living poems: some new and alll original work

TEA ROOM

Milk for the tea or coffee
      comes separate in a fairy little jug.
So we all know the joint is middle class,
      or at least pretentious, expensive and twee.,
No, not like “Price-a-Coffee” or “Café Black”;
      More like the dated on purpose
      Little shops in every town.
Whispery gossip of well outdated-haired women
      underscores, but never mingles with the
      serious interest chatter of chequered ramblers,
      the reserved mumbling of misplaced businessmen,
or, if alone, the faint clicks of their laptops,
and the orders to beyond by the bored and boring waitress.

Then a very little girl,
      no higher than the table,
      is having a real giggle and a romp.
No hush at all about this one,
      as she expresses fun, dislikes and curiosity.
But mostly fun.

Experiments with cellophane:
      fancy it sticking without licking.
      And on Daddy’s nose.
Success! But what about the spilt milk?
      Not enough to splash in,
      even for Tom Thumb,
and so, failure! But all things have interest,
      immediate or by application:
Yes, by just doing.

From table to table:
      Amusement? One or two.
Disinterest (which we know must only mean impartiality)
      from those three in the corner,
      who gaze at their cappuccinos
with the wrapt and wondrous apprehension
      of lapsed narcotics, or maybe not so lapsed.
Indulgence is in places, but all with a flicker
      of underlying embarrassment, that suppressed,
      could always break out, at any unsuspecting moment,
spurred by the latent danger of such near naivety.

Middle: table, class and age:
Three haughty supercilious women
      cast looks of fishy disapproval,
barbed with heavily sarcastic female asides
      about parental control and discipline:
well-preserved, well made-up packages
      for shrivelled personalities,
exposed for what they are alleged to exist for:
that is, if newer hostile femininity (what a word!)
      would allow you to make that simple comment.


The little girl, in her natural awareness,
             Is all unaware, and happily plays on.

BLACK DOG

Black Dog the inexplicable,
Black Dog the acceptable.
The frock-coated were afflicted,
            and their friends just read the Tatler,
            played a little more Quadrille,
            drank another brandy 
                        and wondered in gentility
whom melancholia would next send to infinity.

Depression is analysed,
Depression is not endured.
We strain to explain in ever decreasing circles
              the cause, the roots, the reasons and the cures.
             We imbibe, we swallow, we inject,
                           take therapy three times a day
and find to our surprise it goes away.

 
writer's note: contrary to some rumours or myths, Winston Churchill did not invent this phrase. It was common in the 18th Century, when, especially in autumn, the suicide rate for young English men of respectable families often dramatically increased. This prompted the French to label such melancholia as "La Malade Anglaise". Confusion is added by a counterfeit 18th coin also being called a Black Dog!

and in case we don't get too serious:

             BRIDGE THAT GAP ____

       That’s all we seek:
              To bridge that gap

BETWEEN:

       Work and play
             Family and career
      Life and death
            You and me
      Love and body
            Money and soul

But, being on a bridge
               Is between two shores

                      AND NOWHERE

BEARS

“Is it in the Smoky Mountains that the bears puff on their fags?”
Her mummy answered “Yes, or so I’m told”
“Then in the Blue Mountains all the little bears
must be a funny colour ‘cos they’re cold.

        The bears in the Pennines
        could help me write lines
        whilst in Brecon
        they just beckon
        when they can’t read the Welsh signs.

Have the bears in the Rockies all got funny heads?
And do Grampian bears moan all day long in their beds?
In the cold Himalayas do they all come from eggs?
I bet in the Pyrenees they have knobbly……... legs.

        I s’pose a bear from the Alps
                           just yalps;
        and there’s one from the Urals
        who paints bear-garden murals 
        and drinks pints of vodka in galps.”