Miss Haversham or Jilted John, With no clue what’s been going on – That’s me. When the hero bursts into the church To win-back his one true love, Then I’m the one who’s always stood at the altar. I’m the one who’s left in the lurch, Whose only role is get the shove, As signalled by my name of Chester or Walter.
(Hiring the organist, ballroom, and tails – The invites and rings and the horse-drawn chaise, Flying my folks in from New South Wales, For untaken photos and uneaten canapés.)
Forever Paris or Rosalind, Who’s traded-in for the chisel-chinned – That’s me. The one who isn’t famous or pouty, I’m the beta who’s got no soul, The banker or techie or wonk who’s bland and nice. You’ll all have quite forgotten about me By the time the credits roll I’m just another shallow plot device.
(No getting-out of here for hours – Shaking their hands, and arranging their lifts, And someone still has to take-down the flowers, And cancel the band, and return all the gifts.)
Ariadne or Carl the shmuck, When told to hand-back all their luck – That’s me.
If you’re wondering about Carl, then the title of this poem might tip you off.
Alas, I have been unable to uncover the artist of this painting
Neoteny
Axolotls, axolotls, Uncorked from the strangest bottles – Ask a little, ask a lottl, I’ll explain it in a jottl. Giant tadpoles, stubbly legs, Just juviniles – yet still lay eggs – And having reproduced, each pup Shall cease all thought of growing-up. Their smiley mouths and baby faces Compensate for stymied stasis, (Never coming out as planned, And never walking on the land) – They’re salamanders who meander Never wanting to be grander. While most life is lived full-throttle, Time stands still for the axolotl – For whether it is dumb or clever, They make childhood last forever They quite refuse to lose their frills And put away their childish gills, They keep a fin upon their back And regrow any parts they lack – They do not blink at staying kids (Because they don’t develop lids). Yet with a shot of iodine They can achieve their tiger’d sheen, They can equip with tooth and lung – Yet living fast means dying young, While staying in their pond long-term Shall bring the everlasting worm. So golden, pink, or brown-with-mottles, That’s the facts on axolotls !
This poem is my attempt to write a bit like Ogden Nash. I’ve also addressed neoteny in insects over here.
The town where I grew up, Well, the nearest town I guess, Though still a dozen miles away – But I digress… It’s a pretty sleepy town That I left as quickly as I could, But in a funny way, I just Can’t quit for good. I’ve still got family living round, And school-friends I still see, So even though I left the town, It won’t leave me. Like when that sleepy town had raised A minor personality, A DJ with a surname that was known By the likes of me. Ah yes, I remembered That the same was borne by a kid at school – In my year, though I hardly knew him, Hardly spoke, as a rule. Nothing against him, but separate streams, A single mutual friend was all, And I hadn’t even seen him since, And could only just recall… Now he wasn’t the DJ (who was a she), But maybe his sister was…? My school-mates and family nodded, and set The rumour-mill a-buzz. Not that they knew him any better, But they do still live there, it’s true… And she’s only three or four years older, So maybe…? It’ll do. It was a tale for dinner parties, An anecdote around the club, Or for singing for our supper, Down the pub. So then, a decade after school, A short-term job and an idle boast When she came on the office radio As the lunchtime host. She must have just played Ace of Spades With stuff to give away, When a co-working Swede saw a chance To make my bragging pay – “My colleague went to school with your brother” Her email to the station read, “So can I have a ticket please For Motörhead ?” In half an hour, the DJ responded, “I have no brother by that name !” By email – not on the air, thank god – But all the same… Well, I was in the doghouse for a bit, Though no harm done – But then that surname came around again, And far less fun… A few years back, an incident Brought unexpected high renown, And all the national news in packs To that sleepy town. Strange to see its familiar face, The scrap of grass where we used to lark That the sombre bulletins insist On calling a ‘park’. Two names leapt out – one victim With a last-name of a teach I had, So of course I got to wondering, Was Sir his dad ? But the other…the other was a woman, A right-aged woman, a woman with a name. (She wasn’t the DJ, who went unmentioned, They clearly weren’t the same.) The grapevine rustled, the gossipers gabbed, With the same conclusion as before – I was wary, but I felt the weight Of local lore. My own connection, even if correct, Is incredibly slight It feels wrong to be probing it – Rather gruesome, certainly trite. But growing up in a sleepy town, There’s precious little going on – So ev’ry little chance at something more Is seized upon. And that kid, that brother, who won’t recall me, Now has a strange kind of fame – For I’m sure I’ll always remember him, Or at least, his name.
Exclamations ! Provocations ! Explanations of excitations ! Some would say they’re overused, I disagree. Some I note refuse of late To punctuate their poetry – Not me !
Word elations ! Ejaculations ! Indications of stimulations ! The Spanish use them twice as much ¡ Caramba ! But are they just a crutch, dead weight ? Let context state the mood and timbre – Let our poems dance the samba…
Celebrations. Expectations. Declarations without notations. They feel as if they’re lacking, now… Too calm and bland. They need to somehow demonstrate The extra fate at their command, And make a stand !
Yes, I remember Egbie Corner, A girl who made a strange kind of sense – Let me tell you, before oldtimers’ Robs me of my stream of conscience.
I hope my memories will pass mustard And wet your appetite for more, And not be spinning an old wise tale That’s just a damp squid of a prize pub boar.
But way back in the mist of things, When we never knew what’d come down the pipe, We were biting our time on tenderhooks In a doggie-dog world that was oven-ripe.
My hormones back then were rabbits in head-lice, Rebel-roused by mixing-my-toadstools fever, When news of Egbie spread like wildflowers – And I had to meet her to disbelieve her.
Cos she wouldn’t be taken for granite, She was no social leopard or escape goat – Yet to all intensive purposes, She squeezed-out logical sound from my throat.
It wasn’t as if she were scandally clad, But she stripped my tongue to its birthday suit The response she’d illicit was hardly her fault – But given her affect, the point is mute.
She had free range with her daring-do, Which left me boggled-down and run through the mangle. But cutting to the cheese – on the spurt of the moment That night we learned it takes two to tangle.
I’ve always been an early adopter, Picking-up the latest cold or spot, Then spreading it round by helicopter To fam’ly and colleagues, the whole poor lot. Always running ahead of the doctor, Bringing the buzz – if they want it or not. And just when the viral trend infects – That’s so last month, I’m on to the next.
Ev’rybody blames me for giving them hives, For breaching their unhip sterile zone. The slightest sniffle and out come the knives, But it ain’t my fault they’re frightened and alone – If they only led more varied lives They’d catch some int’resting strains of their own. Sure, this world is dirty and rife, But nobody’s ever immune to life.
I should point out that I wrote this piece years ago, and as the third line says it is talking about colds and such and nothing worse…
I remember Sunday afternoons And watching classic black-and-whites, Though not so much for giant apes, Or top hats, kanes, or men in tights – But all my fascination fell On the opening seconds-worth, Wond’ring at that giant mast, And where its feet made earth – Novaya Zemlya first, for one, And Svalbard, I concluded, next, Then Ellesmere Island for the third, But the last one had me vexed… There’s nothing there but shifting ice, Though far more then than left today – It’s just as well they’d long gone bust Before the ice gave way.
I heard you have a show needs stopping, Heard you have a house needs bringing down – I heard you have a shoe needs dropping, And a tin or paint that needs a town.
Huzzah ! Hurray ! Hear hear, I say ! Best don your heels, And roll up to my wheels – To login to your noggin, And toboggan through the boredom till it squeals !
I heard you have a boat needs rocking, Joint needs jumping, hell needs breaking loose – I heard your buster needs a blocking, And your gander’s sauce is lacking goose.
Tip-top, pall mall ! Chin-chin, old gal ! Come step inside, It’s really quite the ride – To doodle through your noodle, Till you’ve oodles-worth to keep you occupied !
I sit upon this rock to warn the sailors all to keep away, I even sing to them a warning sound – But guaranteed, there’s always some who cannot help but stray, Just to get a better gawp at what they’ve found. They could have sailed on by, as many do, onto a safer bay – Not got distracted till they ran aground. Yet once back in the tavern, you should hear the traps I lay ! It was never fault of theirs they nearly drowned !
A running bump along my arm Is memory that I was scarred – The grave to mark a childhood tear That now you’d scarcely know was there. I got it playing down the farm, Or maybe tripping in the yard – I must have hit the surface hard, But in the end did no real harm. A trophy I must always wear, A lesson learned, a minor scare – I smile to think how I am marred, And like to stroke it sometimes, like a charm.
It sits beside my first tattoo, That’s self-administered, indeed – A careless stab with ball-point pen, A funny-coloured freckle, then. It used to be a deeper blue, As if I’m of a noble breed – It must have hurt, but didn’t bleed, And now just sits there, still in view. I could not even tell you when, But certainly by age of ten. It can’t be scrubbed, it can’t be freed – I like to poke it sometimes, as y’do.
Rhyming Couplets 