June Rain
Love is a beautiful and fragile thing that catches us unawares. My life has been enriched by the love of lovely men, all of whom are gone, but none of whom are forgotten. So although this poem may seem sad, it really isn’t. It’s a celebration of the power of love and it’s stubborn refusal to bend to our will.
The June Rain
The June rain
Slams into the crisp and fragile tiles
Roofing this insubstantial bath-house
Where I lie, in deep water,
Warm and unaware.
No warning. No,
‘By your leave?’
My heart beats faster,
Turning somersaults,
Allowing me no let-up and
No possibility of escape.
Is this possible?
Have I not done enough?
I built a wall around my mind
Forbidding it to stray.
As for my body – I trained it to
Tremble to another touch –
But my fucking heart
Holds in its bloody muscle
The memory of June rain
Pounding on an
Insubstantial
Roof.
And I am caught,
Trapped like a bird in a net,
Uncertain whether to
Laugh or cry.
Fifteen Minutes ..
The answer my friend … Is that James Taylor, going out with Joy? … That bastard killed his pig! I was shocked, shocked, when porcicide occured to me – how could he possibly kill his pet? Then WRITE A SONG ABOUT IT? Mona, Mona.
End of every year the Leavers Class would choose the music for closing assembly. They all, I hope , went out with Joy and were led forth in peace. I really really like the idea of the trees of the field clapping their hands as the mountains and the hills bow down before me… Not sure that’s a great thing to admit to, but what the hell. Heaven, I mean.
So what’s Dylan up to these days? I was a child of the sixties and like everyone of my age I belonged to a folk group. We were called The Ribbettes, because we all went to Ribston Hall School. ‘Scholarship girls, Stand at the back!’ What a classist dump that was. Sally Fearn, Jackie Bratt. Geraldine Keveren, where are you now?
I never thought much of my singing ability, but I had a good memory and knew all the words. Sadly, Bob, the cannonballs are still flying, only now they’re Tomahawk missiles, though I expect they were ICBM’s back then. Cannonballs are for pirates say I. Or Admiral Nelson, though it was a sniper that did for him – ‘ Kiss me, Hardy’ pickled in Brandy to preserve the body for a hero’s return, the barrel was practically empty when he was rolled ashore – the booze syphoned off by the Jolly Tars, who certainly went out with Joy. And Daisy and Sally and Meg, game girls all: good at giving sailors a blow in the wind.
So much of her to love too much to take care of. And as for the dove! Still sailing about looking for the white sands.
Now as for looking up in search of the sky – What about the women? Come on, Bob! Women know how many deaths it takes, because they have given birth to everyone of them. Go blow in the wind all, and see what blows back.
Freedom. Really big word. What did we hope for back then Mr Dylan? Freedom for all … Ah! Yes. Sweet Dreams.
Primer For Lovers
Abounding in love for me, you don’t
Belittle me. You are
Caring and compassionate my
Darling, whom I love dearly. You
Excite and exhilarate me, not
Forgetting that which pleases me. You
Give of yourself generously with
Honesty and humour. You are
Kind with a particular kindness engendering
Longing and laughter. You
Make love with skill. You’re mindful of my
Needs. You’re never
Oppressive
Petulant or
Quarrelsome, but ever
Responsive
Sensitive
Tender and
Understanding.
Virtues
Which
eXplain why I love
You and pursue you with such
Zeal!
I Am Undonne … !
RiposteToday, let’s rewrite a famous poem, giving it our own spin.
I have been working on this poem for more than twenty years! I warn you, it is a little naughty if you’re good with innuendo… It is the reverse of yesterday’s idea The Lady writes as if SHE is making the moves. A parody of John Donne’s ‘To His Mistris Going To Bed’.
Riposte
Ah! Gentle Sir, you say you’ll have no rest
Till my body, as by soul’s possess’d.
My foe is proud I see, and standing high –
He, when upright, demands that I should lie!
Weary of battle I must now confess
And will, as I desire, remove my dress.
You hear frail Chronos’ measured tread aright:
‘Tis Time, and you shall grace my bed this night.
My girdle first falls free, though Heav’n I fear
My narrower be than all reveal-ed here …
Bejewelled, my stomacher now decks the floor:-
A foolish ploy, it stays my fool no more.
As fast as trembling fingers will allow
All outward wear lies discarded now.
No angel here, though in white arrayed
Unlaced, to fall: a paradise displayed!
If license you seek, then licensed be
To roam at will: ‘Tis all your territ’ry.
A bed, my stage, I play the lover’s part.
I take your hand, to place your seal upon my heart.
Here speaks no feeble lay, my spirit soars –
Bringing hence a passion Sir, to equal yours!
sightbites 
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