A Fortunate Man - Poems by Ken Whitmore
TWENTIETH CENTURY
There was nothing wrong with the century
the weather can’t be blamed
it was all the folks who lived there
should be bloody well ashamed
STRAUSS WALTZ
They meet by accident
in the Viennese restaurant
with the lilt of Strauss behind
and six weeks later are wed
now four more souls fully formed
looking like he, like she -
talking like she, like he -
dine with them at this table
with the same gestures
with the lilt of Strauss behind
all because she turned in at a door
and he fancied apfel strudel
too banal to be false
the same old human waltz
A FORTUNATE MAN
Nine million bicycles in Beijing
and I have the puncture repair franchise
my wife makes jasmine tea
my mistress greets me in nothing but high heels
my daughter’s calligraphy is crisp and clean as a buttered cracker
and my four sons cycle from Marco Polo Gate to Tianeman Square after dark
scattering tin tacks
DINNER CONVERSATION
I’m George and you must be Daphne’s youngest caraway seed
Will you kindly pass the cassowary bird?
I suffer from nominal aphasia
Or forgetting the names of common objects
So in order not to appear gaga
I’ve invented a way of overcoming caraway seed
Which is to interpolate the phrase caraway seed whenever I hit a verbal hurdle
And if spoken rapidly enough and with great confidence
It deceives most listeners into thinking I have said something sensible
I also lob in an occasional cassowary bird to cloud the issue further
And people always think it is their hearing at fault
Or perhaps my false teeth
And then I can converse with kings and cassowary birds
And none suspects my cunning caraway seed
Except sometimes nimble-eared young cassowary birds
Who tell me, Grandpop, you’re rambling again
But I tell them to shut their caraway seeds
Or I will smack their cassowary bird
You’re the first person I’ve told this elastic giraffe
Promise you’ll keep it under your cassowary bird
And please pass the caraway seed
I asked you for it five minutes ago
HER WARDROBE
Tan wool suit with cloth penny buttons
Jade velvet gown at the ball
Black swimsuit exposing fuse-wire curls
Yellow silk blouse at the circus
Red rose in black hair by lamplight
Black lace underwear
Damp nose
Pungent lipstick
Electric fingers
Bluebell crepe frock at the station
White kid glove waving
O PUSHPA
I was having a crap on Carnforth station
reading the writing on the door
listening to the clanging of the trains
my feet in puddles on the floor
studying the artwork
grapefruit testicles
palm tree cocks
chunnel vaginas
“i will suck you off - see you at six”
“i have an 18 inch wanger - would you love it up you”
(fully illustrated in splintered scratchwork)
“would you like to shag my sister”
"fuck all irish"
and one I nearly missed at the top right hand
tiny in neat blue biro
"O Pushpa how I miss you in this cold land"
THE WONDROUS BABE OF STYLOS
So I travelled to Stylos in the White Mountains
where it was rumoured a wondrous babe was born
who cured affliction of heart and mind
mother and sister in black mantillas
welcomed me with oranges, figs and raki
but no English
“Parakalo , mipos milate anglika?”
“Po-po-po!”
and led me to a room with windows high
and small and few
letting sunlight trickle through
roughcast walls rose pink and lapis lazuli
and in a wicker cradle under a net
the child himself, not three months old
bicycling plump legs
a comma of gold hair on brow of pearl
the women vanished through an arch
I knelt and drew the net aside
scent of sweet bread, sour mother milk
soiled nappy
I crossed myself and made my
supplication
spittle bubbled through cherub lips
his mouth gaped wide on toothless gums
to form a howl
then huge calm eyes swung slowly
to focus on mine
“OK,” he said in English
“You’ll be fine.”
LONG DISTANCE LOVER
Anyone who’s had you for a lover for 40 years
Anyone who’s had you for his cook for 40 years
Mother to his brood for 40 years
Anyone who’s had 40 years of your obstinacy
Your financial finagling
Et cetera!
Will be a tired but happy man
Now you neglect me to learn French
To buy a house in France
To study art and paint nude blokes
Shall I tell you what first attracted me?
It was your legs in rented white pumps at the bowling alley
And the way your bum and breasts strained at that blue wool dress
When you thundered the balls along the lane
You gave us a rich life on my poor pay
Splendiferous nosh, superlative kids and and the best wines
And the banks must be as puzzled as me
When will the bill come in? No, don’t tell me
You are filled with the same eagerness
Delighted in people, books, places
No wonder you are always exhausted at six o clock or earlier
And make me exhausted, too
Though you claim I was born exhausted
(Not true - just a trifle yawny)
How did you survive me?
I was such an overpowering personality
Remember?
I dominated you and mastered you
For all of fifteen minutes
I am still always anxious about your whereabouts
Jealous of your many absences
I’m always forgetting where you’ve gone
Because you go to so many places
Like a sheepdog who climbs the fell four times
While I’m climbing it once
I don't know how to stop you
Perhaps a large wooden mallet
A typical moment was when we stocked up on Durex
Then you found you were pregnant and returned them to the shop
And bought a Christmas tree with the money
Rosie all over!
From all this you sound quite a character
Which will surprise you
Because you always think you’re not quite good enough
Hence all that frantic activity
And trying to beat me at the Times crossword
But you really are an amazing phenomenon
And definitely a saint
And (what will please you most -
I still know how to flatter you)
Still as sexy as Marilyn or Bardot
What possessed you to pick me?
No, don’t tell me
SHAKESPEARE DOWN OUR LANE
Say Shakespeare breezed along our lane right now -
He’d cop a view exactly like the one
He would have dug four hundred years ago
And wouldn’t say it sucks, but, ‘Wow, rock on.’
Along our lane and past our titchy pad
Are scenes to touch the big guy’s heart big time.
He’d see the stuff that always made him glad
And reel off some way cool Petrarchan rhyme -
Of sheep that nosh our sweet crushed velvet grass
And foghorn pheasants whirring through the blue;
Of banks with wild thyme blowing, bet your ass
And cuckoo bud and campion stoned on dew.
Say he peeped through our window in the gloom -
Flip-all would freak him in our lamplit room.
THIS MORNING IN MAY
Swallow on the sill
black coat
orange bib
cream undercarriage
ball turret head
bobbing
circling
chest puffing
with chirping
scratching cheek
with vibrating claw
under wings
with pencil point beak
swivelling head
360 degrees
and seeing
white haired man
behind the pane
pink face
blue vest
elbows on desk
twitching glasses
up his beak
scratching ear
with slow claw
then both
launching
into living
RODEO STAR
Our lane’s a lonely shady mile
with gentle curve of sleepy snake
all lined with frothing curdy flowers
attended by deep bowing trees
and drystone walls like thick wool scarves
with lambs each side
cavorting with life’s green juice
or hopping haybales
Farmer Nelson brings
with ropy tails whipping larks like tops.
And here my lateborn
and amazing daughter
wobbled two hot seasons to master
a wild bucking bike while I puffed after
not daring to let go the saddle.
Born without balance
and of tender nerve but mighty will
she fought to tame the looping lurching
twisting skidding wriggling steed.
The beast would not be broken in.
My pink blonde cowboy girl
star of this rodeo she rode in
no Stetson but a frock of gingham
buck-bounced and clung two full summers
to break the bastard’s heart
until at last my clutching hand
was jerked away and she broke free
and streaked along alone and singing
straight as her true heart
and lambs laughed
lapwings tumbled
curlews cleared their throats
(which is their top
expression of surprise)
and now I’ll never catch her
along the snaking lane
at last she’s off
and fine and free
but oh she rides
away from me
WHAT'S THAT ON THE ROAD?
Is it a torn oak leaf
Or a late four-leaf clover?
No - just a sad frog
That’s been run over
MAN AND DEER
I go sticking
for kindling
most nights
in this wood
each step I take
a cacophony
of snapping
brittle branch
and twig
and crunch
of leaves
baked crisp
stopping tonight
to fill my pipe
I turned to see
a deer
unaware of me
my hand moved
a jot and
away she shot
didn’t crack a twig
SHAME
The house in Charles Street
with a streak of white below a bedroom window
where my father hurled a can of paint
a tiny sooty terrace
with a shared loo in the yard
my slowly blinking grandad chopping sticks
with an axe on the hearth
here I was carried when my mother ran away
slept in grandma’s room
for the first time saw her unpin her bun of silver
to tumble down and down and down
right to her ankles
scoop it over her left shoulder
and comb and comb and comb
in candlelight
at sixteen after football with my firm
I stroll up Charles Street with two Cambridge Blues
turning my eyes from grandma’s house
praying nobody’ll call me from within
PICASSO AT THE BATEAU LAVOIR
All life superbly for the taking
cobbled square
swaying shade of chestnut trees
green iron fountain trickling silver
sky so blue I can’t name it but I’ll mix it later
a worker clatters over the cobbles singing
steep squares of Monmartre tilt like decks of wrecks
with whirligigs of streets
thin honey houses stroke the sky
dried blood shutters with ribcage slats
black squiggle balconies
At dawn I climb the thousand twisting steps of Sacre Coeur
drink the matchstick city with toy tin tower
who could see this sight and still be sad?
I’d love to light this tower with the new electricity
to throb and tingle silver rose and gold at night
one monumental orgasm
I marvel at the life beneath the roofs
sad for the untalented and untouched by poetry
A gipsy girl trots down the hill
I fling away my cigarette, pick up a kitten
and thrust it in her arms
she laughs and blushes
her name’s Fernande
come see my etchings
madly she agrees
I possess her in three charcoal swirls
one dot and a crucifix
she opens her scissor legs and cuts me in half
I’m young, handsome, virile
my hand accomplishes my eye’s command
death and failure are just herbs to sweeten the broth
I’m driven to record each sensation with my brush
what is this tyranny?
don’t think! paint!
this greed to gobble each moment and still have it
piled in corners, hanging on walls
but best of all before me dripping wet
how hellish not to be an artist under this sun
Today I will invent cubism
OLD LPs
I have about two hundred old LPs
ancient as stone axe heads
speaking of tribes in distant times
but rarely play them now the phono’s wonky
and lends to every tune a lurching rhythm
as played by bands heroically pissed
the phono itself a period piece
soon they will gather fluff in some charity bazaar
like me as out of date as perry como
their surface scarred as my lugubrious mug
lord the freshness when they first were played
and my hair black and shining as these discs
what troglodytes spun these platters!
sounds of my best times -
to play them now would crack my heart -
my heart - my heart - my heart -
A CORNISH ROMANCE
On the path to Lamorna their fingers brushed
And a giant breaker crashing far below seemed to hit them both
Explode and leave them dazed and breathless
Heavy hung the August air in the house by the cliff
Scents of mown grass, roses and honeysuckle
Through the open diamond windows
She had dressed up
For the first time since her illness
Fine blue wool clung to her hips like turf on a hill
A Prom played on the radio as he served dinner
The lodger she had reluctantly taken in
To pay the mortgage
And who had nursed her through her anguish
Carbonara thick with cream
Accompanied La Valse
Raspberries from her garden, a ripe gorgonzola
A ten pound bottle of red from Sainsbury’s
”You go through - I’ll make the coffee”
Air thickened, she lit the lamp
A daddy long legs flittered up her breast
As Mahler moaned his Alma theme
The coffee went undrunk
He knelt before her
Peeled off the dress
The slightly shaming underthings
And in the heat of August
As Mahler colluded
They exploded
Like the breakers battering Lamorna
The surf spray jewelling Lamorna
The creamers clawing Lamorna
The salt mist spangling Lamorna
The spume overlooming Lamorna
Not caring that a daddy long legs clambered all about them
Above, below and in between
As lost and glad and clumsy as herself
A LITTLE SECRET LANE
In a little secret lane today
a dozen pheasant feathers lay
snatched out in a dawn ambush
chocolate barred with fawn and cream
and in the tangled bank nearby
riot of campion and cow parsley
my dog nosed out a trampled nest
with six scooped crumpled shells
a mournful curlew warbled overhead
crows squawked their politics
suddenly the sky quaked
shadows of two huge birds
swept the fells
two Harrier jets
shrieked over low
parting the pine tops
practising for Kosovo
multiply this scene time and time again
mayhem in a little secret lane
LOVE AND THE BOILER
In writing your love poem
please remind me of your hairpin
on the crumpled sheet
your shabby fluffy slippers I fell over
on the way to the loo
my curses and your giggles
and how the cat crapped
on the doormat
soiling this morning’s Times
and a letter from my solicitor
because we stayed in bed so late
avoid more sentimental utterances
and write with your green plastic
fountain pen
on paper torn from that cheap
school exercise book
you used for our first love message
then place it on top of the boiler
where I will notice it
after I have kicked the cat out
cleaned up
and scrubbed my hands
A BRIEF HISTORY OF WESTERN PHILOSOPHY
I think
therefore
I have insomnia
EPITAPH
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