Olive Oyl

Described as tall, gangly, big-footed with black hair tied in a bun was my introduction to Olive Oyl, the long-time love interest of Popeye the sailor man. To think that a monochrome cartoon squashed onto a tiny T.V. screen could cause such excitement after a day at school seems amazing now but this was from the USA and we lapped it up.

Olive had reigned supreme for ten years as the only member of the original Thimble Theatre cast, created by cartoonist Elzie Segar in 1919, to survive, before it became a star laden vehicle for Popeye himself in 1929. Olive’s original boyfriend was Harold Hamgravy who was a dead loss being constantly attracted to wealthy women and craving an easy life. Hamgravy hired Popeye to man his ship and set out for treasure hunts. Popeye was a hit with audiences and eventually replaced Harold as Olive’s beau.

We loved the way Popeye spoke: “ I yam what I yam and that’s all what I yam.” out of a gravelly mouth and calling his adopted baby an “infink”. He was always looking for a fight and does so constantly with his rival Bluto, a hulking, brute of a man. Then there was the ever ready can of spinach to hand which enabled Popeye to win. This was a mystery as we had never heard or seen this vegetable and the green sludge disappearing down a throat did nothing to attract us. It’s amazing how limited our diets were and our knowledge of foodstuffs in the 50’s and 60’s, spinach as easy to buy now as any vegetable.

Olive’s relations had entertaining names which we may not have appreciated as children. Her brother was Castor Oyl and his estranged wife was Cylinda Oyl, Nana Oyl was Olive’s mum, father was Cole. The baby Sweet Pea was delivered to Popeye’s doorstep in a box and was a particular favourite with us kids.

In a long running series of animated films produced by the Fleischer brothers in the 1930s, 40’s and 50’s Olive’s squeaky voice was created by Betty Boop voice actress Mae Questel. In the 1980’s live action film Olive was portrayed by Shelley Duval and Popeye by the brilliant Robin Williams.

Lyric from the Cartoon:

I’m Popeye the sailor man 

I yam what I yam so I am 

I’m strong to the ’finich’ 

Cos I eat me spinach 

I’m Popeye the sailor man. 

Thanks for reading, Cynthia.

Read More

Olive - Peace Offering

The olive plant, a small, attractive tree cultivated in Mediterranean countries for the fruit and the manufacture of olive oil which is a core ingredient of Mediterranean cuisine. Species of the plant are also grown in South Africa, South America and southern states of USA, Australia and New Zealand. Olives are a popular food and the versatile properties of olive oil make it useful medically and essential in cooking.

I can’t remember the exact circumstances in which I first tried an olive, but I know I was no more than thirteen. The taste was unbearable and I couldn’t remove it from my mouth quick enough. Many years later, I thought they might be more appealing to my mature palate. Nothing had changed.

My husband likes olives. I nearly poisoned him once. I bought one of those prepared chicken and chopped vegetable packs designed for busy people or lazy ones like me. They are ready to drop into a slow cooker with some water and a stock cube and hours later, dinner is ready, voila. This one included olives which I took out straight away before cooking. I didn’t want my chicken casserole tainted. My husband enjoyed the snack. For someone, me, who is meticulous about food safety and food hygiene, this was a really stupid thing to do which went right over my head until it was too late. The olives were with raw chicken. I was horrified at my own carelessness, though, to be fair, he didn’t bat an eyelid either at the time. Fortunately, he was fine, perfectly alright and after a few days I stopped revising symptoms of salmonella et al and beating myself up. I should have offered him an olive branch.

In the Bible, an olive branch, symbol of reconciliation and peace offering was carried to Noah by a dove to show that the flood was over.

A sign of peace it might be, but I don’t have to like the taste of its fruit. Even if the nutrition value was full of everything I need, it would be a no.

With acknowledgement and apologies to Theodor Seuss Geisel, Dr Seuss, for inspiration and whose books and rhymes I have enjoyed to share with lots of children,

I am Pam, Pam I am.
I think I’d like green eggs and ham.
I will not eat an olive.

I will not take it from the jar
I will not taste it from afar,
I will not eat an olive.

Not even on a cocktail stick
I will not try a tiny lick,
I will not eat an olive.

Do not hide it on my pizza
Or tuck it in my fajita,
I will not eat an olive.

I will not choose one from a dish,
I will not have it in a quiche,
I will not eat an olive.

I am Pam, Pam I am,
I would like some salad and spam.
Do not bring me an olive.


PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

So long lives this and this gives life to thee

Do you see my spectacles with their heavy rims?  Perhaps you noticed my quiet, unassuming nature?  You must be aware of my absence at times of literary intrigue?  Yes, it's true.  I am Olive, the plain-clothed bus conductor of 1970s sitcome fame.  What the writers of the TV series failed to explore was Olive's alter ego, Sunflower, so named for her love of chasing the sun.

So, Sunflower is my alter, alter ego and I'm beginning to think this introduction is a little over-contrived.  Sunflowers follow the sun.  I follow poets, like a dog follows the smell of crotch (to add another helpful layer to this catastrophic conceit).  What I most enjoy at present is gathering an awkwardness of poets into a small, quiet room and throwing short writing exercises at them until they a) throw something heavy in my direction or b) write something amazing.  Fortunately for me the crotches, which is to say poets, that I have followed so far have opted exclusively for option b.  

This Saturday, conjunctivitis allowing, I will be herding the awkward crotches into a small quiet room at Central Library.  If, after two hours, I am still conscious, the world will know a new collection of sonnets.  And that is the real super power.  

It's a power I developed after a hair from Ashley R Lister's beard fell into my coffee.  I'm not complaining.  He can't have the hair back.  Facilitating the creation of poetry is akin to a super power.  It certainly feels supernatural.  I yabber on for two hours and BAM! a curdle of new poetry is born.  A curdle which other poets will take with their own cups of coffee which will, in turn, inspire other more curdled poems until the ultimate miracle happens...Cheese.

So, if you have followed the nonsense above, congratulations on your powers of tolerance.  Please find below a sonnet which I created while testing Saturday's workshop.  I do hope you'll join us at the library and I'm sorry for calling you a crotch.


To the Mourners

In February wet clay clads the day 

Dawn’s meagre prayers wrapped tight in dismal clods 

To you this clinging sadness I convey   

Dug fresh from river bed for you to hold

Exhaustion is a cliff edge slick with mud 

I tremble in tired grass before the drop

Then April’s buds bunch close on ruddy wood   

Late morning’s blood burns tracks through sleepy sods   

You see excitement written in the leaves   

Like secrets burst from lips pressed tight too long

A giddiness of bubbles, scales release 

This trembling, root to tip, I would prolong   

Though sadness fills your pockets up with stones

Attention transforms granite into foam

Read More