Monday Poem: Christmas Vignettes

I was hoping for the twelve days of Christmas, but only got to nine. You'll be relieved to hear.

When I Believed

I

Father Christmases are a flurry of moments
that compact together to a single snowdrift memory,
as fresh and as deep.
It is not snowing, though, for Dad’s ritual,
pre-lunch, post present-frenzy and fry-up,
was to hose down the top yard, the middle yard
and the bottom yard: cleanliness being
next to godliness in the slaughterhouse,
and this was the godliest day of the year.
We never killed on Christmas Day,
even if it was a Sunday.
Eid came parlous close one year,
but the crescent moon waxed,
just before our star stopped.

II

From those credulous years, I can only remember
three sleigh-delivered presents,
and one of those my younger brother’s -
the shaking wrist doll who threw a dice
like a Vegas high roller;
for Robert could not but cheat at games,
else wail on losing.
The doll, like any good gambler, took losing in good part,
always came back for more, and never cottoned on
to the fact the dice was loaded.

III

My first, firmest remembered is Mousy,
and whilst I recall his arrival,
suspect the reason he nested in my mind
has more to do with my leaving him once
with Uncle Edwin in Abergavenny.
Yes, we left, three decks fully laden
Yes, we got a fair way home,
Yes, I screamed the cab down,
Yes, sheep, lorry and Dad turned round.
I think Mousy finally bought the farm in Knightsbridge,
sacrificed during a spree at The Scotch House,
and mother never so malleable.

IV

The last of the three, the typewriter that didn’t come:
I had dreamed its keys, my expertise, for a month.
Having descended to the present room,
Santa had been, but not, bad girl, for me.
Shock; horror; guilt; tantrum; tears,
until laughing parents made bigger brothers
take me back upstairs, to behind the curtains
of the half-way landing windowsill.
There sat the steel-grey typewriter,
waiting for me to strike it.
I think we specialised, at our house,
in cruelty as entertainment.

V

There was a year it did snow,
and after dark we were all out
skidding standing on tea trays.
Mum joined in. Mum fell.
Mum snapped her wrist.
Snow silence, then how we laughed,
and anyway, said Dad, look on the bright side
the hospital’s across the road.
Next day, she cooked Christmas dinner
for the usual twelve, for who else?

VI

My top bunk gave the bird’s eye view
of the junction of South Street and Oldchurch Rd,
and better, of Jock and Vi’s house,
which was our house, only they stayed there.
Jock slaughtered, Vi sold the station flowers,
both drank, neither washed much.
Most nights something came flying
out their door, followed by Jock,
or vice versa, for he was a little man.
One year a sideways-sloping Christmas tree
in the front window (they didn’t do curtains)
was secured at star height to the vacant rail
with a pair of tan tights, stretched out
so the gusset hung down.
I laughed because we all did,
but even I got the joke when Vi
ran the flashing lights along the tights as well.

VII

Rows at Christmas were the best all year,
a whole day in the house together,
the turkey tension palpable.
Were it not perfect, my father’s plate
would hit the ceiling, sometimes sticking,
dependent on gravy to bread sauce ratio,
for a whole minute; by which time
there was no table for it to land on,
for he had turned that over too.
We’d run, hide, I’d read aloud,
very loud, to Robert,
and by the time we got to bickering
one of the big boys had come to find us.
The table got righted, we got fed
on mis-matched plates, but best of all
the brussels could never be saved.

VIII

Come the evening, our ranks would swell
with drunk Uncles, Aunts and not-Aunts,
who would all be shepherded to that massive table,
and twenty of us sat for “Stop the Cab”,
the greatest card game ever invented.
We innocents always won,
yet I never wondered why,
so certain of my own superiority
and Robert’s ability to cheat.
The final hand of the night, stakes raised
from copper pennies to silver tanners,
and either he or I got three Kings,
shouted “Stop the Cab!”, and collected the pot.
I can’t recall what I enjoyed more as winner:
the chink of the money in my hands
or his uncomfortable wailing.

IX

Christmas gave you confidence back then
that no matter how bad things got
things would be as they always were.
But times change, and no one rows properly anymore.
We forgave each other easier in those days,
closer to Jesus, perhaps, than you might think.

Woody Things

Too many things, not enough hours at the moment, so as an act of charity my husband took me on a tree-break today, as the only two kinds I can recognise on my own are London Planes and Shoe-Trees.
The excursion was because I had read swiss's (?) post here, http://theswisslounge.blogspot.com/2009/12/tree-poems.html

which he derived from Colin Will's post here,

http://sunnydunny.wordpress.com/2009/12/10/the-trees-workshop/

I gave myself an hour and came up with these. My folklore tells me that elm was traditionally used to make coffins and that Christ's cross was made of aspen.

Before we go all poem, thanks to both Poetikat for her recent award to me, and to Wigeon for her not so recent one. Ladies, I am honoured; more anon.

Elm Hateth Man, and Waiteth

“Who lives in thee, elm tree?”
“No one,” cried the rooks,
“No one and nothing live in this tree,
Come closer, and see.”

“Who lives in thee, elm tree?”
“Spirits,” cried the rooks,
“Spirits departed live in this tree,
Come closer, and see.”

“Who lives in thee, elm tree?”
“You shall,” cried the rooks,
“You shall arrive to live in this tree,
Come closer, and see.”

“Who lives in thee, elm tree?”
No creature hailed me,
No creature spoke for my deadwood tree,
Save me, save me.

There is an Accursed Tree

At the death of a tree
the earth conspires
to cast a long shadow.

Sideways single aspen,
sucker root bred
was not one, but many.

Yet the grove is over,
sorrowful stand,
west winds found you out,

to leaf-murmur no more
heartwood remorse
at the holding of Christ.

International Poems in Shops #2

Hurrah! Work took me to town, town means shops, so here's my second go at International Poems In Shops Month (see Niamh B's blog, here, http://variouscushions.blogspot.com/ and scroll around a bit).
All a bit feminismo Kate Millett this time. I was a 70's adolescent.
Stuck with englynion for the first, but the form seems to make me vitriolic:

So a looser four lines for the second:


Full text:

I cannot recall a lesbian urge,
so why these crushes, this carried torch,
for Paloma, Lady Gaga, and that lanky red-head
from Florence and the Machine? Boy singers, you cannot hold a candle.

And yes, this time the poems remained in situ. I was a little worried about the first as it could be construed as incitement under English Law, but luckily (?) this was Scotland and my legal adviser assures me that, at worst, it would be a breach of the peace if the officer investigating was in a bad mood.

For more Poems In Shops antics, see Rachel's blog, here: http://crowd-pleasers.blogspot.com/2009/12/lightness.html

Take the Illustration Challenge #3

Once again, a marvellous illustration challenge from ArtSparker, here: http://artsparktheatre.blogspot.com/2009/11/challenge-3.html

Take this image and develop;

Not one the boys fancied, so I'm venturing out on my own with this one.

Monday Poem (and pictures)

Posting this now as early up tomorrow and a too big work day. The Christmas Fair this afternoon was great, particularly the Lady GaGa-on-stilts Christmas Fairy. Although thinking about it, Lady GaGa has probably appeared on stilts herself.

Busy working on a massive triptych of a poem "Meditations on Pain" (working title), inspired by the Penpont bestseller, 'Transcriptions from Old Dalgarnock Graveyard' . So in the meantime, here's a lot of pictures and not much poem.

A Clear Day

I walked awhile with death.

Today, glass shards glint

from the mud puddles;

wheel ruts, Lilliputian Andes.

The shadows are sharp and long

and brilliant white

and delight in frost.

There is a saltire sky

over the sandstone kirk:

I should like

one more day
such as this.

What does this mean?

I got this e-mail today. What does it mean and who else has had one?

"Hi,
I was curious what it would take to get a text link on your blog saying something like ³Tungsten Wedding Bands² or ³Tungsten Wedding Rings² with a hyperlink to our site (www.superiorweddingrings.com). We are a relatively new company and we are currently trying to improve our page ranking on Google. We operate on a small budget, and we would be more than willing to give you a tungsten ring from our site in exchange for a link. Let me know if this would be something that you would be interested in. Thanks for any help you can give us.
Thank You
Nick
Superior Wedding Rings"

I have checked, it's a real site. Does poor Nick know I don't have the blog-technique to link to anything?


Why couldn't Mercedes get in touch?

Now I'm off to a Christmas Fair! Yippee!

0% Guerrilla, 100% Monkey

Not one to shy away from any bandwagons going, I hopped onto Niamh's "International Put Your Poem In A Shop Month", details here;

http://variouscushions.blogspot.com/2009/11/another-monday-poem-in-preparation-for.html

A brief explanation from Niamh herself:

"Write a short poem - no more than 4 lines - decide if it goes with the fruit, the frozen food, the cleaning products, or maybe you're in a different kind of shop altogether. Place the poem, and get a pic, let me know about it and we'll do a grand list of all the links at the end of the "month". Poetry to the people!!"

At the same time I thought I could cunningly utilise Emerging Writer's plea for the Englynion, here;

http://emergingwriter.blogspot.com/2009/11/ever-tried-englynion.html

A brief explanation from the source:

"There are some variations but why not try the englyn cyrch. It's four seven-syllable lines of which lines one, two and four rhyme and the end of line three has an internal rhyme in line four:

_ _ _ _ _ _ a

_ _ _ _ _ _ a

_ _ _ _ _ _ b

_ _ _ b _ _ a "

So I wrote, and I placed. I have myself noticed the internal rhyme is in the wrong place.

Could I leave them? Of course not.

So what did I learn?

Do not place bitter little poems in shops where the owner knows your birthday and the middle names of your children, and where you know every other customer by sight, name and marital history.

So I lifted them and scarpered, and resolve to get my rhyme in the right place next time.