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The Poetry Of...
Christine A. Clatworthy
A Gambian Experience
"Right!" I announce, full of gusto,
to a sea of wide-eyed faces,
bare feet scuffing scrubby ground
as they vie for make-shift desks,
nothing more than upturned tea-chests,
pens and pencils poised at the ready.
"What I'd like you all to do, is draw
a portrait of yourselves, then write your name,
so I can start to get to know you better."
Dimpled toes court the dust. Pencils
hover in mid-air like bees over ox-eyed daisies,
hands frantically scratch heads, except one
that seeks my attention.
"Miss, here's my picture, but the rest would rather draw
each other, if that's all right?" asks one little dot.
The penny drops. "Why thank you," I say,
delve in my handbag for my mirror. "Maisha,
look, come closer, I've something to show you."
Maisha giggles, smiles ear to ear, a smile I observe
like the sun coming up, like she'd never
before seen her own reflection. "It's better
than the river, Miss, no ripples. Say, Miss,
may I keep it? I'll swap you for a biro!"
On reflection, I found myself thinking
of all those things we take for granted
like having the time to be children.
Fly away, Paul
All that was left of his past, a stash of old photos in a Bassett's liquorice allsorts tin
underneath his bed. He could talk the hind-legs off a donkey given half the chance,
a nicer kind of chap you couldn't wish to meet, a typical rough diamond. As a lad,
his ambition was to teach, but at 15, same as other kids, sent out to earn his keep.
Tyneside born and bred, coal was in his blood, till the industry's demise, the end
of an era, redundancies, the like, but life goes on. He made the best of what he had.
Newcastle Brown, his fags - bad for his health, but he at least he'd die happy,
it was merely that transition, meeting Peter at the gate he found a tad disconcerting.
Would it open wide he mused, let him quietly in, or teeter on its hinges inch on inch?
His independence he valued, so a bitter pill to swallow, put to pasture
in a home for O.A. Ps. A gross indignity for striplings such as him he'd maintained,
when first we met. Cage plus canary and shabby leather suitcase in his hands
crammed full of remnants of his 82 years, even still, prized possessions left behind.
To uneducated eyes, piles of junk, dumped and left to fester on a down-town tidy-tip
and for why? To join the queue with the rest of these old-timers for Zimmer-frames,
Alzheimer's, plastic hips and hearing aids? Came Tuesday evening last week,
he'd missed his tea. They found him on a bench by the dunes, a place he liked to sit
on his customary stroll after lunch - it reminded him of home he used to say.
Earlier that day he'd seemed fine, doffed his cap, quipped he hoped it wouldn't rain,
as I walked him to the gate. Watched the wind blow it shut behind him.
Thursday's Child
Got there all right then - you and Roger-Ramjet?
"E-mail me Mum," you'd said.
Difficult to suss though, this new technology
but promise to try tomorrow.
Miss you loads you know. When I watched you go -
drive off into the wide, blue yonder,
wondered where the years had gone,
my little girl grown up before my eyes -
so hard to believe your first day at Uni yesterday.
Hasn't been easy, setting you free
but it's been worthwhile, giving you wings,
watching you fly.
Such a shame you'd forgotten 'Edward Bear' -
found him on your bed and cried buckets -
all those remnants of your life,
clothes left behind - that smell of you.
At the end of the day, Hull's not that far away,
not as the crow flies.
You could try phoning you know,
this side of a lifetime would be nice.
Till then it's au revoir, sweet Thursday's Child
with such a long way to go.
And what of me? Ask me that tomorrow.
Today, can't seem to think beyond
the postbox at the end of the road.
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