Yes, I am getting older now; my prime has slipped away; But I’m beating off the Harpies who want to bring doomsday. But the benefits now brought about through all the new advances Have brought about a change in me, at least they’ve upped my chances.
For, mine eyes have seen the glory never found since I was nine; I ‘ve cast aside my spectacles reversing my decline. I’ve got new eyes now, darling, and the cataracts have gone, So despite my aged torso I will still keep staggering on.
And my new knees tell the story of my better prospects now; I’m going to try the Great North Run if only they allow, ‘Cos I feel as though I’m twenty four and kicking down the door. At least I’ll get a few years now before I need some more.
My metal hip has been replaced; I now have one in plastic; It’s been a great success, although the experience was quite drastic. I can hobble with the best of them and the stairs I cope with ease; Yes, walking is a doddle now and life is just a breeze.
My hearing aid’s a bonus, I know what’s being said on telly. My confidence I have regained, I’d rival Machiavelli; The end still justifies the means; these life aids serve their purpose, But instead of “Turn the volume up”, I’m wishing they were wordless.
My carpal tunnel surgery stopped my fingers feeling numb. I’m twice the man I used to be, an artist I’ve become; So now you see me in my prime reflecting on new marvels; My hands are fully functional now; I have not lost my marbles.
My lumber corset gives me an efficient spinal brace. My posture’s as it should be now, no longer a disgrace. I stand upright and hold my place wherever I may be, Just the occasional little blip, one you’ll hardly ever see.
The wig I found provided me with a new lease of life; No longer bald and reticent – I’ve got a new-found wife. I’m wond’ring how surprised she’ll be when we get into bed, Perhaps she’ll want a payback when she finds she’s been misled?
They gave me my libido back with just a small blue pill; Revived my passion and my lust – be that for good or ill. I must say I’m enjoying those long lost thrills again, No longer from the Tantric Arts, do I have to abstain.
They now give me a freebie both for Christmas and tv Free bus and tube rides I can get, I’ve become a devotee Of touring round my city in a bus as if in state Suits me to be busy now at the age of eighty eight.
A pension I am grateful for, although it’s not enough, I paid my dues for forty years, I did think that was tough; Yes, the National Health helps me a lot, I get my medicine free, And if I want a pick-me-up, my nurse is good to me.
My mouth has been replenished with a set of new white teeth; I thought it best to have that done before they bought my wreath. I look forward to my time in Heaven, but perhaps it’s just as well, That I can still enjoy life now – in case I go to Hell.
TODAY I AM TACKLING A POEM USING THE ‘OTTAVA RIMA’ POETIC FORM.
Originally an Italian stanza of eight 11-syllable lines, with a rhyme scheme of ABABABCC. Sir Thomas Wyatt first introduced the form in English, and Lord Byron adapted it to a 10-syllable line for his mock-epic ‘Don Juan’. W.B.Yeatsnotably used it for his poems “Among Scool Children’and ‘Sailing to Byzantium.’
This gentle compact verse catches, in just a few phrases, some of the emotion of a humdrum everyday activity and wistfully points to the suppressed yearnings of both a personal and a monastic life.
Roger McGough (1937 – ) is an English poet, broadcaster, playwright, and children’s author . He presents the BBC Radio 4 programme ‘Poetry Please’. He is one of the leading members of the group which have become known as The Liverpool Poets’.
Life drawing classes in Chelsea The chance of a lifetime fulfilled A chance to perfect my technique I should’ve been delighted and thrilled.
But it wasn’t quite like that in practice; Whilst I became more and more zealous I found to my utter dismay My fiancé grew terribly jealous.
So I gave up these classes to please her, My art took a secondary place To a contented future with landscapes. Yes, I gave in to her whims – just in case.
So, I never will be a Paul Rubens, And Lucien Freud’s not for me. I timidly gave in to persuasion, All governed by wifely decree.
A poem, by Alfred Lord Tennyson, with great dynamism. Short but so effectively expressed. The adjectives are just right. The words, metre, alliteration and rhymes work together to convey the essence of the eagle’s power and majesty.
A Quatern is a sixteen line French form composed of four quatrains. It is similar to the Kyrielle and the Retourne. It has a refrain that is in a different place in each quatrain. The first line of stanza one is the second line of stanza two, third line of stanza three, and fourth line of stanza four. A quatern has four stresses per line. It does not have to be iambic or follow a set rhyme scheme.
”Ocean Waves’ … Pen & Wash – WHB . May 2017
In Resignation’
I wish the tide to swallow me whole As though a thief had from me stole My life, but then in guilt forgone His gains, paused, and then moved on.
I’ve had enough of body and soul I wish the tide to swallow me whole For now I see, I realise, Life is too short to compromise.
Decisions hurt but must be made, And so, before my debts are paid I wish the tide to swallow me whole; I’m ready now, I’ve lost control.
No longer can I bear the pain, Resigned to never feel again, Towards the waves I edge my stroll I wish the tide to swallow me whole.
‘The Seashore’ … Pen & Wash – Photoshopped with edge effect … WHB – April 2017
‘Pushing Up The Daisies’ … WHB – Pen & Wash. May 2017
Where are they now Gerard and the Craig twins Doggy Dan and Luggy Cooper the Lawrences Jocky Boyes and Spuggie Hood, each with a memory attached their image for me still young never ageing?
Could be still out there my age and I’m still here, not waiting but wanting wishing hoping reliving memories replaying youth, recalling lads lasses too part of my past history of my story, liked, loved, and lusted after, feared and fretted over, not given a thought until now but they could still be here, there, somewhere, not pushing up the daisies. Not yet.
Will some of them, wherever, still be sleeping with my dreams? Others, as I, lying sleepless, thinking these same thoughts, because we do have the same history, minds similarly imprinted, memories matched attuned remembering.
Racing out in the morning breathless with anticipation rushing to share our days, to build the same dams catch the same minnows in the same jam jars leap the same becks explore the same tunnels climb the same trees rocks hills fight the same mock battles. All forging our own memories.
And Jim Jim, the joker, jumped off Highcliff Nab while I took his photo, fell all of six feet soft landed on the turf ledge. No dying fall, not kicking up the daisies.
Not then, no, he wasn’t then, he is now. Long lost professor of religions respected author from beck side cottage, but now no thanks to weed and wine buried deep in my Memory Lane. Now pushing up the daisies.
But those of us who remain short time to run just enough to practise treading the ceremonial turf from below to push up the daisies.
While now, above ground we tread warily lest their spades are not ready when our own time comes to push up the daisies.
Each day The rising sun chases the moon away To hide its limpid light From the brightness of day. Cowed in its lair Within the darkness Of its sylvan hideaway, Preferring to lie With the leaves And squirrels And, as Clytie, Watch the skies, Following Helios’s chariot, Gazing as he Arcs the heavens, Jealous of his power, Fearful of his revenge Were she ever to show her face In his presence. Ever allowing her nemesis To hold sway Over the new day, Commanding the attention of the world And continuing his journey; The dominant presence In the cerulean sky.
When is the moon not a moon? … When it’s the sun in a circular mirror.
The three photographs are of a reflection in a window of daylight, itself reflected in a circular mirror and back onto the glass of the window. All photographs by me – March 2017 … Roland (WHB)
In appreciation of cricket commentaries and commentators
If FOOTBALL is ‘THE BEAUTIFUL GAME’ Then I would have to say, CRICKET is ‘THE GLORIOUS GAME’, It betters it all the way.
Both have eleven in their team, Both games are played with balls, But there the similarity ends, They’re not the same at all.
Although it is a game to watch Cricket’s still a hit; When listening to the radio And those pundits spice it up a bit.
Yes, commentators do indulge, Their language can sound silly, For cricket lends itself to jest … “The bowlers Holding, the batsman’s Willey”.
The comma after Holding, That is the crucial bit. Without it we would all be – Well – Not something we permit.
Who ever heard a football pundit Deliver such a joke? Their chat is loud and full of ‘Gooooooal!” Enough to cause a stroke.
As I listen to my radio, When reporters break the rules, In cricket commentaries They do not talk like fools.
“He chanced his arm and it came off” That is another beauty; “The captain’s relieved himself at the Pavilion End” There’s another, just a little fruity.
“Neil Harvey, he is fielding slip, Waiting for a tickle, legs wide apart”, Compared with such perceptive comments Football has no counterpart.
“An interesting morning, full of interest”. “Hutton ill … sorry, 111″ There’s two beauties, made to measure, More like that and I’m in heaven.
So there you have it, It’s my viewpoint. These cricket commentators May the gods anoint.
( With my apologies for some of my forced rhymes and unmetrical meters! )
Roland's Ragbag 