Saturday 7 November 2020

CAMBRIDGE AND LOVING IT.

 My head is about to explode. I've managed to study at Cambridge University and although its not a normal year I am told, I am eating up every moment of it.   Richmond is wonderful and beautiful in many ways, but so much like ice cream.  Sweet but too much of it, it makes you sick, and gives you brain freeze. And I have never enjoyed living in stasis which is how many or perhaps most like to live. With a happy ever after and a The End.   Life is not like that.  Any Buddhist will tell you that. And so I found myself this week reading about poetry. I do not read about poetry. I write poetry, occasionally read poetry but do not read about poetry. Its a bit like reading recipe books.  You are not making the food or eating the food, just reading about making the food and potentially eating the food.   

And I've had to re read childrens books.  And identify the first book that wowed me.   None really did.  I read a lot. Loads and loads of stuff I wasn't meant to read like interviews in Sunday magazines - like the Observer and Sunday Times, when celebrities were even more dishonest about themselves than they are  now.

Any way.  poetry and children's books.  I identified the book that I read a lot as a child, and then re read it.  And bang.  Did it hit home.  I wrote two poems.   Here they are.  


The Alice Dance 

Opening the first page 
Like dipping the toe
Like jacques Cousteau 
I remember she fell 
Into a puddle of her own making
That was deep 
But she was never still 
She talked to animals 
Like people
And realised people behaved like animals
But the animals had a dignity the people did not
She would not play the game
Or agree with anyone she met
Knowing caterpillars think they are wise 
And life deals you cards
And the garden is never what it seems 
And never follow a cat
Especially one that smiles
Or take tea where nothing 
Fills you up 
Not even impolite conversation
Moving on to the next empty seat 
To take another’s place
But never yours 
To find your head
When those around you are
Losing theirs 
Oh I joined the dance as I re read the journey
The original travel journalist
And yogi
Who told of her weird 
And wonder land adventures through rabbit holes
And tiny doors
And grew too large and small
Until she realised she is
Enough
How much like me this
Alice is 
mirrored as I read again 
Much older now 
About myself 
She said one day she would write a book about herself
And I did.  


And turtles who mock and cry 
So many tears
To drown the mice in your life 
And babies to pigs 
And pepppppper anger
Who said cooking makes you happy?
And the drag faced Duchess and the Queen wanting to be treated like royalty secretly terribly disappointed with her passive king doing absolutely nothing until judgement day comes and everyone must stand to account even if you live in a tea pot. Oh how she wanted a prince and to move on like Alice did. 
The writer wrote for himself
As they always do especially  when writing to their child like self when they can be more honest
And barriers are meant to be broken and
Plots are meant to have holes in them. 
Carroll was an adult who wanted to be a child and have an adventure and descend down that rabbit hole. 
I ventured down 
Oh yes I did 
And moved on past the 
Empty dinner parties of impolite conversation 
Of non sense and
Kitchens full of resentment
And mothers who 
Are born to have pets not 
Children 
And wise old men who sat on ivory mushrooms
Of sprouted  platitudes hoping they would one day turn into something that flew and had colour
But he never did. 
Did he 
not on this page
Not like the griffin who
Arose and led you to another tale and tail
Of a dance

How much like me
With her curious nature
And love of words
And thirst to play with life
And adventure
And realising everyone 
Is painting their white roses
Red
And red roses white
Because some malcontent
Says so 
Just smell the roses will you 

How I woke up that day when 
I turned that first page
And dipped in my toe
Like Cousteau 

And on poetry. 

Poetry 

Photograph to painting
The language of children
Turns what you see into 
what you feel into 
why you hear into 
how you touch into 
putting words together that have 
never met before like 
rushing blue and 
hiccup pink 
to make it 
pop 
like paint colours for the wall 
to add poetry to your home.  


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