Monday 23 December 2013

Christmas Past

Madonna With the Milk Soup, 1510, Gerard David 
He remembers her;
she all proud and plump and pinafore(d),
she mythering and a-muttering
as porridge splattering and a-spluttering
simmers (like her temper) on the stove.

He watches from the door,
mouth drooling and tongue a-lolling
for the toast she is a-buttering,
nothing else mattering
but the grumble in his belly.

The kids are on the floor
pulling paper off their prezzies,
sucking satsumas found in stockings,
delirious with delight as *Magoo
(in black and white)
finds his way onto the telly.

This was the time! 
The beginning of The Day! 

He remembers her, he remembers then.  
And then she went away.

She ran off with anyone who’d take her,
tinker tailor butcher baker
and finally met her maker in the year of ’84. 
The kids are big shots in the city,
(who conveniently forgot him)
who selfish and rich rotten
never set a foot across his door.

So this day he sits alone
but by crikey he still misses her
and in these Christmas dreams he kisses her,
she all proud and plump and pinafore(d)
(in his dreams his toast she’s a-buttering)
and he hears himself a-muttering;
she’s the one that I adored.


Anna :o]

With thanks to Tess at The Mag for the inspiration – the Milk Soup (porridge) bit – not necessarily the image; also shared with the good folks at Poets United - thanks Mary.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all; have both – or else!

When I was a lass an essential part of Christmas was Mr Magoo - watch below and treat yourself!

Thursday 12 December 2013

Christmas Eve

My sis and I had attic rooms
and cold they were on winter’s night
and I was certain in that whispered gloom
hid bogeymen intent to do me harm
once I had lain my head
on cold feather-down yet hot water-bottled bed.

So the ritual:
heart in throat I looked in wardrobe first,
gingerly opening door then scanned the floor
neath wooden cot with metal springs
and then the most awful thing:
pull the curtains back check window ledge
that large enough could seat a man
and phew   phew
no-one there.

And so it was on Christmas Eve
envelope(d) betwixt the sheets
I lay in fitful sleep
dreaming the dream of Christmas Fare –
turkey (yum yum) and all the trimmings
plus the most important mushy peas –
and stockings brimming
with gold-wrapped chocolate coins
and satsumas tangerines –
and of course beneath the tree
wrapped treasures of Judy doll,
magic set, books,     sweets and smellies.

And so it was on Christmas morn
to celebrate the Christ Chikl born
we children came sleepily down the stairs
yet in excitement of the presents waiting there
beneath the tree, in room 
with blazing fire warming
even coldest nook and nose
pressed into Bunty book
how glad was I to be alive.

And I didn’t want to go to church…

Anna :o]

Gay at dVerse has us writing of ‘Hearth, Home and Common Speech.’  I attempted to write of my life now – but whatever I wrote, because of present circumstances appeared full of gloom – and my life is not like that.

So I decided to return to my childhood.

My parents hailed from Yorkshire and though having its accent were not broad Yorkshire, although did use some of its dialect.  Flower and luv are Yorkshire terms of endearment and I can remember having moved to colder climes, my dad calling the milkman luv…(dint go down very well.).  I too had a slight Yorkshire vernacular – dint=didn’t and cunt=couldn’t - the latter caused much amusement and sometimes offence…

I loved my parents so much and hope they have found their place in Heaven – if it exists.  Despite being brought up in a (non-oppressive) religious household – I hold no beliefs – never have, too much time in children’s wards as a child…  But I do love Christmas and the closeness it brings.

The rhyming thing is not false.  Although my mother never wrote poetry – most of the time (except for but sometimes including serious conversation) we would speak in rhyme – often with hilarious results.  Lovely lovely mother.

And so I offer the above as my contribution to the dVerse prompt and when doing so offer my heartfelt thanks to all at dVerse for making my life so much richer.  Merry Christmas to my friends there and look forward to joining in the fun in the coming New Year.

Kind regards
Anna :o] xxx

Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons– I couldn’t locate a Christmas(y) one

Sunday 8 December 2013

The Forester

Cherry Blossom (1905) John Reinhard Weguelin
a product of a poisoning
is unblemished fruit
         ripe for the picking.

He is hiding there,
hiding neath the woodpile
yet affords her a view of single eye;
he watches   waiting
waiting as she fills her basket,
fills it with the want of him,
he a fuel for her fire.

Oh how she longs for warmth,
she his unfeathered maiden,
maidens who too young to burn,
bleed and sizzle, spit in protest,
until engulfed,   they are consumed
in his awkward awful flame.

She waits   wide-eyed  
understands not what she sees.

A crisp December morning,
she clears the grate,
clears it for a new day
and he rises from the ashes.

He takes her there,
takes her in the cold of winter,
takes her there on winter’s table,
presses down and takes her there.

She bleeds but does not sizzle
spit in protest, rather succumbs
to warm breath warm hands,
takes comfort
from the closeness   rhythm of his body. 
(There is rhythm in belonging.)

She is fallen, fallen high from grace,
she falls as cherry blossom,
a pink confetti , a scattering
in a cemetery of childhood.

She is fallen yet somehow whole.

Anna :o]

Shared with the good folk at Poets United – thank you Mary,  and also at Open Link Night at dVerse hosted tonight by Joe - thanks to you too Joe.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Sunday 1 December 2013

Small Print

Look at the small print,
look at it just look at it. 
No need to read
between the lines,
it is there in black and white.

Addendum to diary entry:
I love him I love him I love him!

I am so tiny tiny tiny

Why can’t I think big?
Why can’t I say:
I love you I love you I love you.

I am so tiny tiny tiny.

Oh if only I could sprout
the wings of a bird
I would fly to him,
fly to him
and gather him in my skirts.

Say: See here,
look at the small print: 
I love him I love him I love him!

Instead:  I am tiny tiny tiny.

I have the wings of a moth
forever searching for the moon…

Anna :o]
With thanks to Tess at The Mag for her prompt (the image above is not that of the prompt.).  Also thanks are due to the commentator of a news item who stated: Look at the small print – and the above sprouted from the two.
Also entered at The Poetry Pantry – thanks Mary.

Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Photographer: Pierre Dalous