Attendant without portfolio

no angel's portion
in his cropped domain
a distant stare in darker stain

Assumption

French you are
avec rouge hair
a Celt I'd like to think.

Disilluusioned am I
parce que you say
it came from out the sink.

The subject here was a French 'assistant' teacher doing her placement and as I write limericks the following was for her parting.

There was a young teacher, Marie Laure
Who came from some foreign shore
To chattez in Franglais
And parlez en Anglais
Will she come back for some more?

By request, something lighter juxtaposed with the darker.

Toxic Parents

the thought of my father dead
hovers on its cold energy
a rememberance
no
a recollection
maybe
at arms length
it must not come close
too dangerous
you see

the thought of my mother dead
earths itself bonding
to a discharge of belief
negatives
need feeding
insulate
it must stay that way
too dangerous
you see

the thought of me dead
skulks close out of sight
in a corner of sadness
like failures at night
embraced with the dawn

it will not last
I’ll not be a victim
To things of the past.

Nonconformist

Last words

“If you need me……….

Pegged out
Permanently
Limp and wet
They hang
At face value
Shrinking
Still soiled
On the line
They will stay
Half forgotten
Unredeemed too long
To assess their worth

…………………….you know where I am.”


These are the 'critical office' words spoken in resignation when I last had contact with my father.

Carelessness - an explanation.

I often write in a style, not always deliberately, which allows for individual interpretation. Part of the power of the piece then comes from within the reader's experience, emotion and imagination and is often very different from its genesis.

This piece is about the loss of a father, mine, and though still alive somewhere, I had no contact. There is a tendency to blame yourself even if subconsciously, hence 'my carelessness’.

The references in the poem are specific to me and not obvious to the reader. For example, 'Towpath angel' refers to that early memory in 'Canal' and 'Critical Office' is to my father’s office where I had my last traumatic interview shortly after I was 21.

Many years ago I read 'Families and how to survive them' by John Cleese and Robin Skynner. From it I found that we instinctively form associations and friendships with those we have communality, however tenuous. It seems logical and it applies equally to those who are socially isolate and have little in common; they will cleave together. I realised that, of the few friends I had at the time, a good number were estranged from one parent or the other. I wrote this poem to explore this communality and in its original form the ending was different.

“Something between zero chance and common choice
My friends

Somewhat broken these glue free lives.”

So why did I change it? – I have moved on, my father is now dead, there was no reconciliation, and I do not think the communality is the same any more. I left a hint contained in the last line by the word ‘our’.

Kennet and Avon Canal

I can almost hear the 'put. put. put' of a narrow boat just round that distant bend and about to come into view.

Carelessness

Somewhere between towpath angel and critical office
I lost him

Sometime between sure infant and tenuous adult
He went

Somehow between simple holding and false dreams
He moved away

Someway between shared innocence and split accusations
He fell apart

Something lost among our glue free lives


I might say something about this one in my next post, your thoughts and comments are very welcome.

Complexity out of Simplicity

Llifting the mood

I have a pet amphibian
He really is a beauty
I like to call him 'Tiny'
Because he is my newty.

Humour exists even in dire circumstances.

You and me

No skin scars for me
Whip wheals of redness
Nor electrode burns

No need

I have the withering seed
Voiced deep in love
And fear that grows

Secretly.

I wrote this autobiographic poem many years ago when things were not good. At the time it was cathartic as I had few outlets for my emotional state. I decided to place it here as it resonates, great word which I must not use too often, with the 'Wheat Free Woman'.

I like to bring a degree of ambiguity into my work which allows the reader to engage with the poem, to bring themselves into its heart and to write sparsely where the power of each word and its setting is as significant as the subject.

Not quite a wheat free woman.

Couldn't resist this photo from the 'Scarecrow festival' at Bisterne.

The wheat free woman blues

I got out of bed this morning, as you do
Pushed the night from my head
Stumbled into the bathroom
Thinking about my bread.

God knows why?
Well, I do really.

The kettle is in the kitchen, naturally
Watching where I tread
Cat’s missed the dirt box
But it’s nothing to dread.

You do, you know
Get used to dealing with shit.

Drop a bag into the cup, English Breakfast
Then it caught me, what he said,
The smug bastard
“Woman, it’s doing you wrong
The things you’re getting fed,”

As if I don’t know already
And I have a fucking name,

“These grains have got your guts
Wheat from out the bread
Yeast’s fouled your reason
And you’ll take of to your bed.”

Yeah, and who is it
In the football season
Has all the sickies?

So I kicked him out
I’m not so easily led
Just what did I see in him?

I’m on the crisp ’n rye now
And no more crying eyes
All puffed and fucking red.
But, now my soul is mostly bled
Just don’t mess with me
Or you’ll be fucking dead,
So to speak.

Miss B web site

Do visit Miss B

http://www.wix.com/MelBennett/Miss%20B

Darkness slips and saturates

times like these

they say
there are no
words
at times like these
other than the
platitudes
we have learned
to smooth our
inadequacies

like fluttering bats at dawn
unspoken words return
unsettling to the mind
each with a space to find

and such words as
can be spoken
oft no justice brings
to common emotion
but with care
can be read
between the lines