Bob' Poems

Bob Lives Horizontally

Bob said "I want to lie down."
"Are you tired Bob?"
"No" sighs Bob.
"Are you in pain Bob?"
No. I just want to lie down."




Bob Lies Down

Bob lies down
and sleeps.
ZZZZzzzzz.............

Buster

Buster felt lackluster

So he thought he'd watch a blockbuster

about a man called Thruster

who had a knuckleduster.

The main character was a distruster

and a seriel mistruster.

Buster started to get into a fluster

trying to find a duster

or find the knob to adjust'er

the TV readjuster.

Buster couldn't see through the dusty darkness

of the badly filmed blockbuster

so with all the energy he could muster

he turned it off.

And threw it on the composter

(and went to sleep).

Dix

Boomerang Generation

Busty girl leaves home and moves to a

Dusty room in someone else's house. It smells so

Fusty and made her sneeze, the

Musty atmosphere catches her breath.

Gusty winds made the windows rattle,

Rusty radiators that are only ever warm.

Frosty breath follows her like a bloom,

Crusty carpets crackle under foot, so she uses her

Trusty mobile and cries to her mum.

Busty girl goes home.

Dix

This was an exercise to create something from a page of the rhyming dictionary. Fun and interesting - poetry - not sure.

Squeak and Bubble

&

Bob said "I want bubble and squeak for tea today."

"But we only have bubble and squeak on Boxing Day?"

Bob though for a while.

"Fuck it, fire up the frying pan woman. It's bubble and squeak for tea."


Dix

BR -WOW 366

I know I have talked about this book before but just wanted to say how much I enjoyed it. 366 little stories written in 366 words. Some contrite to the limitations, others absolutely brill. Some moralistic, some fantasy, SF - really all sorts of genres and all sorts of writers. This book is a compilation for charity and a really good pick and delve read (if you know what I mean).

A keeper.

Dix

Anxiety

I have thought a lot today about anxiety. The guy I am working with (he displays autistic tendencies and has a learning disability) is the most sensitive person I ever met to anxiety - not just his own but anybody and everybody around him. It is really strange - like he can sense it and then somehow turns it in on himself. It is also very sad.

I think anxiety is a terrible thing - I know I suffer with anxiety - that I can worry over everything and nothing - that I worry about what might be when really what will be, will be. Perhaps I have been given the chance to work with this man to help me understand how futile anxiety can be. Sometimes I look at him at see a great big ball of 'flight', his body desperate to get away from the feelings but unable. He doesn't fight, well not as you or I see it but instead he turns it on himself and hurts himself. Its a terrible thing to see and a terrible thing to try and help. When I am with him I want the world to be, well perfect. I want it to be quiet and beautiful and loving and kind. I know this cannot be but wish it could be. He could so do with some 'peace and love man'.

Of course the real way to help him is to give him the tools to help him deal with life, the ups and the downs, the good and the bad. And that is what we must try to do - trouble is it is not so easy with someone so anxious without some of the coping tools many of us take for granted.

I hope that in the next few months we all find a way to help him have a different life - he deserves it. We all deserve it.

Maybe even I deserve things to be better. I know I probably wont get that 'break', that bit of good luck that would make my life better but hope that I will find another way. Maybe that is what working with this man is trying to show me.

Dix

Ageing and Time

I remember when I was pregnant and when my children were very young that time really really dragged. I always seemed to be waiting for another time, or for visitors, or for the washing to dry, a TV programme to come on etc etc. It felt like each day went on forever and that my life would always be like that. I would wake up in the morning and find I had this everlasting space where I could take my time to get things done (or not), where the day stretched before me and the evening would slowly come.

I remember when I had a conversation with someone much older than me who said, 'enjoy love, it doesn't last - as you get older time starts to rush by and there is never enough'. I can't even remember who told me this but I remember not believing them. How could this be?

Now I am fifty and my life rushes by, I wake up in the morning always longing for a little longer in bed, even on the beautiful sunny mornings we have had recently. Then I get up and do the morning chores - I feed the animals and let the dog out for a wee, I empty the dishwasher and the washing machine and hang the washing out - rush to shower and wash my hair before hoping I have enough time to take the dog on the beach for a reasonable (or if I am lucky a long walk), before going to work, or out, or shopping, or hoping I can find time to do housework or reading or watch some daytime TV, or if I am really lucky maybe even do something creative.

And then the day is gone - I am home from work - often bloody tired - trying to find time to do the ironing and potter around the garden a bit, or sewing or reading etc, etc. And then I find myself longing for my bed (normally about now, and as I type this I am thinking if I go to bed early I might find it easier to get up in the morning).

And the day is gone, again.
And the week is gone, again.
And the month is gone, again.
And the year is gone, again.
And I find myself at 50 with time rushing past me uncontrollable and longing for a quiet time.

I suspect if I am still blogging at 60 or 70 or even 80+ then this might be a very different blog - it might be talking about how slow life is again. The days dragging forever, waiting to die (well I won't say that but that is how I might feel).

Dix

Did you know?

Did you know -

it's the fashion for boys to wear pink underwear.

They have to have their trousers hanging down -

to show them off.

Dix

BR - the Finker Question

I have just finished this book and to be honest I am not sure why I kept with it. I brought it because I read it was the first humorous book to win the Booker. I thought this sounded good and it was worth a try (I waited until it came out in paperback though as it was expensive in hardback).

I have to admit it had humour in it, it made me smile a couple of times but in the end I felt like I was reading something that was, well frankly, labouring the point. I felt like I was reading something that maybe wasn't really meant for me, that somehow I wasn't in the right club, the right race, the right intellectual band to read this book - and I hate that. I didn't really understand what the question was? The characters were strange, particularly the main character somehow he didn't quite add up - it was full of sadness and did portray that terrible feeling of sadness and loss well. The ending was low and somehow I felt like sadness had won - I know there is a place for endings like this but I have to admit generally they are not so much for me. Nobody felt like they learnt anything and I guess as the reader I felt like I hadn't learnt anything.

It did make me think about being Jewish (obviously I am not) and what that might mean, what that means as an political, racial and identity issue. But somehow it felt like in doing this it was basically 'taking the mickey' and this did not feel comfortable. I realise that might have been what the author was trying to achieve and maybe he wanted us to feel uncomfortable but in doing so I wish I had cared more about the characters - I wish I had cared at all.

This book is not a keeper or something I would recommend to others yet I suspect it may be a book I will remember for a long time - strange that.

So now I have to return to my huge pile of un read books and choose something else. I want to read something that grabs me, that makes me want to turn the page and stay awake and laugh or cry and mostly makes me sad it had finished.

Any ideas.

Dix

Another fab pressie

My mate Lenny also sent me this painting - isn't it cool. I am pretty sure it is based on a trip we all took to London when we visited the Tate Modern. This was a scene from the underground when I had had a couple too many of this wonderful raspberry cocktail and was just a little well, tipsy. I am hoping Lenny will explain this painting more - I think I am the blonde with the big red mouth (I wonder why) but will let you know more, I hope.

Both the works are being framed up and put up in the lounge. I love original work - always have and I love it when people make things for me. I have some great notebook covers that JC has made and carry one with me all the time - I always cherish things like this, totally original and irreplaceable.

Love to my great mates and hope to see you soon.

dix

The Birthday Presents

I received this present from my friend Luna Lenny who is currently living in France - it is fab. It is her version of one of my Bob poems and I love it. It feels strange to have someone write a Bob poem but also amazing (if that makes sense).

Bob Went on Holiday (to Lenny's)

Bob twiddles his thumbs
"I'm bored," said Bob.
... "But you've only just got here"
"Yeah, and it ALREADY SHIT"
"Oh," ......... "Sorry, Bob."
.......................................
.................................
................................
"That's fiftenn minutes of my life
I'm NEVER Getting back."
......................BYE BYE, Bob

Witches' Knickers

Witches’ Knickers by Ghillain Potts

A plastic bag blew along the street and up into a tree.
“Hey, witches’ knickers!” said Freddie
“What? Where?” said Megan.
“There! In the tree. Look!”
Megan looked up. In the top of the tree was an orange plastic bag. The wind tugged at it.
“That’s not knickers!” Megan told him. “That’s a bag. From the supermarket.”
“No, it’s some witch’s knickers. See, they swoop down on their broomsticks and they don’t see the tree in the dark till the last minute and the tree grabs their knickers as they swoosh past and – no knickers!”
Hamid came along. “What’re you looking at?” he asked.
“Witches’ knickers,” said Freddie, pointing.
“Oh, right.” Hamid nodded.
The bag fought the tree. The wind pulled. The bag puffed up.
Megan sniffed. “So why would a witch be wearing a plastic bag for knickers, anyway?”
“Ah!” said Freddie. “Plastic bags are windproof, OK? And when the witch flies around on her broomstick, it’s windy, OK? And the wind is cold. So to stop the wind making her bum cold, she pulls a bag on over her real knickers!”
“Freddie,” said Hamid. “Nobody could wear a plastic bag. Where would you put your legs?”
“Umm. Through the handles?” Freddie grinned.
“Don’t be daft.” Megan told him. “That wouldn’t work.”
“Yes it would! Witches have awfully thin legs.” Said Freddie.
“Rubbish!” Megan sniffed. “What you would have to do is cut the two bottom corners off and put your legs through the holes. Then you could put some string through the handles and tie it around your waist.”
Freddie shrugged. “OK, so that’s what they do.”
The bag filled with the wind and jerked at the tree.
“I bet the witch’s come back and she’s tugging it.” Said Freddie.
The bag pulled free and whirled up and up.
“It’s escaped!” shouted Hamid. “Go, bag, go!”
“And it wasn’t a witch’s knickers.” Said Megan. “because there weren’t any holes in the bottom. So there!”
That night, Megan put on her black robe and her black cloak and tied her pointy black hat tightly under her chin.
Then she put on her orange plastic-bag knickers, got on her broomstick and flew out of the window.

I found this book in Waterstones bookshop, reduced because the cover was damaged. Most of the stories (all written in 366 words) are either good, bad or ok. But this particular story really took my attention. I would love that every carrier bag floating around was a pair of witches' knickers and when I see one now I always say 'witches knickers' to myself. I know it is a very different image from American Beauty where he video a bag floating around his yard but it makes me smile. This is definately the sort of short story, and particularly children short story that I would like to be able to write. It just made me smile and I hope it makes you smile too. And hope the author Ghillain Potts doesn't mind me blogging it here.

Jangling Edge

I feel on edge.
My nerves are jangling.
Please.

I feel like shouting,
shouting to release.
Please -

I need to calm
down my jangling nerves.
Please ...

I fell the urge,
the urge to be alone
Please let me be.

Please leave me
Please leave me alone.
Please give me time to be alone
Please give me time to chill
and find me!

by Dix

My Irish English Teacher

When I was thirteen we got a new English teacher. He was Irish. He spoke with a Irish accent, a shortish man (or so I remember) always wearing a pin stripped suit, if somewhat rumpled, and white hair and beard.

I went to a Secondary Modern School which meant I had failed my 11 plus and also meant that basically not a lot was every expected of me academically. Most of the time we sort of looked at bits of writing and bit of literature and bits of poetry and it felt like we were never really expected to understand it, never expected to care.

This man tried to introduce us to good literature, he talked about Shakespeare and poetry and literature. He tried to educate us. Trouble was he was Irish. I never knew whether he came from Southern or Northern Ireland (my memory of his soft accent made me think he came from Southern Ireland) but at that time, with the political atmosphere of the IRA and terrorism and bombing in the UK - it didn't matter to me. I heard on the TV that we were at war with Ireland (well basically we were) , that they wanted to maime and kill us. My dad used to visit London sometimes and I was terrified he would get blown up by an Irish bomb. It was a frightened time and I wasn't old enough to understand or even try to understand Irish politics - certainly nothing I saw on TV tried to show me another side to the story. Also my father was a devoutly religious man, being a strong Church of England Protestant so I was very influenced by his prejudice of Catholicism and what that might represent.

My teacher never had a chance - I just argued, played up, called him terrible names and was totally uncooperative. This was not the norm for me, often I was a quiet child who kept my head down and tried to get through the day. Yet he tried to teach us stuff that I now wish I had listened too - I wish I had discovered them then, some I wish I know now.

He left after a few months - it's amazing he lasted that long - it must have been hell working in a Norfolk country school with uneducated, uneducatable kids who just didn't want to hear him.

I often think about him - I often regret that missed opportunity to learn. I wish I knew what happened to him or could even remember his name. I am sorry I was such an awful pupil. I hope he found a school where he could teach and pupils could learn from him.

He once told the class that we would never learn anything - that we deserved the education we got. Harsh but with him this was probably true. I am glad I have fought to recieve and education, worked hard and got to the age of 50 with a better understanding and a way of looking at both sides (well sometimes).

Wish I could tell him that.

Going to the Tip

I know I have talked about this before on my blog but today I am taking a trip to the tip. Just really taking a couple of broken bits and garden waste - the thing is I have been putting it off for days and I was not sure why. I know the local tip can be very busy and sometimes you have to sit in the car in a queue waiting your turn but I don't think it is this that has made me reticent.

The thing is I have a bit of a magpie personality - I am not the worst but neither am I great. I collect bits - books particularly and I hate, I mean really hate things that are good going to the tip. If I get rid of anything useful I have to take it to the charity shop or it bothers me. It sits in my mind as wasteful thing to do. I am a bit 'anal' about recycling, I hate it when I see tin cans and bottles in ordinary bins when they should be in the recycling. I have sometimes gone as far as taking them out and putting them in a recycling bin - especially if there is one close. I know I nagged at college about people putting rubbish in the right bins. So when I get to the tip I mustn't look at all the really good stuff that is just going in the bin, garden furniture that is perfectly good but just might need a coat of paint, wooden furniture that is reusable or would make excellent fire wood, paintings, rugs, bikes and toys - the list goes on.

I just have to shut my eyes and get on with disposing of my rubbish.

Shut my eyes and not look at what other people are dumping.

Shut my eyes and not think about giving wasteful dumpers dirty looks.

Shut my eyes and not think about asking them for that perfect little wicker chair.

Shut my eyes and get on with throwing my rubbish away.

Dix

Mind you I might take some money and see what they have in the recycle shop - I'm looking for a hideous print to paint (long story and another post hopefully). Old habits die hard.

A Second hand poetry book

I may have mentioned this before but I like buying second hand poetry books - I will spend ages browsing and enjoying them before making cheap purchases. This book cost me a pound and has some wonderful work in it. I think some, or maybe all of it, is very female and so for me easy to empathise with but I still think others will enjoy this work. I am going to blog some of my favourites over the next few weeks. I hope you enjoy.

Is This Where I Was Going? by Natasha Josefowitz

Today's Women

We are

Today's women

Born Yesterday

Dealing with tomorrow.

Good Management Potential

If I'm assertive,

I'm seen as aggressive.

If I'm aggressive

I'm a bitch.

I won't be promoted.

Let's try it again.

If I'm nonassertive,

I'm seen as a patsy.

If I'm a patsy

I won't be promoted.

Let's try it once more.

If I'm very careful,

I can go unnoticed.

If I'm unnoticed,

no one will know

I want to be promoted.

Any suggestions?

Stereotypes

She said to him

"The academic life must be pleasant

You're a professor, how nice!"

He said to her,

"Well, maybe someday

you'll marry one"

She said to him,

"Why should I marry one

when I can be one?"

Promotion

If she wants to move up

but he wants to move in,

one of them will move out

and it won't be him.

Can't Do It All!

If I do this

I won't get that done

If I do that

this will slip by

If I do both

neither will be perfect.

Not everything worth doing

is worth doing well.

All poems by Natasha Josefowitz - blogged with admiration.

A Poem by Boy (with help from me)

A SPELL TO MAKE ME RICH

Heart from a horse
Followed by engine from a Porsche

Leg from a shiny lizard
Followed by a big snowy blizzard

Brain from a dog
Followed by a thick smoky smog

Ear from an owl
Followed by a big angry scowl

Arm from a spider
Followed by a cool pint of cider

Eye from a frog
Followed by a nice smelling hot dog

Head from a fish
Followed by a great golden dish

Foot from a cat
Followed by a spinning hat.




An exercise in rhyming couplets for Boy's homework - his basic idea with help from my rhyming dictionary and a few adjectives.

A poem by Miriam Dorothy Tripp

A bird now rests as high can be
On topmost twig of nearest tree
And watches, waits til red is grey
But still is loathe to go away
Both hardly sway uplifted twig
For birdies feet are not so big
And weight in grams so very low
‘tis hardly that the tree could know
Thy presence there; although dost bear
Thee, high up in the winter’s air,

Adjacent tree now bears a friend,
Cheep cheep and does she comprehend?
Appearing now that nearby tree
And birdie friend come sit with me
Uplifted wings – she’s come to thee
Together cheep contentedly
Then, off and up and swoop away
Perhaps they’ll come another day,

By Miriam Dorothy Tripp

I never met the lady who wrote this poem. In fact I never knew she existed until after she had died (she died in March this year). She was not directly related to me but was Boy's aunt. He (and I) were sad that we were never told about her, that he was never able to send her a card or meet her. We just found out she died and her brother sent a little money for Boy. She was in her late 70's so had a longish life. I know little else, or really nothing about her. Just a story that sounded like she had a sad life. Maybe her life wasn't sad, maybe really it was ok. I don't know.

This poem is strangely old fashioned yet I like it. It makes me think of the author and wish I had met her. I visualised a little robin or robin in a tree cheeping away contentedly. Apparently this poem was published in our local daily paper (I don't know when) and somehow I thought I must give it another chance of an audience, however small.

Hope you enjoy it; hope it gives you a little picture of nature; hope you remember the lady who wrote it if even in you minds eye.

Mog