darker––
your light never shone on me.
.
To think, my friend, I pitied you
the stretch-marked thighs,
the cellulite,
the meals for one,
the shallow mind,
before I knew where you’d set your sights.
.
Yet still there are times
when I think of you, with him,
travelling to places I’d longed to see,
the rooms with balconies, the stolen hours,
the diamond ring
too large for me.
.
.
 
 
 

1972… Fashion was…

Diary, Home 08/03/2013 Comments: 5

Why did I, or anyone, ever question that I would be a fashion designer?Scan

Scan 3

Scan 5

Scan 6

Scan 7

Scan 9

Scan 11

Scan 13

Scan 15

 

 

 

Found when clearing out my parents stuff

 

With you near (edit)

Poems 28/01/2013 Comments: 6

Jo Pic

This photograph reminds me

of a time when you were here,

oh, such a lot.

I see behind that look.

~

We were there with father

and we were there with mother.

It was painful work.

~

Not a happy time,

but better with you near

and now you’re not

I wish you were.

~

1st January 2013

Diary, Poems 01/01/2013 Leave a comment

Happy New Year Everyone!

dungarees

Dungarees

 

Come on Eileen. Come on. Come on Eileen…

Dexy’s Midnight Runners are number one

and the world’s wearing denim dungarees

with one nonchalant strap hanging down –

I roll mine at the cuff, show off school-black

plimmies. Although challenged morphically,

possessing neither the height nor the stomach,

you buy some too. (Unadvisedly)

I call you My Blue Cannonball – you sulk

for a week. I get my hair permed – you get

your own back, telling your flat mates I look

like Bette Midler, which isn’t a compliment.

If today could be seen with tomorrow’s

wise-eyes would we ever wear dungarees?

Newarke Houses Museum, Leicester, 2012

Poems 08/08/2012 Leave a comment

Newarke Houses Museum, Leicester, August 2012

I remember Granny Lun’s parlour, the dry smell of dust
the interminable silence but for the
slow               tick                       tock
of the clock on the massive mahogany fireplace
maroon sofa facing it, arms and back
dressed in yellowing guipure-trimmed anti-macassars
lumpy cushions horse-hair stuffed
rough against the backs of bare legs
us in summer dresses three monkeys
trying not to squirm
ignoring the temptation
to          poke           restless           fingers           through
      the           holes                 in                 the        lace
mum’s worried face reminding us
                                                     On your best behaviour, girls!
the command drummed into us all the way there
or was it a prayer?
~~~
We called her Granny Lun because she lived in London
and of the two she was the one who required a suffix
Feeling the mix of spite and disdain
when she shook our hands and we winced with the squeeze
withering under her pale blue gaze
fearful even then
held in her thrall as she kept us all                       in our place
and I remember how we ran riot
                                                     giggling
                                                                       hysterical on our release

Talkin Tarn

Poems 29/12/2011 Comments: 10

Another seasonal and previously published offering… I remember both the evenings that inspired this poem quite intensely at this time of year; two very special times separated by almost thirty years.

Talkin Tarn is a small lake in the Cumbrian Fells where I grew up and in the coldest of Winters it would freeze over…

 

Talkin Tarn

Stumbling forth much cider-addled

swaddling-wrapped in Christmas cheer,

festive tunes beat marching rhythms

sung by luteous fuzz-blurred moon.

Light our tallow-faced meanderings.

Light our way to Talkin Tarn.

 

Hill-top guardians, black-limbed stanchions,

iron giants, arms outstretched,

spitting fizz, bright brittle crackling

arcs electric, purple hiss.

Walk the line of skeletal monsters.

Walk the line to Talkin Tarn.

 

Snow lined hollow, sleepy sheep all

fallow-buff like sugar lumps

fuddle thrown, sweet huddle-muddled

piled in china, white as bone.

Trudge our way in caravan.

Trudge our way to Talkin Tarn.

 

Bristled tines, pine scented arbour

succours snowy lunate shore,

underboot, soft-footed needlings;

seriatim rendered mute.

See the glistery icy vista,

see the mystery. Talkin Tarn.

 

Moon-loon madness overtaking,

dancing arm-linked can-can craic,

thwacking echo, snap-snap bull-whip

ricochet deep down below.

Risk life’s brittle carapace.

Risk the kiss of Talkin Tarn.

%d bloggers like this: