How my heart with passion quakes...
Oh, how my heart with passion quakes
For my beloved Hattie Jacques.
Haunted by her lips, her eyes,
Her starched white apron over thighs,
Which thunder through my ward of sighs
As Matron cross my dreams she flies.
Whilst invigilating exams, sometime in the 90s
Imagist poem (after Ezra Pound)
Like the sparrow
Whose meagre shape
Failed to contain
A startled soul,
You, also, slipped from my hands.
Different mood, about the same time
More small poems
Other people's lives
Yesterday, she left to be with him;
Now, she's on a homebound bus,
Clutching flowers for Mother's day.
Exercises
I
Fancy fly across the face
Of the Sphinx of Time and Space.
Faraway from mortal sight,
Thrills with faery wings the night,
Dancing nymphs on points of light.
II
Deep within the realms of myth
Toils the subterranean smith.
Beats the leaden dreams of old
Into torques of twisted gold,
Dragon-hoard beneath the mould.
'Bugger'
Can't go in;
Can't come out.
Claustrophobia,
Agoraphobia.
Stand in the doorway:
Should be OK,
If there's an earthquake.
This Morning
I
Even the milk -
Stern rebuke:
Open other side.
II
Sometimes I think that the world's going mad,
Sometimes I think it's just me being clever,
Sometimes I think that it's only my clothes that are holding me together.
For Kay
The shimmy of the sun,
The crazy, tripping rain,
The gleeful, cheeky chuckles
Of the chappies in your brain -
Those rumbling, restless rascals
That chivvy, chide, and chase,
That throw the switch,
That breaks the smile,
That sparkles in your face -
The scintillating teardrops,
That blossom in your eye,
Sing back the sudden starburst
That illuminates the sky.
Redundancy: a fable
We drink our pop and munch our bags of crisps,
Elbows on big table, we swing our legs.
How they smile, benignly, on little ones,
Eager to please, diverting as each plays
New games, vying to outdo his comrade.
What bellows shake the lofty thrones of ones
Who quaff us at a gulp, all gluttonous,
Choke on our fun, newcomers to the board.
How the halls echo to mighty laughter,
Heavy bass embracing tiny voices.
How we gawp, pop-eyed at pretty baubles:
Brand new shiny things light up scrubbed faces.
Top hat, racing car, silver dog - what fun!
We box each other's ears red raw and run
And tumble in the dirt, like playful cubs,
To wrench the box and gain the lion's share.
But what's this lying at the bottom there?
A mouldy pear? But surely this is rum?
We don't want this in our compendium!
And far beyond the reach of boys and girls
Who huddle in the street against the cold,
Elbows out, knees bloody, cheeks daubed with tears,
Laughter booms across the turrets of the Towers of Industry.
Why not. Or Nasty Frog
You wouldn't believe what I've just seen over there, Vic.
No Bob, what's that then?
A handsome prince,
Hunched on a lily-pad,
Head in hands,.
Saying over and over,
'Happily ever after,
Happily ever after...'
Plop,
From a lily pad,
Into a pond,
The pop-eyed frog
Swims the breast-stroke.
Greedy dreams of princess kisses
Glitter on the turrets of a faraway
And half my father's kingdom.
He climbs aboard
Again, ungainly,
Green with envy.
Why-not tears
Plop like pearls
Into the pond.
'You lookin' at me?' he spits,
An Edward G cigar scowl
Under a cocked crown.
'Why not? We all want somefink
We haven't got.'
Then a surly plop,
From a lily pad,
Into a pond.
'Boo!'
Deciding it was time
To cut loose,
I ran from you,
And said,
Boo to a goose.
One Liner
Did you hear about
The Secretary
Who was stabbed
Twenty seven times
In the stationery cupboard?
Wouldn't you have thought
After the first two or three times
She'd have stopped going in?
For Hattie (extended mix)
Oh, how my heart with passion quakes
For my beloved Hattie Jacques.
Haunted by her lips, her eyes,
Her starched white apron over thighs,
Which thunder through my ward of sighs
As Matron cross my dreams she flies.
Her sweet voice whispers from the grave,
'Adieu, dear Eric, brother brave',
As through the gates of heaven fade
The feathered footsteps of our maid,
Where none may trespass, none essay
The folds of her abundant shade.
Alas, such smooth address is lost,
Beyond the high tree tops is tossed.
His comic time is ne'er in doubt,
But all to Eric they must shout:
In comedy he is proficient,
But aurally he is deficient.
Lines for a Country and Western Song
No-one I ever had before
Could do the things you do.
I like to call you abacus,
'Cause I can count on you.
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