..................................................................................................
The Poetry Of...
Christine Ann Clatworthy
Bazookas and Bubble Gum
Half-term holiday down Gas House Lane -
kids meld on the corner by the sweet shop.
A fairy queen emerges, up at number 9A,
skips, two steps at a time, down front porch steps,
clutching at her precious cardboard crown
as it slips over one eye.
A necklace, strung with orchids
of toilet tissue kind -
a jazzy woollen cardigan, buttoned up wrong,
cotton dress with bow, half untied.
Her little sister, tries to hold her hand,
attempts to pinch her wand
as they stand, mouths a-gog, chewing gum.
The boys making mischief with an old down-pipe,
recovered from the tip down the road.
The oldest boy totes it,
weapon-style,
goading them to fight -
the filthy rotten scum.
If they're not careful, right
he'll blow their brains out, right
in a calculated, random kind of torture.
Catcalls and yells resound off terraced walls,
someone's pinched a skateboard,
grab the smallest kid - make him take a devilish ride.
Halfway down the street he collides,
thwacks, broadside, on a lamp-post.
They kill themselves laughing as he cries -
wipes his nose on his coat and rubs his eyes.
The fairy queen proclaims she's just wet her knickers
as tiny feet jiggle in their fluffy, pink slippers
with Donald Duck and Goofy on the toes.
"Fucking pig!" she shouts to no one special,
as she spins full circle,
kicking at the air, Karati style -
blows a kiss in a bubble at her sister.
Dear Diary
How fast a fortnight flies - how very blue the sea was,
how I tried to race the ripples back to shore,
how it came untied, that dreadful swim-suit I wore
whilst burying my father's sandaled toes
as he dozed - knotted handkerchief on head
and your mother sat chatting to mine
and how sorrowful the sea-gulls seemed,
surfing on the wind
how poignant, the echo of their cry.
How I took a deep breath, plucked up courage,
said, "Hello - my name's Susanna,
aren't you going to tell me yours?"
You were that surprised you dropped your cone,
watched it fall, face down, in the sand
and how my brother teased yours
as our dog chased a beach-ball in the waves
and he did as he pleased, barked and sneezed.
And the band played.
How we queued for an age to hire a donkey,
how your Dad said a bob was daylight robbery,
how we both burst into tears
and how by the pier, amongst deckchairs and feet,
with our buckets and spades, we dug a deep tunnel,
you at one end, me at the other,
how my fingers, wet with sand,
suddenly broke through and then touched yours
and how my heart skipped a beat.
Cromer Sands
August, 1964
the naming of plants
at our school we were lucky
we each had a garden
the brainchild I might add
of my very favourite mistress
miss amelia jones
the best one she told us
would get certified
so darren mcdaniels he got busy
with his turnips and tarragon
parsnips and pelargoniums
sylvia samuels she grew annuals
biennials and hollyhocks
marigolds, sweet rosemary
and stocks. Enough to bore the socks
right off the birds and the bees
whereas exotic was me -
the plants I liked to grow
came from places miles and miles away
as far apart as amaryllis and agapanthus
capsicum and catalpa
climbing titicarthians
fragile fritillaries, horned devilsfoot
and my piece de resistance
mrs aurora mctavish which believe it or not
is a rose
it was also the brainchild of my teacher
that I should write a hundred times over
gardens are sent to us from god
and I was bad to name a clump of stinkhorn
miss amelia jones
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