Fiction

Dydd Dewi Sant Hapus

Dydd Dewi Sant Hapus!

Happy St. David’s Day

Spring in Wales.

Spring in Wales

               Spring in Wales comes very quickly.  Sometimes, if you blink twice, it has gone again. But usually, you take a step outside the door one morning and suddenly there are daffodils everywhere. And they all come so early, crowding together like party-goers, tossing their heads in the bright yellow sunshine, and the whole world green and yellow, like the round yellow eye of this first blackbird, whistling on the garage roof or on a branch of the apple tree which is suddenly covered with a warm green fuzz of threatening leaf …

               … all so early, I say, and the countryside yellow with daffodils by March the First, St. David’s Day, our Dewi Sant, and especially in the Castle Grounds and Blackweir gardens, where the daffs grow wild and cluster beneath the trees, like huge, enthusiastic, rugby crowds, clapping and waving at every passing moment, and all the leaves on all the trees are just starting to sprout and there’s a pale, watery sun, but the wind is still fresh with the daffodils all tossing their heads in sprightly dance …

               … and you can walk the dog in Blackweir Gardens without a winter coat and without your wellington boots, though it’s as well to wear thick socks and good, stout shoes, just in case there are still puddles and the autumn leaves that fell last year may still be wet and soggy and slippery after their winter out in the rain and snow and the Feeder Brook which used to feed the Old Castle Moat, drained now, and no longer a stock pond for trout and carp,  is running strongly and quite fast, all the way down from Taffs Well … and the gurgling weir is beside you as you walk, with the crunch of the gravel beneath your feet, the song birds starting to sing, the nesting birds pairing up and starting to nest, and always the daffodils, the Taffodils as they sometimes call them in Cardiff, Caer Dydd, as they write on the busses, with the river Taff flowing there, just above you, as you climb the embankment and the River Taff flows beneath you now, all black and swift and deep and swollen with the end of the winter rains … and the Taff cradles as it flows the finest of fine coal dust and carries it down to the sea … and the fish and eels are born eyeless, so the fishermen say, as they measure out the length of the whoppers that got away, because nothing can be seen in the River Taff when it’s as black as that … and in places you can walk on it, they say, it’s so laden with coal dust from the worked out seams of the nearby Rhondda, and what use are eyes in a river where the coal dust is impenetrable and the water’s like a dense black stew …

               … and spring is Easter and Easter is when the Barbarians Rugby Football Club make their annual Easter Tour of Wales and the southern part of Wales is rugby mad on Good Friday, and we have just been released from the prison camps of our schools for the Easter Holidays, and in our new found freedom we go to Penarth where the Sea-Siders, as we call them, play against the Baa-Baas, as we call them, and we park the car at the top of the hill near the centre of Penarth, and we walk and half run to the playing fields down at the bottom of the hill, squeeze ourselves like toothpaste, in through the gates, squeeze ourselves small in the gathering crowd and there they are, the mighty Barbarians, 14 internationals from England, Ireland, Scotland, and occasionally France or South Africa,  and standing firm against them, the men from Penarth, 15 average tiny Welshmen, perennial losers, doomed to their annual failure, but not today, as Bernie Templeman, “Slogger” to his friends and intimates, kicks a penalty and drops a goal, and the giants are shunted all round the park and almost off the scoreboard … and we shout ourselves hoarse and it’s Penarth 6 and the Barbarians 3 … and all that international strength and might vanishes, Goliath felled by David on a damp Good Friday night … in the spring time, in my childhood, in Wales …

               … and on Easter Saturday, we stay in Cardiff … and we have tickets for the stand where you don’t have to stand at all, but can actually sit in luxury … and my friend’s dad has a friend who has friends who have season tickets … but they have just won the football pools and they have left Wales and are travelling around the world on a cruise ship, and they have left us their tickets, their wonderful tickets in the stands, and we sit on the half way line and watch this magnificent game where they, the Barbarians, have fourteen internationals and a school boy who will one day be an international, but we have fifteen internationals because this is Cardiff … the best club side in the world … and this is the Capital of Wales … and we are playing at Cardiff Arms Park, at the ground where my father played and my grandfather before him, and we are watching history, and family history, and everyone who plays for Cardiff also plays eventually for Wales, and my father came here, like my grandfather, as a visitor, not part of the home team, and Swansea were the champions back then, not Cardiff, and my grandfather played for Swansea, way before the First World War, and my dad …

               …  well, I don’t know much about him and his rugby because he changed from rugby to soccer because my mother’s family, who all had English and Scottish blood, thought rugby was dangerous and they wanted him to play soccer, so he did, and he broke his ankle playing soccer and never played sports that well again, though he was a great sportsman, more than 6 foot tall, yet I take after my mother and I’m tiny like her, and “much better to have had a girl, with him as small as he is” some neighbours said and others said “Don’t worry; he’ll grow!” but I never did and so I became a runner not a rugger, but my father’s side of the family could never understand why I wasn’t out there, like my father and my grandfather and “A good little ‘un is just as good as a good big ‘un” they used to tell me, so I played occasionally, especially in the spring, and there they were, giants at six and seven foot tall, and there I was a dwarf, a pigmy, at five foot tall, and it’s lies they tell you sometimes, myths and lies, because five foot can never match six or seven in spite of everything they say about a good little ’un … but this is Cardiff and Cardiff always wins and win we do … and we all go home happy …

               … but on the morning of Easter Sunday we set  out for Swansea and the bungalow in Bishopston, where we will spend the night, and we have our knapsacks on our backs and in our knapsacks we have our sandwiches and our snack bars and our bathing trunks, and we’re all ready for that first Easter visit to the beach … and we catch the train at Cardiff General and go from Cardiff General to Swansea High Street, and when we’re in Swansea we run to the bus station and catch the next bus, the next brown and yellow Swan bus, and it takes us out along the Mumbles Road, and up the Mayals, and over Bishopston Common, which is still open land and not the least bit enclosed, and there are skylarks rising early in the morning, and cows, and ponies, and sheep, and sometimes they are found wandering on the road that crosses the common, but not today … and we leave the common and rush through the narrow lanes, at breakneck speed, and the trees lash the bus windows with their branches, inches from our faces, and we duck as the leaves smack the glass in front of us, even though we know the windows are there and the leaves can’t touch us … and at Pyle Corner, we leave the bus and it’s down through the lanes, and it’s out to the bungalow which hasn’t been opened yet, and we’re the first there, so it’s light a fire and warm the place up, and dry the mattresses, and get the damp out of the one bed we’ll sleep in, all of us, and then it’s down to the hard stone beach at Pwll Ddu, and we wander on the shore fully dressed and dare each other to swim as we wander across the pebbles and yes, we decide to do it, to strip, and the wind turns us blue and there’s nobody else there, just us, and it’s Easter Sunday, and the sea-gulls are daring us to take off all our clothes and bathe naked in the naked sea beneath a naked, cloudless sky …

               … and it’s not as warm as we remembered it from last year, and the wind whips our naked flesh and turns it blue and we run up and down trying to keep warm and then we plunge into the icy water and the water must be a degree or two warmer than the land, but it’s still cold in the water and even colder when we come out … and I remember now that my grandfather was a member of the Swansea Polar Bear Club and swam, each Christmas, in the docks at Swansea and also on new Year’s Day and he must have been mad, even if he did join a club of equal nut cases, ‘cos we’re freezing, I tell you, and this is Easter Sunday, not New Year’s Day, though the year is new enough for us and the cycle of the seasons is just beginning, and the old year ends with winter and the new year starts with Easter, and this ritual turning blue as though we were all daubed and tattooed with woad, and the annual, ritual dip lasts for about two seconds, two seconds of total immersion, like baptism, with your hair wet or it doesn’t count and “Watch out!” there’s someone coming down the cliff path and we’re no longer the only ones on this beach and we leap into each other’s clothes just to have something on when the others arrive, whoever they are, these neighbours, these nosy neighbours are … and “Skinny dipping. were you?” they say, “We’ll tell your ma, we will.” “You can’t she’s in Cardiff!” “Well we’ll tell your grandma then, she’s still in Swansea, I saw her at the market yesterday, and she’ll tan your backsides — should be ashamed of yourselves, bathing naked on Easter Sunday.”  “Aw, don’t tell gran; remember: you were young once!” “Yes! I was; but I didn’t run naked on the beach on Easter Sunday!” …

               … and it’s back to the bungalow with everything soon forgotten and the bungalow is warmer now, from the fire and the woodstove, and you know automatically where everything is, the oil lamps, and the wood fire stove, but there’s no electricity and we have forgotten to get water and unless we drink rainwater from the barrel it’s down to the end of the field, with its single tap that feeds and waters the whole field, 26 summer houses and only three of them occupied, two by people who live there all year round, and one by us, now, at Easter, and the neighbours drop in to see we are all right … and we talk and they help us to trim the wicks and set the lights and one of the neighbours comes in and helps us to make a pot of stew on the wood stove, a Welsh stew with potatoes, and cabbage, and onions, and carrots, and a bit of meat they lend us so we will not be tempted to use the piece of old dry smoked bacon left over from last summer, and hanging still from the rafters, out of reach of the mice and the rats who have taken back their empire and scuffle and scrimmage each night, like Barbarians, over the roof and through the walls … and we can hear them at midnight, as they travel the pathways they have built around us …


               … and we can also hear the cows, out in the field all night, as they rub their bodies up and down against the bungalow walls, and there are fresh cow pats where they have sought human company and the warmth of the fire because it’s cold at night even though it’s spring and when Monday dawns, first  it’s breakfast and Brandy Cove, where the beach has changed shape after the winter storms … and all the paths are slightly different, down from the cliffs to the sand, and we are not the first, for there are new paths and footprints and one of our neighbours is there in the cove with his canoe which he paddles all winter, every day, at full tide, in Brandy Cove at first, then out round the headlands to Caswell and Langland, Pwll Ddu and Three Cliffs and we don’t know now that one day he’ll go out on that tide, but he’ll never come back, and they’ll hold a funeral for him, but they’ll never bury him, because they’ll never find his body … and this year, again, he’s all sun tanned and brown and doesn’t look at all like one of us, we white skinned boys, with our sunless winter skins not yet exposed to wind and sand save for that one appearance yesterday that blued us as if we were dyed in woad,  as if we were ancient British warriors and the old Celtic Race was reborn in tattoo and blue … and fearsome we are, we warriors, we blue men, marching up Snowdon with our woad on, never minding if we’re rained or snowed on, and slap us on the chest and we are all bowmen they say, and the spring is here and the summer campaigns can be planned, but first, it’s back to the bungalow, finish up the food, clear everything away, make sure the fires are all out, lock all the doors, and off down the lane, we go to catch the bus back into town, the brown and yellow bus that was once driven by my great-grandfather, not in bus form, but he put a plank in the back of his truck and he gave people lifts, and this was the first informal transport system, ages and ages ago, long before the First World War, and everyone knew him and everyone knows me, but me I have left … and I don’t know anyone any more … but they all know all about me …
              
               … and we get off the bus at the Swansea Recreation Ground and we walk to St. Helen’s for the game, because today Swansea play the Barbarians and my uncle is there and he used to play for Swansea and he’s in his usual place … we know just where to find him … and we stand by him and talk to him and everyone is wearing something white today, because Swansea are the Swans when they play soccer and the All Whites when they play rugby and Cardiff play in Cambridge Blue and Black and I cannot remember the colours worn by Penarth, because we only go there once a year to watch them and nobody in the family ever played for them …

               … and Swansea is great because the stand is low and players can kick the ball over the stand and then the little boys, which is what we are in the eyes of the grown ups, though we think are big and tall and Celtic Warriors, quite capable of bathing at Pwll Ddu on Easter Sunday, with nothing on, which the grown ups would never think of doing, well, we little boys are told to run and get the balls which have been kicked over the grandstand out into the street where the Mumbles Railway still runs, right beside the Cline Valley Line, and all the traffic is stopped because the balls are rolling around and the boys are chasing them and whenever the grown men get tired of playing and need a breather, why, one of them kicks the ball over the pavilion roof and I can remember in the cricket season when a ball was hit over the pavilion roof and it landed in a coal truck that was passing on the railway line and it travelled all the way up to North Wales where it was discovered, lying on the coal, and the grown ups all said that we boys had stolen the ball, until it was discovered, a week later lying on the coal … and I can’t remember whether Swansea won or lost, but I think they won, because I don’t think the Barbarians won anything in Wales that year, and that night after the game it was back to High Street Station and back up to Cardiff General on the train, and the next day was Easter Tuesday ….

               …. and the holidays are almost over … but on Easter Tuesday, the Barbarians play Newport in Newport at Rodney Parade … and nobody in the family likes Newport, because the people from Newport are neither English nor Welsh and they change allegiance and go with whoever’s winning, England or Wales, and they move in and out of Wales, playing for England when the Welsh don’t want them and they can’t get a game with our team … and we don’t like that …  so nobody trusts them and you can see people from Newport playing on the English side, in white, with a red rose on their shirts … but Ken Jones wouldn’t do that … and he’s from Newport … and he’s fast, very fast, and he’s got an Olympic bronze medal for sprinting, and the crowd all sing the Skye Boat Song, except the words are different and  they sing “Speed, bonny boat, like Ken Jones on the wing, onward to score a try!”

               … and although we’re meant to support Ken Jones and the Newport team, we secretly support the Barbarians, but not too loudly, because there are some big, and I mean big, Newport supporters close by us, so we don’t make too much noise … and I can’t remember that game either because Rodney Parade isn’t very nice and nobody from my family would ever think of playing for them …

               … and Wales, as I remember it, was still very tribal … and people in Newport, Cas Newydd,  live on the border, and by the border, and we’re never sure which side of the border they’re fighting on, and that’s totally prejudiced and unfair, and politically incorrect … but that’s also tribal warfare, so there! … and it’s perfectly fair to support the Barbarians against Newport because in the folk lore, of that part of Wales, at that time, well, the people of Newport were Barbarians … and they didn’t know whether they were English or Welsh … and they were mixed breeds, mongrels, Heinz 57’s … and they kept the pubs open on Sundays too …

               … ah well, most of those things happened a long time ago and they’re all forgotten now, the rivalries, the family feuds, but some things you never forget … like Easter and the Barbarians Tour of Wales and the daffodils in the Castle Grounds and Roath Park in Spring and Blackweir Gardens … and suddenly, so suddenly, Easter Tuesday was over … and it was back to school … and the holidays were done … and Easter was done … and those are my memories of Spring … in Wales … where the blackbirds still whistle and sing on the garage roof … and all the world is yellow with gorse and sunshine and all those Taffodils …

Raven

Raven

When Raven flies through his trap door in the sky, a light bulb clicks off in my head and I fall into darkness. Is there some safety net before oblivion? Raven’s claws scar crow’s feet on a fingernail moon. His bleak black beak widens the hole in my head and the Easter egg of my skull shows thin blue cracks. Outside my window, the river moves backwards and forwards with the tide. Raven shrugs at cancerous creatures, promising nothing. He soars into clear skies in search of his private exit and extinguishes sun, moon, and stars, plunging our world into blackness. The light on the point picks out a heron, mobbed by a clacking ring of gulls. The sea mist wraps the real world tight in its cloak. Now sea and lighthouse, heron and gulls, are distant things of memory. Raven, shoulders hunched, stands like a stone, an anthracite block hacked out from the coal seam in my mind, hand carved from feathers and my forefathers’ blood.

Commentary:

I had forgotten all about this poem in prose. It comes from Fundy Lines, if I remember correctly. Photo credit (below) to one of my former students, an excellent poet herself, who took the trouble to locate the correct rock and then take a photo of book and rock together.


Moo thought his painting of a dark shape that looks a little bit like a bird of ill-omen would be just what this prose poem needed. Maybe he’s right. I trust him with his choice of paintings. Well, most of the time anyway. He can be a bit ‘off’ from time to time, but mostly we form a good team, especially where Surrealism is concerned.

I guess Raven formed part of my Surreal sequences. I really do enjoy Surrealism. The mixing of metaphors, for example, the unexpected meeting of a sewing machine with a carving knife and an umbrella on an operating table. And look what Raven’s up to. He discovers a trap door in the sky. Well, that would be very useful, if we had wings and could fly. Then he turns off the light bulb in my head. I didn’t even know I had one in there. I guess Raven, like coyote and zopilote is a bit of a Trickster. Next he changes into a woodpecker and widens the hole in my skull. Poor old me – avian trepanning – no wonder I have problems! My head becomes an Easter Egg and has cracks in it giving birth to what? Some mad ideas, I guess, pecking their way out into the wonderful world in which Moo and I live in perfect harmony with my beloved and our cat. And look at all those Welsh mining memories – lignite, house coal, steam coal, anthracite, jet – and remember, when the coal comes from the Rhondda down the Merthyr – Taff Vale line, I’ll be there.

It will be a long way from Canada to Taff’s Well. Maybe Raven will be kind and fly me there, through his Island View trap door that has direct access to the trap door just above Castell Coch, the Fairy Castle of my childhood. That would be faster, and easier, than my old two-wheeler Raleigh bicycle with it’s Sturmey-Archer three gear click on the handlebars. I bet Raven can fly faster than I can pedal. And if I could have pedaled as fast as Raven flies, downhill and uphill, I would have been King of the Mountains and an all time winner of the Tour de France. Now that would have been surrealistically surreal, seeing me as a cereal winner, with my snap, crackle, and pop! Not that my dad would have been happy. He never was happy with anything I did!

Cage of Flame

Cage of Flame

Now you are a river
flowing silver beneath the moon.
High tide in the salt marsh:
 your body fills with shadow and light.
 I dip my hands in dappled water.

Twin gulls, they float down stream,
then perch on an ice-floe
of half-remembered dreams.

Eagle with a broken wing,
why am I trapped in this cage of flame?
When I turn my feathers to the sun,
my back is striped
with the black and white
of a convict’s bars.

Awake, I lie anchored
by what pale visions
fluttering on the horizon?

White moths wing their snow
storm through the night.
A feathered shadow ghosts
fingers towards my face.
Butterflies stutter
against a shuttered window.

A candle flickers in the darkness
and maps in runes
the ruins of my heart. Eye of the peacock,
can you touch what I see
when my eyelids close for the night?

The black rock of the midnight sun
rolled up the sky.
Last night, the planet quivered
beneath my body
and I felt each footfall
a transient god.

When will I be released
from my daily bondage?

Commentary:

Moo reminded me that this poem also existed as a prose poem. here it is in prose layout. Think about it and let me know which version you prefer. Is one easier to read than the other? Do the rhythms come through more strongly in one version? Meanwhile, since he hasn’t painted a cage of flame, nor a river flowing silver, he suggested that if I really felt like the poem suggested I might feel like, then All Shook Up – with its warm, colorful flame images, might be just the poem to fit the crime. Better, he said than playing billiards on a cloth untrue, with a twisted cue, and elliptical billiard balls.

I wonder how many people recognize that little tip of the hat to the past glories of English Comic Opera? Since Canada post is on rotating strike – talk about twisted cues and elliptical billiard balls – then send your answers by highly trained snails (snail mail) or dog sled via whatever route still has enough snow for the huskies to haul on. Meanwhile, Ottawa has declared that the Maritime provinces are continuing with their suffering a buffering from lack of rain and severe drought. I do long for that river flowing silver, not to mention high tide in the salt marsh. We need water badly. And the sooner the better. Aquifers, rivers, wells, they all need filling.

Ah, the majestic game of cricket – and how I long for that summer test match curse – Rain Stopped Play. Or as the BBC commentator said on the radio one day – I heard him – “play has been stopped because of piddles on the putch – oh, sorry, I mean puddles on the pitch.” I wonder what Mr. Hugh Jarce would have thought of that. I know he always loved that old cricketing Chestnut – ‘The bowler’s Holding, the batsman’s Willey.” Unlike much wanted rain, it didn’t stop the match, but the commentators who perpetrated that jest laughed so much, the commentary stopped for nearly five minutes. Oh, the things one remembers as one gets old. Now, where did I put my glasses? I wonder if my beloved knows.

Cage of Flame

Now you are a river flowing silver beneath the moon. High tide in the salt marsh: your body fills with shadow and light. I dip my hands in dappled water. Twin gulls, they float down stream, then perch on an ice-floe of half-remembered dreams. Eagle with a broken wing, why am I trapped in this cage of flame? When I turn my feathers to the sun, my back is striped with the black and white of a convict’s bars. Awake, I lie anchored by what pale visions fluttering on the horizon? White moths wing their snow storm through the night. A feathered shadow ghosts fingers towards my face. Butterflies stutter against a shuttered window. A candle flickers in the darkness and map in runes the ruins of my heart. Eye of the peacock, can you touch what I see when my eyelids close for the night? The black rock of the midnight sun rolled up the sky. Last night, the planet quivered beneath my body and I felt each footfall of a transient god. When will I be released from my daily bondage?

Monkey Meets Pontius Parrot

Monkey Meets Pontius Parrot
(With glorious  memories of Macarronic Latin)

Pontius Parrot is very clever
and very pontifical.
“Pretty Polly!”
He pontificates from his pulpit.

His name isn’t Polly
and he doesn’t have a pulpit
but he parrots words
in Macaronic Latin:
“Caesar adsum jam forte.”

Pontius Parrot is perky at the podium
and bounces up and down,
preening himself self-consciously,
rattling his chains,
shaking his bars,  and speaking Latin:
“Brutus aderat.”

He is marked with shame and scandal.
A dysfunctional family of feathered friends
 has henpecked him until he is black and blue
and he has thrown up copiously:
 “Caesar sic in omnibus.”

He dips his wings in holy water,
calls for some soft soap, 
and washes his feathers and claws.

Poor Pontius Parrot,
he can only say “Repent!”
“Brutus sic in at.”

Commentary:

I asked Moo if he had ever painted a parrot, but he told me that he hadn’t. However, one of his favorite viewers, had once called this painting a pile of spaghetti wriggling in tomato sauce and he thought that spaghetti was close enough to macaroni for it to serve as a painting for Bony Macaroni Latin.

I had to explain to him what we mean when we say Macaronic Latin. Back to that boarding school and we used to invent all sorts of Macaronic Latin phrases. They used to cane us with bamboo canes. So here’s the verb paradigm in Latin for ‘to cane a student’. Bendo – whackere- ouchi – sorebum. Of course, it helps if you know what Latin verb paradigms look like. They are easy to remember and are aide memoires for the four main parts of the verb. Bendo – I bend over – first person singular, present tense – whackere – to whack or cane – infinitive – ouchi – I said ‘ouch’ – past tense – sorbum – the inevitable result – past participle.

Now, if we look at the italics in the poem we see a poem within a poem, and that smaller poem is written in Macaronic Latin.

“Caesar adsum jam forte.
Brutus aderat.
 Caesar sic in omnibus.
Brutus sic in at.“

Translation

Caesar had some jam for tea.
Brutus had a rat.
Caesar sick in omnibus.
Brutus sick in hat.

Oh never underestimate the ingenuity – linguistic and / or otherwise (and we won’t go into that one right now) – of the bored-to-tears Public Schoolboy. Especially if he is not destined to be a Perfect Prefect like Perfect Prefect Plod – who was never any good at Latin, if I remember well. Neither was I come to think of it. Horrible language, dead and reeks like the dead rat that Brutus ate.

As for the ‘repent’, well, usually, just before he beat you, the master doing the beating would enquire as to your health and ask you if you repented of your sins, crimes, bad language, being cheeky to Perfect Prefect Plod, or whatever else you had done (like smoking or holding a girl’s hand in public instead of a boy’s). You always said ‘yes, of course I do, sir,’ in the vain hope of avoiding a beating. But, bad luck, the cane descended anyway, ouchi was heard, and the victim retired to the bath room to examine his past participle, also known as his sorbum.

I bet you never imagined any of that. Wow! What a great lesson I have taught you today. Think about it all and think about it carefully. Now you know why Pink Floyd sang “We don’t need no education.” But what an education it was. And remember, the Duke of Wellington, Old Nosey, once said ‘my battles were won on the playing fields of the pubic schools of England.’ Oh dear – I hope I got that right. I fear there’s a letter missing somewhere.



Monkey Visitsthe Chimpanzees’ Tea Party

Monkey Visits
the Chimpanzees’ Tea Party

Dressed to the nines in their gala outfits,
they have come here for the tea party.
Hairy penguins, they waddle back
and forth across the temple,
then lunge for a table with its jumbo shrimp,
smoked salmon, scallops, baked oysters.

Faces slashed from ear to ear
by enormous grins,
“Food’s free!” they say
and stuff themselves
regardless of the consequences.

Serviettes tucked into collars,
they scoff lobster and crab.
Birds of Paradise, subtle delicacies
flown in from half a world away,
decorate the tables.

There is something about them, though,
these chimpanzees,
gripping cup handles
between finger and thumb,
enormously pleased to be the centre of attention,
however clumsily they walk,
in their hired-for-the-occasion,
ill-fitting, black and white penguin suits.

Commentary:

Moo apologizes. He hasn’t painted any chimpanzees, but a long time ago (2018) he drew and colored this cartoon. Pink and Purple Penguin Parade with Grand Marshall, Princess Squiffy. You can just see the end of Princess Squiffy’s tail as she vanishes out of the cartoon, encouraging the Pink and Purple Penguins to follow behind her behind. Oh the joys of leading the parade. Not everybody wants to do it though, many are content not to lead, but just to follow. Perhaps we should have called our cat MacNamara. After all, he was the leader of the band. But I don’t think Princess Squiffy would rather be anything other than what she is – a princess.

This poem, from Monkey Temple (of course / wrth gwrs) reminds me of Parents’ Day at my Boarding School. After several weeks of scarcely edible food, the tide would suddenly turn. Thursday, prime rib roast beef for supper. Friday, roast chicken with all the trimmings. When our parents arrived on the Saturday, all we could talk about was the wonderful food we had been eating for the last two days. Cunning, eh? We all had to dress up for Parents’ Day. Sunday starched collars, collar studs and all, and nice clean Sunday School ties.

Tea on the lawns in summer – unforgettable. A marquee, in case it rained, but otherwise tables laden down with a variety of skillfully cut sandwiches, little triangles, with no crusts, followed by endless helpings of strawberries and cream. The boys served their parents, fleeting back and forth to full the rapidly emptying plates. One boys father, I won’t say whose, devoured 12 bowls of strawberries and cream before the headmaster call the son over and begged him to beg his father not to eat all the strawberries and cream as some other parents’ would like some also.

Griffin Hunting – not a typical public school sport but one in which my school most certainly indulged. Our school symbol – a griffin – woven with gold thread on a dark blue background symbolized for the younger boys the perfection of the Prefects. To Hunt a Griffin was to behave in such a way as to attract the attention of older boys (already Perfect Prefects) and the school masters so that one became a candidate to climb the ladder and become a candidate for Griffin-hood. Some of us, myself included, preferred the anonymity of Robin Hood and were happy in our chosen roles of outlaws in Sherwood Forest and agents provocateurs and anarchists. Not for us the gentle counting of innumerable sheep. We chose rather the perils of after-dark transistor radios and the joys of Radio Luxemburg.

I remember being caught out of bed one night, on my knees, in a corner of the dormitory. All the dorm occupants were squealing and making a terrible noise. This attracted the attention of Perfect Prefect Plod – and in he came, threw the door open, and switched on the light. “You!” he pointed at me. “What do you think you are doing, out of bed?” “I am catching a mouse, Prefect Plod,” I replied. “You are a nasty little liar,” said Prefect Plod. “There are no mice in our nice clean house.” “Oh yes there are,” I replied, and I showed him the little mouse that I had cradled in my hands. “Give that to me,” ordered Prefect Plod. So I did. And the mouse took an instant dislike to him and immediately sunk its sharp little teeth into his thumb. I remember Prefect Plod running out of the dorm screaming “Matron! Matron!” and the little rodent swinging back and forth and hanging grimly on.

Those boarding school days ended 63 years ago. Hard to believe, really, but I still have such vivid memories of them. And of the Perfect Prefects, gripping cup handles between finger and thumb, enormously pleased to be the centre of attention on Parents’ Day, however clumsily they walked, in their spruced up for the occasion, Sunday Suits and Shirts, with their Golden Griffin ties. I always think of the Chimpanzees’ Tea Party when I think of the special performances of that little lot ‘for a Prefect’s lot is not a nappy one, nappy one.’

How do you waste the most time every day?

Daily writing prompt
How do you waste the most time every day?
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How do you waste the most time every day?

Answering stupid questions like these – now that would be a great response. But there are other ways to waste time – like mousing around on the computer – some call it surfing, which sounds like fun – but acting like a mouse that’s chasing its own tail / tale, well, that is most surely a waste of time. Playing verbal cat and mouse games is a good way to go too.

Most devilish of all, sitting in a car, beside a lollipop person, who has just stepped out and stopped you from joining the car, ten yards ahead of you, that is now the last car in the latest convoy to be held up, while you are now the first car waiting to go next time. You sit, and sit, and wait.

Then – INSPIRATION – I turn my disc player on and lo and behold – Pete Seeger sings The Abraham Lincoln Brigade, from the Spanish Civil War. What’s special about that, you ask? Well, how about the chorus? – “No pasara’n! No pasara’n!” / “They shall not pass! They shall not pass!” sang the Abe Lincoln Brigade as the battle for Madrid thundered on. I open the car window, turn up the volume, bellowing it out loud while waiting to count the cars coming from the opposite direction.

It was a very long wait. And then the first of 109 cars, trucks, and various other vehicles appeared. Bored now with The Abraham Lincoln Brigade, I changed quickly to Viva la Quinta Brigada, kept the volume up high and “No Pasara’n! The pledge that made them fight” rang out as the official truck with its magic sign “Follow me!” crept up in front of me, turned, and started to crawl, snail mail style, down almost two kilometres of highway at 10 KPH.

When we got to the end of the road works, he turned into someone’s driveway, and I, and the next two cars behind me, followed him. I learned a few choice words to add to my vocabulary – “Like WTF do you think you are doing?” “It says follow me! on your truck.” I replied. ” I just did.” And off he went again on a long, four letter rant. Then, on foot, he stood in front of the convoy that had stalled anyway, now having nobody to follow, and guided his three black sheep out onto the road that led to freedom.

Well, that was an adventure and an absolutely total waste of time. As the court case will be, when I appear before the magistrate next week. Believe you me, if you believe all this, you would believe anything. And, congratulations, you have just successfully wasted another five minutes of your precious time and I have wasted ten of mine writing this piece.

Boxing Day

They’re not Boxing Gloves – but they could be. Photo by my friend Geoff Slater.

Boxing Day


            By the time I get up, the gloves are really off and the sparring has begun in earnest. I hear angry, raised voices, walk downstairs to the kitchen, and a hush falls on the room. Knife-edge glances slice their menacing ways through the thickening atmosphere.
            Time for boxing: on my left, in the blue corner, my mother, smoking what is probably her second packet of the day. A thin haze of grey smoke escapes from her bruised lips and a cloud of exhaled fumes crowns her head with a murky halo. On my right, in the red corner, my father. White-faced, hungover yet again, truly into the spirits of Christmas. He breathes heavily, like a Boxer Dog in the mid-summer dog-days, snoring and snorting at a bitch in heat. In the middle, my grandfather, the referee. He is keeping the combatants apart, creating a tiny breathing space so the true Spirit of Christmas can disentangle itself from those false Christmas Spirits and bring peace to earth again for at least sixty seconds between each round.
            I look around the heaving, seething, threshing silence of a room where conversation has suddenly ceased. The fire is burning merrily. Beside it, tongs, poker, and small shovel stand to attention. On the hearthstone, the little red brush, with its long handle lies in ambush. This is what my father uses to beat me when he can’t be bothered to take off his leather belt. Scorch marks from the hot coal fire sear the handle and back of the little red brush. I threw it on the fire one day, hoping to see the end of it. Of course, it was rescued from the flames, resurrected, and I got beaten for that act of rebellion too.
            “It’s all your fault!” My father breaks the silence, pointing at me. His red-rimmed eyes blazing with a sudden and renewed anger. He starts to rise, but my grandfather steps between us.
            “Go and see your granny,” grandpa tells me. “She’s in the kitchen. Go now!” He points to the kitchen door.
            I run a gauntlet of staring eyes and go to my gran. As I shut the door behind me, voices rise higher in the room I have just left. Boxing Day, indeed. The gloves are off. The battle has begun again. My grandfather has evacuated me from no-boy’s-land and, for a moment, I am no longer trapped in the mud-filled, cratered, shell-holes between the trenches, the uncut barbed-wire barriers, the poached-egg eyes peering through periscopes and spying on me from the parental and priestly parapets above the wooden duck-boards that line the floor on the far side of the room and keep the enemies’ feet clear of mud and water.

Lolly Lady

Lolly Lady

I guess if she were a boy she’d be a Lolly Laddy, or a Loblolly Laddy, depending on the circumstances. Did this one at 4:00 am when I was non compus mentis, whatever that means at that time of the morning. Just trying to keep from falling downstairs, I guess. I love the colors: violet for tranquility, red for strength and energy, yellow for clarity, and blue for feeling blue at that time of the morning.

I suppose, if I were Rimbaud, I would be able to write letters instead of colors. Alas, now I no longer know where to hang these things: I am running out of wall space. And frames. And nails. “A nail, a nail, my kingdom for a nail”… Richard III aka the Hunchback of Loblolly Alley. Mind you, I think his nail was detached from the shoe that fell from his horse. “To lose one horse is a tragedy. To lose two is careless.” Oscar Wilde on parenting.

I love the sparkles though. We have several sparklers and we keep them for the sad times when the world needs brightening, as it does all too often nowadays. The seasons roll on. The year is trickling by. I have decided to sleep under my duvet. It is certainly warm under there and the Teddy Bears really appreciate it. They want to hibernate, but I refuse to let them. If I let them hibernate the cat will be up on the bed, and we can’t have that, can we? Not me, and definitely not the bears. And here’s why not: Teddies or Cats? Click and you’ll find the answer. Or maybe you won’t. So try clicking here: Teddy Bears FFS. Oh dear, I think there’s a typo there: a Teddy Bear Typo. Never mind. I am sure you won’t mind.

I wouldn’t go down to the woods today, if I were you. And I think you know why! You shouldn’t go alone, either. But if you venture out, think twice about taking your teddies. They might run away to join the picnic and leave you all alone with the Night Bumps, the acorn throwers, the wild folk, and the Wood Chuck wood-chuckers.

Winking Night Bump

Winking Night Bump

If you have been following my blog for any length of time, you will know all about Night Bumps. Blueberry certainly knows all about them as we found out in Blueberry and the Night Bumps https://rogermoorepoet.com/2020/06/30/blueberry-and-the-night-bumps/

However, not all Night Bumps are nasty and this is a baby Winking Night Bump caught by the camera, or was it the paint brush, in the act of winking. I’d have written ‘red-handed’ but not all Night Bumps have hands. Some are just wormy squirmy wrigglers. And they can be the worst.

This isn’t what he really looks like, or is it a she? I cannot tell the difference. Well, not until they bump and grind anyway. Then they are like dentists’ drills. Sharp ones, blunt ones. Keeps you awake all night, they does, just thinking about ’em.

I don’t know what happened to the photo of the painting. But we all knows all about that too, don’t we, oh faithful followers of this faithless blog that sometimes arrives and sometimes doesn’t. Oh dear. Just look what happens when you look into the sunset. https://rogermoorepoet.com/2021/10/08/into-the-sunset/ It gets all distorted. Maybe I’ll have to have another go with the camera. A camera, a camera, my Night Bump for a camera. Or should that be ‘a camera for my Night Bump’.

Oh dear. This is getting out of hand. I’d better call for Blueberry. Oh, I forgot. He’s having his Sunday Siesta. No Nasty Night Bumps in action on a Sunday Afternoon, even if it is raining.

Now that’s a bit different. Well, shiver me timbers. And I bet I can do better than that. “Pieces of silver! Pieces of eight!” And all hands to the Naval Volunteer. Ship-shape and Bristol Fashion down on the docks that are no longer docks, not down by St. Mary’s on the Quay. “Aye aye, skipper.” And look out for that black patch. Whisky is the life of man. But rum rules at the Admiral Benbow. And everyone must eventually pay on the nails. Unless they gets dispensation from the Green ‘Un on a Satterday Nite. But watch out for those wheelbarrows tumbling down Christmas Steps during Rag Week. And thee must bist recall: it’s never safe in this aerial, especially under a tiny little ‘aat that like.