Malay Pantoum

Crikey, the pantoum! Another prescriptively structured verse form to bend our creative efforts to.

This one has its origins in the scripted pantun berkait of 15th century Malaya, though its roots lie in the earlier oral folklore of the Malay peninsula. The pantoum was first popularised in Europe by French poets exposed to the 'oriental' tradition of that region: Baudelaire, Fouinet and Leconte de Lisle among them.

At its simplest, it is a series of quatrains (the exact number is a matter of choice and creative stamina), with an abab / bcbc / cdcd  etc. rhyme-scheme, where the second and fourth lines of one quatrain become the first and third lines of the following stanza. By convention the first and third lines of the poem appear inverted in the final quatrain as the second and last lines. However, there are many variations on the schema.

This progressively rolling, repetitive structure makes the pantoum somewhat similar to our friend the villanelle; and with its incantatory rhyming form, it is easy to see how its origins lay in the sung or declaimed folk verses of Malaya.

The pantoum still exists in modern-day Malaysia and is particularly popular in rhymes for children (per the illustration below).

That was the easy bit. The challenge this week was to write a pantoum, a poem that both conforms to the metrical rules and makes some kind of sense. This is a first, but here I go, dredging through sludge at the bottom of the imaginarium...

Picture an ex-pat existence in 1950s Penang, for instance - the colonial formality, the stifling humidity and a world about to fall apart one morning:

'Dear Joan'
The plain fact is, she never saw it coming.
His note explained he had a mistress.
She'd always thought her husband kind and loving.
He wrote he didn't mean to cause distress.

His note explained. He had a mistress,
a younger, prettier model she surmised.
He wrote! He didn't mean to cause distress
to himself, she shouldn't be surprised!

A younger, prettier model she surmised,
someone who'd enjoy being devoted
To himself. She shouldn't be surprised,
he wrote, although she hardly noted.

Someone who'd enjoy being devoted...
scant thanks indeed for all she'd sacrificed.
He wrote, although she hardly noted,
the reason why his leaving her was justified.

Scant thanks indeed for all she'd sacrificed!
She ran with blinding tears out through the gate.
The reason why his leaving her was justified?
A lorry swerved but braked too late.

She ran with blinding tears out through the gate,
she'd always thought her husband kind and loving;
a lorry swerved but braked too late.
The plain fact is, she never saw it coming.


Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Pantoum

I have never written a pantoum but have to rise to the challenge because it keeps the little grey cells working.  I had to scout around the net - Stephen Fry says nothing about this particular poetic form. I gather from my research that this type of poem has its roots in Malasyia but was adopted by French writers. It has a set pattern but doesn't need to rhyme - however if it does rhyme, that also has a set pattern.

OK. It sounds really complicated and I have a busy day ahead so here goes...

Dorothy’s Ninety  Eighth

Her ashes sprinkled on a blooming rose

She would be ninety eight years old today

Today we meet to honour her repose

And toast her in our long established way

She would be ninety eight years old today

And every year the family would convene
And toast her in our long established way
Our loving mother and our queen

And every year the family would convene

From far flung places they all came this way 
Our loving mother and our queen
So happy that we came to share her day

From far flung places they all came this way

Today we meet to honour her repose
So happy that we came to share her day
Her ashes sprinkled on a blooming rose.


Short and sweet - just like Mum. Thanks for reading. Adele

 

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Pantoum Challenge

I wonder if you are a person who likes a challenge?

Do you like to test yourself and extend the range of what you can do or achieve?

Or are you content with what you can do and keep on familiar paths?

In poetry, there are many different forms and types to be explored. We have already had the villanelle form in a previous blog and this week is an even more obscure and difficult form of poetry called a pantoum.

A pantoum is a poem which has repeated lines from stanza to stanza in a set structure and the final stanza uses two lines from the first stanza, but in a different order!

All this repetition must make sense and hopefully not sound too forced or ‘wooden’.

It is a real challenge; why not step out of the comfort zone and give it a try?

Here is my attempt; you can decide if it hangs together without being too forced or wooden.

 

Silence

Two forces rule the way we use breath;

one is silence and one is speech;

their jurisdiction is birth to death;

there is nothing beyond their reach. 

One is silence and one is speech.

When the young ones come to stay,

there is nothing beyond their reach,

with throbbing noise, all and every day. 

When the young ones come to stay,

their necessary sound is like a backing track,

with throbbing noise, all and every day.

But silence, there’s a disconcerting lack. 

Their necessary sound is like a backing track.

The house is quiet when the children are gone.

But silence, there’s a disconcerting lack,

as unrelentingly, the clock ticks on. 

The house is quiet when the children are gone,

it’s not silent, for cities never are,

as unrelentingly, the clock ticks on

between what lies ahead and went before. 

It’s not silent, for cities never are.

Imagine a silence, it can embolden

between what lies ahead and went before,

drawing out truth, for silence is golden. 

Imagine a silence, it can embolden

the opening of a creaking church door,

drawing out truth, for silence is golden.

Is there a voice to be heard through awe? 

The opening of a creaking church door;

their jurisdiction is birth to death.

Is there a voice to be heard through awe?

Two forces rule the way we use breath. 

Why not take up the challenge? Thanks for reading.

 

David Wilkinson

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Pantoum - For My Paternal Grandfather

The Pantoum - I don’t think I’ve encountered this poetry form before. I’ve played about with it during the last few days, but didn’t write anything worth sharing, and I had something in my head that I thought might work but I’m saving it for another time. Instead, my inspiration, for what it’s worth, came from my paternal grandfather’s Bible and the handwritten inscription inside, penned exactly a hundred years ago yesterday.

  

 I wonder, was it hot like today?

And was he eager, and was he keen

To get to Belgium, where he would stay

In the summer of nineteen-eighteen. 

And was he eager, and was he keen

Joining his comrades to go to war?

In the summer of nineteen-eighteen,

Manchester boys, not travelled before. 

Joining his comrades to go to war,

Weighed down with stuff and Army khaki.

Manchester boys, not travelled before

Building up some camaraderie. 

Weighed down with stuff and Army khaki,

Merriment from the back of the truck,

Building up some camaraderie.

Take care now boys, and the best of luck. 

Merriment from the back of the truck,

George Hales was with that Manchester lot.

Take care now boys, and the best of luck.

And I’m still wondering, was it hot? 

Pamela Winning 2018

 I don’t know much about his time in the First World War, only that he saw action in July and August, 1918 and returned safely home.

In 1922, he married Miss Henrietta Brearey, otherwise known as my lovely Nanna Hetty.

The Bible was given to him by Mrs Hyde, Nanna Hetty’s adoptive mother.

 

Thanks for reading, keep cool, Pam x

 

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Babel

Towers  have always been aspirational in form and intent; imposing structures reaching up to the heavens; testament variously to religious conviction, civic pride, architectural ability, wealth, power, ego. Blackpool has one, for which it is rightly famous, and my fellow bloggers have written entertainingly about it this week, so I shall focus elsewhere in space-time and I'll précis for you what I know about the daddy of all towers - the first, the finest, a wonder of the ancient world.

Those of you familiar with the Bible (book of Genesis to be exact) will know it references the tower of Babel in its apocryphal account of that time when "the whole earth was of one language and of one speech" and of a people who said "let us build us a city and a tower whose top may reach unto heaven." It goes on to tell how the Lord intervened to remind them not to over-reach themselves, "and there confounded their language that they may not understand one another's speech. So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence...and they left off to build the city..." - divine 'divide and rule' tactics if ever there were (and a Hebraic re-writing of history).

Of course there is a historical basis in the story, for that tower did exist in ancient Babylonia, a city state in Mesopotamia (modern-day Iraq).

Babylonia in happier times - with tower in the background

Babel, or the great tower of Babylonia, was known at the time as the Etemenanki and was a ziggurat begun by the Chaldean King Nebuchadrezzar around 1,000BC. It was further enhanced by King Nabopolassar and completed by his son King Nebuchadrezzar II. It was a temple structure dedicated to the Mesopotamian god Marduk and was recorded as being the tallest single building in the civilized world, having seven stepped tiers and standing over 300 feet high. As well as being the site of religious and cultural practices, at its top was an astronomical observatory from which the movement of sun, moon and stars was plotted and calculations about cyclical events such as eclipses was made.

The great tower of Babylonia dominated the city (with its famous hanging gardens) and the surrounding countryside for several hundred years until Alexander the Great came to power in the region. In iconoclastic mood, he ordered its destruction in 330 BC. Alexander had plans to replace it with an even more audacious structure to his own Greater Glory, but he died before the rebuilding could commence.


Tower of Babel (artist's impression, after Breughel)

Here's the start of what will probably end up being quite a long poem on the theme of impermanence:

Babel
Where velvet-headed vultures drift in circles
high above the blistering plain by day,
where tessellated moonflowers unfurl their blossom
in the chill of silvery nights,
here lies a dust compounded of the bricks and bones,
of what was mighty Babel, once a wonder of the world...

(to be continued...once the World Cup is over)

Thanks for reading. Come on England, S :-)

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Tower

Sorry folks - I have been remiss. I haven't managed to blog for a few weeks. Time has escaped me during the run up to our performance at The Grand Theatre on Monday night, which I am very pleased to say was a great evening for all concerned.

I couldn't miss this week's topic. I am sure most of you know that I was born in Blackpool, under the auspicious gaze of the Tower, but perhaps you are not aware of my own family connections to the structure. It is quite a story - get the tissues ready. 

My paternal grandmother Polly eloped from her father's home in Hyde, Cheshire and married an Irish engineer who came to Blackpool to work on building the Tower. They had two young sons, but not long after the Tower was completed, her husband was crushed to death under the lift. Apparently the engineers used a system of knocks on the metal work to tell each other where the lifts were working and on that fateful day no one heard his knocks. 

Back at the turn of the century, there was no compensation for accidental death in the workplace but the Bickerstaff family, who owned the Tower building, offered the widowed Polly a job for life, as a waitress.  It was while working there that she met my grandfather, Fred Robinson Snr. He played tenor sax with Jack Hylton's band then but after they married, he moved to Blackpool and they had four more children, one of them was my Dad, Fred Robinson Jnr. Fred Snr. played in the Tower Ballroom band for the rest of his working life.

My mother's mother Phyllis was an accomplished pianist and dance teacher. She and her partner demonstrated the Boston Tango at the Tower Ballroom when it was first introduced from America. 

In the 1950s, my sister Lesley was in The Children's Ballet at The Tower. When I was a toddler, Mum would take me to rehearsals every day.  It is very likely that I learned to walk on that wonderful floor; it is a known fact that I learned to dance on it. I knew all the routines that the older children performed and Lesley's ballet mistress, Elsie Bradley, wanted me in her troop as soon as I was old enough. Unfortunately that wasn't to be - we moved to St Helen's when I was just four.

In 1968, my father brought me to Blackpool during the British Junior Ballroom Championships for a try out with former World Champion and coach Eric Lashbrooke.  The following year, I took part in the Juvenile competition with my partner David. I danced there every year after that.

I still love to dance at The Tower. I go to functions there whenever I can. I love the ceilings and the Victorian décor but most of all the sprung floor. It is the best in the world. As for the Tower itself, I simply can't imagine life without it. It has been there all my life.

You’re The Top

A Victorian steel erection,

Five hundred and eighteen feet tall,
The pinnacle of progress,
And the grandest sight for all.

They came from the smoky mill towns

To walk barefoot in the sand,
To dip their toes in the Irish Sea,
With bucket and spade in hand.

The Tower was there to greet them,

With its soft sprung ballroom floor,
The Wurlitzer organ played,
And they all called out for more.

The circus was so exciting,

The clowns made a hullaballoo,
An aquarium in the basement,
There was always so much to do.

Now she lights up in rainbow colours,

To show the whole world that she’s proud,
The centenarian Blackpool bombshell,
Who always stands out from the crowd.

Thanks for reading. Adele

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Tower - Jewel of the North West Coast

My son once told me that he could just about see Blackpool Tower if he stuck he his head out of the rear Velux window in his new loft conversion bedroom.  I was horrified, knowing that he must have climbed on to the wrong side of the banister and be sitting or standing on it with the drop of the stairs behind him. He certainly wasn’t tall enough to stretch from the other side. With visions of his mates coming round to see, and the real possibility of accidents, I locked the window and told him I did not want bits of broken boys on the landing. He was eleven at the time. The threat of being sent back to his old bedroom was enough. These days, it’s the attic again as we find ourselves housing many items for our grown up children who have long since fled the nest into homes of their own, homes lacking in storage space it would seem.

Both son and daughter had their fourth birthdays at the Tower. It was Jungle Jim’s, a ride to the top and the circus. The aquarium had recently moved to the Sea Life Centre when our son was four and the space was taken up with a dinosaur exhibition. A bit scary, for me. The view from the top is incredible. I haven’t ventured on to the outside platforms, so it could be argued that I haven’t actually been to the top, though I have stood on the glass floor known as the ‘walk of faith’ and looked down.

The highest building I have elevated is the Empire State Building many years ago. That was a great view of New York and surrounding areas. I’m not worried by heights but I can’t cope with crowds and it was too busy for me to wait to get an ‘I’m at the top of the Empire State Building’ medal. I think it was still the tallest skyscraper in New York at that time.

There’s something about building towers that fascinates children.  I worked with young children in an infant school and I watch my grandchildren doing the same thing. They nearly always build upwards and have fun knocking it down. Occasionally a child will make a straight line instead.

 

 

 

 

 

One day I might follow in the footsteps of Sir John Bickerstaffe and visit Paris, where a trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower would be a must, and maybe I'd share his vision.

My poem was originally written as an exercise, now slightly re-edited.

 

Blackpool Tower       (McGonagal style)

 

 

“I know what we need,” Mr Bickerstaffe said,

Leaning back in his chair with his hands in his head.

He’d been to Paris and seen their tower

So decided to exercise some mayoral power.

“We could have one. Build it here.

There’s space just north of Central Pier.”

 

From his own funds he chucked in two grand

For building to commence on Promenade land,

And in September, 1891

The architects laid the foundation stone.

 

“They’ll come from miles,” Mr Bickerstaffe cried

“When to the very top they can ride!

Here in Blackpool we’ll have the most

Amazing tower on our golden coast!”

 

Girder by girder the tower took shape

As cynics below would stare and gape

And mutter about how long it would be

Before Bickerstaffe’s folly got washed out to sea.

 

“I’ve another idea!” Mr Bickerstaffe exclaimed,

With pride at the thought of being acclaimed.

“We’ll put in a circus with lions and clowns

And be the envy of all other towns.

Sixpence admission, another sixpence to pay

For the circus, and again for the ride; 1/6d for all day!”

 

And then, at last it was complete,

Reaching nearly 519 feet

And to the public, opened its door

On the 14^th May, 1894.

 

 Pamela Winning 2010 (edited 2018)

 

 

(The photo of Blackpool is from Visit Lancashire and is the best I've ever seen of the Tower)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Bucket Lists

Bucket lists are funny ones. No one wants to die unaccomplished and bored but the problem is sometimes bucket lists are so expensive, unrealistic or bizarre that you might not ever complete them. I'm not a pessimist, I swear!

I think we should create an environment in our own lives that is so warm and full of hope that we don't need to wish our lives away. We should just live in the moment.

That might sound like a fairy-tale, living the perfect life, being perfectly happy and content. But I honestly think the best things that come to us....come as surprises!

I'm not saying we shouldn't have a bucket list - hell, I have one. I just think we shouldn't get upset if we don't tick everything off.

Vanished
Vanished
Like a puff of smoke,
He escapes back to Mars.
So far...
The depth of his brain
Swallows his dreams.
I scream,
Come back down to reality!
Come back!
Please!

Helena Ascough

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Bucket List

On the whole I'm quite a fan of lists. Making a list helps me organise and prioritise what I need to do (as long as I stick to it once I've drawn it up). It's also a useful technique for sharpening the critical faculties, for ranking favourite records, books, football strips, bird songs (and justifying the sequence). As the years advance, making lists will probably help me to remember things which should not be forgotten. However a 'bucket list' is not something I'll be devising; not now, not any time soon, probably not ever - it brings mortality too closely into focus.

Just in case there's anybody who doesn't know what I'm talking about, a bucket list is a list of things one wishes to do before one dies (i.e. kicks the bucket). I don't know when the concept originated but it was certainly made popular by Rob Reiner's 2007 comedy film of the same name which featured Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman as two terminally ill men setting out to do all the things they really wanted to do while they still had life in them.

Buckets Listing

Like I said, it's not for me. However I am okay with the concept of a Fantasy Bucket List - things which I should like to see come to pass in my lifetime, though over which I have no control. It would include, in no particular order:
- Blackpool FC back in the Premier League
- a cure for Alzheimer's and other forms of Dementia
- grand-children on my knee
- worldwide nuclear disarmament
- proportional representation in elections
- a 'best director' Oscar for Wes Anderson
- the return of the Elgin marbles to Greece

As for a poem , I offer you the following which began life in my head this week as a parody of a well-known song:

Bucket List!
There's a hole in one's bucket list,
dear Liza, dear Liza,
there's a hole in one's bucket list,
dear Liza a hole.

One eventually married
the love of one's life,
one's sons are both wedded
to beautiful wives,
one's Duchy is provident,
that much is self-evident
and one of course
is very well heeled.

In addition to that
one is head of the 'weal
a role which one will fulfil
with great zeal,
but there's a hole in one's bucket list,
dear Liza, dear Liza,
there's a hole in one's bucket list,
dear Liza a hole.

One enjoys doing one's bit
for our birds and our bees
and shooting the breeze
with one's favourite trees,
(all conjecture of madness
is just utter pish);
but one's spirit is broken
by a most fervent wish
that can hardly be spoken -
the hole in one's bucket list,
dear Liza, dear Liza,
the hole in one's bucket list
through which hope drains away.

Is talk of the 'A' word
really so silly?
Charles the Third
has a glorious ring.
One has waited so long,
willy nilly,
primed in the wing -
but while you're still Queen
dilly, dilly,
one can't be King.

There's a hole in one's bucket list
dear Liza, dear Liza,
there's a hole in one's bucket list,
dear Liza a hole.


Thanks for reading, Steve ;-)

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Slippers - What's The Point?

It's nearly Midsummer and we're expected to bend our minds to slippers? I can't be doing with them at the best of times and haven't possessed a pair since I was a boy. Indoor shoes, maybe; slippers - certainly not: a badge of poor taste, old age and/or infirmity. (Yes, I know I'm being controversial and grossly unfair.)

As far as possible when at home I go around barefoot, especially in the warmer months. I used to go out and about barefoot as well and once had an altercation with a publican who objected to my bare feet. When I asked him how many of his punters washed their shoes three times a day he kicked me out! But I digress.

My abiding memory of slippers is of ugly footwear with shiny soles and fluffy interiors: ridiculous to look at, dangerously skiddy to walk about in and very bad for one's feet - which get far too hot, itchy and frankly smelly in them. Slippers - rank items fit only for dogs to chew on. Need I say more?

If I have to, then let's consider the fashion for oriental slippers like the fine example illustrated below:

It's a style that has been quite widespread throughout Arabia and the Middle East from ancient times to modern, sometimes called Aladdin shoes, more commonly Turkish slippers with their distinctive curling, tapered toes. What's the point?

Historical research suggests that the tapering and curling served no practical purpose but was decorative and a marker of prestige - the more exaggerated and elongated the curl, the higher the standing of the wearer. Would I have gotten thrown out of that pub if I'd been sporting a pair of Turkish slippers? In all likelihood.

That has pretty much exhausted me on the topic.

At the Dead Good poetry gig last night one of the poets performed a piece that had been constructed around ten randomly chosen words. It was something of an epic. I thought I might try by a similar exercise to arrive at a suitable poem for today's blog.

Here are my ten words: failed - thought -  impressed - downtrodden - test - immodestly - wrong-footed - shoddily - best - never.... a fairly random gaggle, would you agree?

Okay, here's the 'Slippers' poem I've rounded them up into, having taken the unusual but expedient decision not to add extra words. If, in reading it, you detect any sense of foreboding that the England team is going to crash and burn in the upcoming World Cup, can I suggest that is purely coincidental?

Slippers
Immodestly
thought best.
Wrong-footed.
Failed test
shoddily.
Never impressed!
Downtrodden.

Thanks for reading. Wishing you a footloose week, Steve ;-)

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Slippers

I like wearing slippers - not those as of in 'days of olde' but velvet, plush, fur lined,zip-up, velcro-fastened or slip on with a good rubber sole.

Winter time requires my 'granny' slippers - lined with lambs' wool, zipping up and covering my ankles. Summer sees me in a flimsier pair - a bit floppy and they 'click clack' as I walk - but not 'mules' as I'm not keen on those as they may cause an accident.

I have 'camper van' slippers that are robust and cosy - able to withstand those walks to the toilet block and giving my weary walking-booted feet some luxury.

For travelling I always purchase a new pair every few months. Now they must be a bit more discreet in navy or burgundy, so that I can come down to breakfast and walk around my room in them.

I become somewhat attached to certain pairs and am loathe to discard them, so very often these end up coming camping......sort of like having  'home' on my feet.

      I Like Slippers

      Plush velvet embroidered cuff

      To fit my feet with comfort.

      Velcro-fastened secure enough

      Make me feel at home.

      Snails have shells - I have slippers.

      Blue or burgundy my usual choice.

      Worn at home or worn away -

      Instant ease for weary feet.

      A good sole for walking out

      Twixt kitchen and garden.

      Trusty warmth for my toes -

      A sigh when I don them.

   

       Thanks for reading, Kath

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Slippers - Real or Fairytale?

Not counting the mandatory footwear that I had to take into hospital then threw away afterwards, I can’t remember the last time I had a pair of slippers. I always wear sandals in the house and kick them off on the rare moments that I might be sitting down relaxing. When I think back to childhood, we always wore slippers indoors, except my mum, who had some very elegant mules that I longed to wear.

Nanna Hetty’s slippers fascinated me. Actually, it was probably her feet, bearing in mind I was only a little girl. There were lumps and bumps unlike anyone else and I used to get told that it was rude to keep looking. I don’t think it’s a punishment from staring, but I have inherited some of it. Not as bad, yet, but it is there. Arthritis, possibly, and certainly something osteo that runs in the family. My father had it as well. To help myself as much as possible I wear fairly sensible shoes.

I’ve never wanted Cinderella’s glass slippers. She had tiny, delicate feet, so that’s me out for starters. Also, I can’t cope with anyone actually touching my feet, regardless of how handsome the prince might be  – ask my husband when he was tasked with removing a tick from my toe when we were in a very remote part of the Highlands a few years ago. He was brave, but not as brave as I had to be.

     It would be good to have some ruby slippers like Dorothy’s in the Wizard of Oz, as long as nobody wanted to kill me for them. I don’t want to relive the story. I just want the magic slippers and modified so that with a click of my heels I could instruct them to take me anywhere. Imagine the travelling time it would save and the places to visit. I would have avoided feeling sea-sick recently, that’s for sure.

Whenever I stayed at Nanna Hetty’s, I followed her around all day. I watched the cooking, baking, cleaning and gardening. If I drove her mad, it never showed. She had lots of time for me and I adored her. She’s been mentioned before and previously featured in my poems. This is a new one.

 



 

Nanna Hetty’s Comfy Slippers.

 

Clouds of Pledge in the sitting-room,

Patio swept with the outside broom,

Tea-leaves saved to feed the roses.

I picked daisies for indoor posies.

 

She lets me peep in Uncle’s room

And lifts the blinds to ease the gloom.

He’s married now and lives in Reading.

He’s been there ever since the wedding.

 

Blankets cover his unused bed.

On his wall, huge African head,

Carved in wood, it fills me with fear.

Something he brought from Nigeria.

 

A duster in her pinny pocket,

Husband’s photo in her locket.

Currant buns on a baking sheet,

And comfy slippers on bunioned feet.

 

PMW 2018

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

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Zest 4 Life

The word of the week has to be appetence. It's also the given theme for the blog. Like my fellow Dead Good Bloggers I wasn't exactly sure of its meaning.

After consulting a few wise tomes, the consensus appears to be that appetence derives from Latin, appetere (to seek after) and means something along the lines of: a longing or desire; a natural or instinctive inclination; an attraction or affinity. Yes, that makes perfect sense.

On a stunningly sunny Saturday in the jewel of the north, I shall choose to interpret appetence as a zest for life, a taking pleasure in just being, the rare ability to enjoy the moment (whatever moment that might be) and make it resonate. As my friend Ted Bruner sings: "If you're happy, cool - 'cos that's all there is...."

I'm not advocating thoughtless hedonism; rather a seeking after such simple fulfilment as brings happiness to oneself, does harm to no-one and possibly even makes others happy too. There are many ways to shine...

This is a zestful little poem I've been working on for a while, finished in time for the next Dead Good Poets' open mic night (Friday 8th June) when the theme is Midsummer Night Dreams.

Lemons
Midsummer moon climbed pale
over Jenne
even before the last hint
of citrus had left the sky.
Twilight pipistrelles
swung and swooped their feasting hour
above the lemon grove and you
my dusky beauty
slipped into the sloping garden
like a ghost in bosky gloom
to stand uncertain by the gate
until our eyes
and then our bodies met.

Crushing an aromatic carpet
beneath those lemon trees
in unpeeling,
dress over head, shorts off,
you shy but sure, me marvelling
at your fragrance and your form,
we rekindled earlier passions
with urgent mouth to mouth affections,
grasping, clutching, cleaving,
caressing limbs and lips,
bruising separate bodies into one
until we lay
spent and tingling in the dark.

We cradled in our pleasure,
smiling with no need for words
and gazed up at pale lemon fruit
hanging bowered among
glossy almost-blue leaves
until a bell tolling the hour
advised us not to stay
and midnight's cooling breath
shivered our skin.

I wanted to leave you with another musical bonus this week, 'Shine' by the US band Wondermints. They are a frequent accompaniment to my trips to the gym. All I could find on YouTube was the complete album (which is fab, by the way). Nevertheless, if you click on the hyperlink and then fast-forward the time-bar to 18:05 you will find the four-and-a-half minutes of aural splendour that is 'Shine': Pop A Wondermint

Pip! Pip! I hope you liked the blog. Thanks for reading, Steve ;-)

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