Linking back to ‘The Poetry Bus’ driven this week by The Bug

For the Poetry Bus, driven this week by Pure Fiction, the prompt being to write about ‘transformation’. I went for momentous rather than simple.

This week’s prompt on the Poetry Bus is to write about school. When I lay thinking about it last night I thought about just keeping my head down so as to avoid the temptation to make sarcastic comments about the nostalgic sentimental claptrap that is likely to be spouted by growups who’s memories have glossed over the harsh reality and think back to it as a time of freedom before the evils of wage labour. But the anger I continue to feel at the destruction of my daughter’s self-confidence and esteem during her time in school brought me back to the day she was allowed to leave (you can pop back here to one of my early Poetry Bus efforts to see how angry). We had just got back from spending £42 at the ‘uniform event’ because the new Head had decided to stamp her mark on the place by going back to the 1950′s, complete with blazers, ties, those knitted jumpers with the stripy trim … and knee length skirts.

An extra three inches of skirt

An extra three inches of skirt

will make us all better learners,

will increase our sense of belonging,

will be more ladylike, modest and demure.

Do that tie up

Tuck that shirt in

You’ll never pass your exams

dressed like that.

Go now

and remove that makeup,

we all know it hampers learning.

Take off

that badge

that necklace

that headscarf

You’re not here

to express your personality.

Cut your hair

Grow your hair

You can’t come in here

with hair like that

it’s provocative

and distracting to your classmates.

You are not here to make you mark

but to learn what’s what.

Homogeneity is the order of the day.

Those extra three inches of skirt

are so you know who’s in charge.

(My only consolation is that the kids still resist … I love to see the girls at the bus stop in their too short skirts, like two fingers to the system.) (And oh yes, my son was removed from class for shaving his head!)

she tucks her capacious handbag between her feet

an umbrella and walking stick added encumbrances

beneath the tiny table.

She arranges the contents of her tray with precision:

scone first, sliced and meagerly buttered,

tea in the pot stirred then poured

the ritual neat and meticulous.

She drinks and eats, and nothing more,

no purchases to peruse

nor interest in her fellow patrons,

unremarkable and inoffensive,

but strangely out of place

amongst the affluent shoppers

with their beige linen jackets and

ostentatious jewellery.

She is still there as we leave

finished but sitting,

£3.50,

the price of a seat in the warm and dry.

Stop all the clocks, shut off that incessant din

deliberately jarring to the dormant nerves,

like an infant’s urgent cry,

and dragging from the depths of sleep

reluctant slaves to time.

Curse the man who came up with the notion

that we should abandon natural rhythms

of waking when rested and sleeping when tired,

but instead be bound to mechanical devices

that count and dictate

our comings and goings

our ups and downs

our eatings and sleeping.

Curse that luminescent green

flashing from the corner in the dark

demanding your attention

smugly judging you for the dissipation of your life

as you try in vain

to cling to the vestiges of that haven

sleep.

we stand

all of us

cups of tea in hand

chatting in the yard

waiting for the second van

telling bad jokes

sometimes they kick an old football

back and forth

like kids in the playground

it’s all just casual

but I position myself

next to you

your voice vibrates

in my head

the scent of you

sets my nerves on edge

and I catch a trace of your smoke

from your lungs into mine

it is

intoxicating

Signal Down

we take the footpath to the old stone bridge

crossing the railway by the sheep field.

looking along the straight empty track

you notice the signal is down

a train is on it’s way

so we wait to see it pass,

and while we wait

we kiss

like teenagers

up against the stone parapet

in the evening sunshine

and I find I had forgotten

amongst the mundane routines of life

this perfect pleasure

the warmth and taste of you

with a delicious thrill

of potential discovery.

this quiet path

overgrown

leading nowhere very much

takes us where we need to go.

Abomination

gone in a conflagration

God has taste after all

]]> http://crazyfieldmouse.wordpress.com/2010/06/20/jesus-haiku/feed/ 10 crazyfieldmouse jesusgone http://crazyfieldmouse.wordpress.com/2010/06/06/childhood-daisy-chains/ http://crazyfieldmouse.wordpress.com/2010/06/06/childhood-daisy-chains/#comments Sun, 06 Jun 2010 19:16:39 +0000 crazyfieldmouse http://crazyfieldmouse.wordpress.com/?p=268 ]]> This week’s challenge for the Poetry Bus was to write on the more general category of ‘flora/fauna’, which I suppose left it wide open for people to do what took their fancy, though nicely in keeping with the season. We have been cutting the grass this week so I was thinking of times when I was young and always feeling annoyed at my dad for cutting the grass and chopping down all the daisies. So here is my offering, and a homage to Gerard Manley Hopkins ‘Binsey Poplars’, of which I am very fond.

Daisy chain

Daisies, only yesterday scattered across

the lush expanse of un-mowed lawn

All chopped, chopped, are all chopped

their petals heaped amongst the verdant mulch

not spared, not one

for small girl to frolic in fancy and

festoon herself a fairy queen.

O if he but knew what he did

when he mowed and trimmed

cut down those fragile blossoms

the dreams of childhood

so transient,  in wild abandon

she who bedecked with garlands

would dance among the saplings

now stands forlorn.

After-comers cannot guess the beauty

that might have been

the spinning blade wipes clean

makes neat, pristine

Daisy chain, a daisy chain

sweet delicate daisy chain

I have no reason not to answer the door

I have no reason not to answer the door

even though it is late

and I had been waiting

my fingers pause at the latch

and I am scared.

I have no reason not to answer the door

where two shadowy figures

one tall

made taller by his hat

are visible through the frosted glass

waiting impassively.

I have no reason not to answer the door

but in that pause

in the silence of the hall

I can hear the rush of my own breathing

and the blood pounding in my ears.

I have no reason not to answer the door

that stands firm and solid

between me

and the world outside

but I take a step away.

I have no reason not to answer the door

through which I can hear

the scuffle of their boots in the gravel

and the muted murmur of conversation.

I have no reason not to answer the door

except something urgent tells me

I should stay here and now

on this side

in this suspended moment

before

I have no reason not to answer the door

but something hovers outside

waiting

I have no reason not to answer the door

when they knock again

it feels impolite

to keep them

waiting

I have no reason not to answer the door

so I breath again

reach up

and grip the handle firmly

I have no reason not to answer the door

so I answer the door.