PLEASE, MR LINNAEUS
I wish that men were more like plants,
labelled, so that a single glance
would show which ones to culivate
and which would never germinate
into a Spring relationship
or Summer flower. My pillowslip
has nursed too many specimens
of weedy homo sapiens.
A horticultural dictionary
has text and pictures vis-a-vis
each species, tells what to expect,
e.g. 'short-lived', 'sturdy', 'erect',
with epithets like 'superba',
or 'densum', 'foetens', 'hirsuta',
so, if one's rooted in your bed,
at least you know what lies ahead.
We women find it pretty scary
if he turns out all-over-hairy,
or thick or smelly - without warning -
and less than superb in the morning.
But 'sempervirens', 'evergreen',
'upright', 'perennial' can mean
a fruitful life in Autumn too,
Winters of love and honeydew.
AFTER THE PARTY
Yesterday the world was double and enveloped in a mist
Like the fog of a pea-souper in November,
And whom I'd met and what I'd said and whom I'd hugged and kissed
Were lost forever. I could not remember
Arriving home, crawling upstairs or falling into bed,
(The aftermath is time for second-guessing)
And, because of mini-armies waging war inside my head
I spent a doleful morning convalescing.
The afternoon was better: I had tea and buttered toast
And thought of you (my faculties were clearing):
Handsome, lean, a perfect gentleman, always the thoughtful host
But with little human touches - so endearing!
By evening I was wretched: what must you have made of me
Lurching round your room unsteadily, a danger
To life and limb and peace of mind, a cannon loose at sea,
Telling not-so-funny jokes to any stranger?
This morning is White Monday: everything is crystal bright
Except for me - I'm gloomy with repentance.
I'll email you or perhaps text or maybe even write;
Please don't judge me with a distant prison sentence.
I'll be different in the future: I'll give up the demon drink,
My behaviour will be ladylike and sober.
But call me back before I change to tell me what you think.
I could start next month - or wait until October.
Do nothing in a hurry was my mother's sound advice,
And, after all, some skittishness is charming.
A triple gin - much later - would be really rather nice,
When I'm merry I am thoroughly disarming.
Your next-best friend, I recollect, laughed loudly at one pun
And said he found staid women somewhat boring.
As I danced and flirted madly, he declared that I was fun.
Better wake him up now. I can hear him snoring.
"She'll have no truck with metaphor..."
but I dig them, particularly mixed,
love to bits then patch them up again.
The literal's too rational, too fixed,
too straight for someone of my acumen.
Yet I'll not be a pig in any manger
sulking because of too-high sour grapes;
I'll walk the plank of truth, though fiction's stranger
and keep the mirror of my mind ship-shape.
My cup is running over, food for thought,
I'll never look a gift-horse in the stable
and my old gran sucks eggs but can't be taught
new tricks or make an omelette. I am able
to nip more rats in bud than I can say:
I'm hoist by my own trumpet every day.
[The title is a quotation from Jacqueline Brown: Thinking Egg
A PLEA FOR GREATER UNDERSTANDING
For far too long, the menopause
has been the undeserving cause
of mockery and ridicule,
a topic that the meanest fool
can crack a joke on. One hot flush,
derided, brings a scalding blush
to cheeks that know they're past their best.
So, let me lay the facts to rest.
This crisis of identity
striking at forty-five, fifty,
or earlier still, hits hard and deep:
the sufferer, awake, asleep,
is agonisingly aware
of bulging tum and pewter hair,
of baggy bits under each arm
and consequent decrease in charm,
a diminution which affects
relations with the other sex.
The sense that youth is all too brief
gives rise to glumness, angst and grief.
Hormonal chaos and the loss
of braincells make the subject cross
and prone to sudden mood-swings or ...
You've got to go? Oh, what a bore!
I'll finish when we meet again -
so far I've only dealt with men.
To return to the Home Page click here
I wish that men were more like plants,
labelled, so that a single glance
would show which ones to culivate
and which would never germinate
into a Spring relationship
or Summer flower. My pillowslip
has nursed too many specimens
of weedy homo sapiens.
A horticultural dictionary
has text and pictures vis-a-vis
each species, tells what to expect,
e.g. 'short-lived', 'sturdy', 'erect',
with epithets like 'superba',
or 'densum', 'foetens', 'hirsuta',
so, if one's rooted in your bed,
at least you know what lies ahead.
We women find it pretty scary
if he turns out all-over-hairy,
or thick or smelly - without warning -
and less than superb in the morning.
But 'sempervirens', 'evergreen',
'upright', 'perennial' can mean
a fruitful life in Autumn too,
Winters of love and honeydew.
AFTER THE PARTY
Yesterday the world was double and enveloped in a mist
Like the fog of a pea-souper in November,
And whom I'd met and what I'd said and whom I'd hugged and kissed
Were lost forever. I could not remember
Arriving home, crawling upstairs or falling into bed,
(The aftermath is time for second-guessing)
And, because of mini-armies waging war inside my head
I spent a doleful morning convalescing.
The afternoon was better: I had tea and buttered toast
And thought of you (my faculties were clearing):
Handsome, lean, a perfect gentleman, always the thoughtful host
But with little human touches - so endearing!
By evening I was wretched: what must you have made of me
Lurching round your room unsteadily, a danger
To life and limb and peace of mind, a cannon loose at sea,
Telling not-so-funny jokes to any stranger?
This morning is White Monday: everything is crystal bright
Except for me - I'm gloomy with repentance.
I'll email you or perhaps text or maybe even write;
Please don't judge me with a distant prison sentence.
I'll be different in the future: I'll give up the demon drink,
My behaviour will be ladylike and sober.
But call me back before I change to tell me what you think.
I could start next month - or wait until October.
Do nothing in a hurry was my mother's sound advice,
And, after all, some skittishness is charming.
A triple gin - much later - would be really rather nice,
When I'm merry I am thoroughly disarming.
Your next-best friend, I recollect, laughed loudly at one pun
And said he found staid women somewhat boring.
As I danced and flirted madly, he declared that I was fun.
Better wake him up now. I can hear him snoring.
"She'll have no truck with metaphor..."
but I dig them, particularly mixed,
love to bits then patch them up again.
The literal's too rational, too fixed,
too straight for someone of my acumen.
Yet I'll not be a pig in any manger
sulking because of too-high sour grapes;
I'll walk the plank of truth, though fiction's stranger
and keep the mirror of my mind ship-shape.
My cup is running over, food for thought,
I'll never look a gift-horse in the stable
and my old gran sucks eggs but can't be taught
new tricks or make an omelette. I am able
to nip more rats in bud than I can say:
I'm hoist by my own trumpet every day.
[The title is a quotation from Jacqueline Brown: Thinking Egg
A PLEA FOR GREATER UNDERSTANDING
For far too long, the menopause
has been the undeserving cause
of mockery and ridicule,
a topic that the meanest fool
can crack a joke on. One hot flush,
derided, brings a scalding blush
to cheeks that know they're past their best.
So, let me lay the facts to rest.
This crisis of identity
striking at forty-five, fifty,
or earlier still, hits hard and deep:
the sufferer, awake, asleep,
is agonisingly aware
of bulging tum and pewter hair,
of baggy bits under each arm
and consequent decrease in charm,
a diminution which affects
relations with the other sex.
The sense that youth is all too brief
gives rise to glumness, angst and grief.
Hormonal chaos and the loss
of braincells make the subject cross
and prone to sudden mood-swings or ...
You've got to go? Oh, what a bore!
I'll finish when we meet again -
so far I've only dealt with men.
To return to the Home Page click here
