The COVID Collection
The COVID-19 Collection
Twitching Curtains
In past days and past places there was much peering and prying
at least by those needing to know
what was going on
out in the street,
across the road
and in the neighbour’s front garden
so much so that some were locally labelled as twitchers
behind net, muslin, lace
or heavy drape barriers
finger and thumbed
so deftly apart
just enough for active voyeurism
whereas
although in past days and places when all had curtains
that were there to keep out
passing-by snoopers
wild winter winds
and cold
we can now feel justified in our twitching
as what was once anti-social becomes truly respectable
with clear sharp-eyed benefits
checking allowable distances
are wide enough
and groupings
small or better non-existent.
Limbo
Like so many I have a preferred limbo
full of rhythm and athleticism
under the bar
to the sweaty, heady Trinidadian beat and cold beer reward.
Like too many it has another meaning
which all at once has significance
in abundance
as we wait in line for the veil of uncertainty to be lifted.
Like so many it comes from the Latin
as adopted by the Middle English
but now
it is right where we are and the big word of the time.
Like others it was captured by religion
to denote a place on the edge
dangerously between
the good of here and old-style unpleasant damnation.
Like too many I tire of the new expressions
social distance, track and trace
lock down
and almost evangelical predictions of a second coming.
Like so many I feel as though in a mist
with now and then a shaft of light
and clear patches
before a fog of insecurity crawls back into my mind.
Like others I have taken my first steps
into quiet store, pub and at last to
arms-round
with a bubbly granddaughter on her own teenage fringe.
Boundaries
Never thought much about boundaries,
my first perceptions being embedded in cricket
and evening games in June at the heart of the village
and the ball speeding away over close-mown outfield
reaching the white line well ahead of the long-legged pursuer.
Now and then a no bounce clearance
from some bold worthy who stepping out
creates a missile soaring far over midge-swarmed brook
or, as the white-coated official raises both his arms aloft,
zoning in dangerously close to the front window of the old pub.
Now boundaries are perhaps new normal
not only part of the old game’s strange lexicon
or marking out a quick colonial carve-up of others’ land
or a fence to help keep out donkeys, deer or delinquents,
but something social within which we are somehow now safer.
A much-loved poet pointed out the best way
to keep up good relations with those close to us
was to ensure that barriers between were maintained
and that in so doing we create inevitable mutual benefit
perhaps learning of something good to which we could hold.
My rationale half accommodates the now
and understands its inconvenient uncertainty
but my other half looks both backwards and forwards,
sits close to friends on the bench across from the pavilion
and watches a ball fly in a clean cloud-free sky over the boundary.
Track and Trace
Corn flake sunshine garden breakfast
with the BBC radio marmalade and crumpet crisp
and crows harrying the eagles
and reporters harrying waffling Boris
and nobody harrying me whatsoever
as I pour another cup, wonder about my other home
and skim rapidly through the local paper.
Mowers buzz along the golf course
an empty bus edges slow through the over-parked street
and a virus becomes political
and a virus has us looking for new normal
and a virus nuisance to we the privileged,
is life changing for so many in shanty towns and camps
who are already living over the edge.
Yet again reminded of league tables
we are tempted to react as though we are in competition
as we open up the schools
and open up our stores and wallets
and open up that needed social bubble
but there is still too much fear, neglect and isolation
for those most vulnerable before it began.
I clear away and turn away from media
and feeling strange discontent at my necessary escape,
hatch a positive plan for a changed old,
make a tentative plan to go further afield,
track a short term plan for my sea-side walk
and though garden calls loud and there is golf tomorrow,
put some time aside to trace my blessings .....
Waiting for the Bells
Up a ladder
built from the timbers of some long-forgotten vessel
into the rope-hung chamber
with its old smell
and special memories
resting in the rough-panelled walls.
Much to learn
even the ritual important warning after the raising
“look to, treble’s going-she’s gone”
then solid practice hours
before well-earned pints
across the road in the equally old pub
Far from expert
but just occasionally we got it so remarkably right
that the old tower hummed approval
and as a rare treasure,
some villager would tell us
“you sounded real grand tonight.”
Now on pause
the silent bells are waiting to be raised;
part of the village memory bank,
listening for the band
to climb up the ladder
with eager hands returning to the ropes.
Silenced by two past century wars,
good news will eventually ring out again
as ready arms will be reaching up
and the warning call will go out
“look to, trebles going – she’s gone”
and across the road, the pub will be open.
We'll Meet Again
I have started shaking hands with my wife every new morning
just in case I forget how to do it
in the widening chasm between the past and indefinite future.
I am missing the essential closeness of family and friends
and learning a hard lesson
that the things we take for granted are also the most precious.
Meanwhile from afar but also here in our West coast garden,
the BBC brings me Vera Lynn
and stories of wartime optimism shining through uncertainty.
The serviceman’s sweetheart sang of blue-birds flying free
over those chalk-white cliffs
and took us into a strong hope of a less uncertain future.
Where we sit in our bright, blossom-filled Spring sunshine
we are less threatened than many
just as some far from the bombs, were all those years ago.
Yet all are in the same conflict and just for once are fighting
together with others rather than against
and perhaps seeing a glimpse of changes to carry forward.
The old song was about optimism and stoicism combined
and about always “smiling through”
with continued care but looking beyond harsh statistics.
Fortunate to have someone to hug morning, noon and night
I count my socially-deprived days
along with my considerable but so often neglected blessings,
until I am able to shake other hands in a wider yet closer circle
and find that Vera was right
and that we can all meet again “some sunny day.”
Not Unreasonable
Not unreasonable to question the point of poetry
at a time like this
when we have this mountain of worry to climb
and can see no help from rhythm or rhyme,
or the music of words as we practice
our social distance.
Not unreasonable to wonder what possible benefit
there could ever be
when we are afraid to push open shop doors
and need more than irrelevant metaphors,
to take us beyond breakfast toast
into another quiet walk.
Not unreasonable to walk our walk with Keats
or Emily Dickinson or such
when mind and heart open to a benign infection,
Shakespeare and Auden are allowed free entry
and we say aloud that which is ours alone
and celebrate what words can give.
Not unreasonable to stand bravely close to poetry
past and present
when we find an essential quiet moment’s pause
and read or write of what we see or feel
and find perhaps with Robert Frost
that we are mending the wall.
March blossoms on the plum tree
the middle of the night frost crisp is talking to my shoes
and morning light seems slow to break through the pines
as the kettle steams into the latest radio virus news
and just for a few minutes I am reminded of my age
the eggs have scrambled into a perfect indication
that good things can emerge from a whipped-up mess
and the marmalade toast tastes like orange sunshine
as I spread a mix of warm thoughts of better days
much-maligned social media is sending caring thoughts
and I respond as a substitute for the road-side conversation
that I will miss when I fork up neglected front garden borders
before washing my dangerous fingers and thumbs yet again
grateful for all those ready to care for the sick and vulnerable
and well aware of warnings that demand can far outstrip supply
I place a new suet bar into the busy clustered bird feeder
and see that there are white blossoms on the plum tree.
Wind Walk
panic is wind-winding around every corner
spitting in our faces, pulling at our clothes, chilling clean hands
eating into our confidence, laughing at our indecision
and those who can,
buy like there will never be another chance
and the loo rolls are trolley-rolled away, chicken have flown,
frozen peas gone into dangerous thin air and no baked beans
which is another reason for the loo-roll rush
as flushed with anxiety
we find the smallest room in the house
and sit and worry
it is quiet on the hill and on the street
as the wind tries to blow fear away across the empty beach
and we wonder if we should buy more milk .....
Pots and Pans
Part of a noisy but relatively harmless community happening
all in support of the front liners
but as so often when I do such things it becomes about me,
as I long wanted to be a drummer in some kind of band
exhibiting my extrovert tendency
which I have had to bang out over and over in other ways.
So there I go on my small seven o’clock boulevard stage
bashing away like Gene Krupa,
Buddy Rich, Jo Morello or even Phil Collins and Ringo Starr
on one of the pans we usually use to warm up our soup;
developing my own rhythms
scaring roosting birds and frightening off dog walkers.
Learning painfully almost certainly not for first or last time
that pride comes before a fall,
I pick up the pace and get quite loud and complicated
and in one good cause and my own very doubtful one
work up to a heavy metal crescendo
and smash off the end of our very best wooden spoon.
Not To Hug
More difficult for some than others and I am missing it
as expected being of tactile inclination
which all sounds a bit dodgy
but is just the way I am
although the change is easier than times past
before I discovered political and social correctness.
Never stepping over a line I rather than they painted
I was not good at understanding
how the hug-receiver felt
as I always assumed
that they were as comfortable as I with affection
demonstrated physically in ways I thought were mutual.
If in doubt I hugged when in doubt I should have not
and the penny was late to drop
into my half-closed mind
struggling to recognize
that my behaviour might be inappropriate
even though I did it with the very best of intentions.
Now the crisis is helping me out in a strange way
and concentrating my slow brain
into better practice resolution
and overdue restraint
as arms round is anatomically impossible
when we have the two metre gap between us.
So when this is all over and the blue-birds sing
there will be one pale silver lining
across my personal sky
as I wait outstretched
to hug my daughters and grandchildren
and anyone else out there who gives permission.
Temptation
It is tempting to reduce the expected safe social distance
when meeting friends
on my daily walk.
It is tempting to pause and talk as once upon a recent time
but with raised voice I resist
and keep it short.
It is tempting to not take the trouble with soapy hand-wash
or spend too long in the local store
looking for more loo-rolls.
but
I am spending a lot less than before on coffee
I am getting on well with the love of my life
The garden is looking relatively cared for and tidy
I am making more contact with those faraway
I find I can walk without a golf bag on my back
I am learning to play the drums on pots and pans
I am writing a lot …
and yet
it is tempting to switch off the dire beyond dismal virus news
and as a not unreasonable reaction
watch garbage instead.
It is tempting to look for the sunshine behind every cloud
instead of giving what thanks I can
for the break in the rain
It is tempting to assume the worse when my throat gets sore
until I realize it was caused
by shouting on the street.
Line Dance Shuffle
Crawl out of bed, crawl into the car,
crawl into the line then crawl....
With one too bright exception we are quiet,
and shuffle obedient from one mark to another
like better than normal school kids.
We shuffle for twenty five minutes,
then shuffle in and shuffle down the aisles
with our sealed lips and fresh-wiped carts.
Half an hour later carriage full I join another line
and line up to tap dance and take my grateful leave
into the car park as the not so oldies join the fun.
Mission accomplished I transfer all to my car
then transfer it all home via the scenic route
where a quiet beach restores my equilibrium.
Back to base I line up my provisions for inspection
and find that somehow, somewhere, I have forgotten
the five things that we really needed.
Looks like it will be same time tomorrow then.
More crawling, more line ups, more shuffling.
Can’t wait for the next line dance ....
Inappropriate Levity
it’s a problem at all sorts of levels
not least for those of us guilty of being born optimists
capable as I am said to be, of seeing a glimpse of bright sunshine
behind a cloud as dark as my gardening fingernails.
It’s not the print media that is at fault as by and large
the warnings are sensible, and the updates correct but with little sport
the comparative outbreak league tables are all we have.
South Korea developing a sound defensive strategy,
the GREATEST country in the world keeping foreign attacks at bay
and the Brits active in mid-field behind those stiff upper lips.
As apparently a tactile sort of guy I feel for Italians
who thrive on hugs and kisses and explosions of musical language
with even Serie A competition closing down til further notice.
Then there is self-isolation which is a drastic necessity
but is what the old folks used to call keeping oneself to one’s self
which I think is fine if it is only for a couple of hours or so.
As for bog-paper hunting and hoarding developing
into dramatic form akin to wall daubing and performance art
it is surely worthy of a rap musical or full-blown opera.
Not to at all downplay the serious sad nature of this
I hope that early confusion about Corona wotsit has cleared away
and that all now know it is not a lime-top fizzy Mexican lager.
Missing Punctuation
I doubt if I am the only one to feel the steel trap of limbo
and find that my weeks days and hours are no longer held in a frame
of happy punctuation by pause and question and emphasis
and the welcome ending that hides out of sight
behind a sameness lacking in routine order so taken for granted
that now I struggle
into a new pattern of missing my children and grandchildren
my golf and my choir and my friends and my roadside chats
and the pub coffee shop and the always so appreciated visitors
to a home that is unchanged but feels so different
as though the very windows walls and doors are holding against
taking a deep breath
until such time we bring back the comma into the sentence
to allow us pause in the stream of words and change direction
and return to a land of exclamation and question mark and parenthesis
when the old order is happily regained
and we are able to move on to the long awaited full stop
in wiser gratitude.
Lean on me
If you must, but I am sure you could find someone stronger
and fitter and available and
younger.
Just in case you have been asleep for the past too many weeks;
leaning is no longer allowed
hereabouts.
So, I suggest we get all painlessly metaphorical again
and realize it doesn’t have to be
physical.
Right now there is much leaning necessary everywhere
and we all need somebody
to lean on.
Which means of course that someone out there needs us
to ease the fear and isolation
for a while.
If you have not yet got the Bill Withers connection
get on to YouTube and
Lean on Me.
Bill Withers died March 30 2020 and left us looking forward to
A Lovely Day
Jigsaw
It is all too appropriate.
Here we are with a tricky one thousand piece enterprise
searching for the edges, sorting out the colours,
dropping them on the floor, arguing about responsibilities,
taking too much space on the dining-room table
and competing heavily with the other ways in which we
utilize our unrequested
limbo.
Just like our days, too many pieces are much like the others
and there is a sameness that brings frustration,
a challenge to composure and patience and togetherness
and a feeling that slow time is being wasted;
that there must be better uses for our talents and skills
than this re-creating
recreation.
Yet unfinished it sits and smirks at us like a new morning
dragging on in such a manner that we turn away
and search for distraction as though the puzzle is not there
or even if so has a finite time line we can see
beyond confusing patterns and recurring false starts
and shallow bursts
of optimism.
Another day bounces brightness off the garden pathway
and we bend as though in meek subservience
until with aching back we narrow down remaining difficulties
and believing that there is light at the tunnel’s end
gather in the very last components in predictable order
and drop the final piece into
place.
It is all too
appropriate.
In need of a hair-cut in a crisis
Times are hard enough and I do not want extra trouble so this
is about boys and men, not girls and women ....
In the weird way we can remember our young fears and anxieties
many years on, I can recall too well how I felt as a kid
about snippers and clippers and chairs too much like those
in which the dentist occasionally captured me.
My first was a milk-round stop where occasionally I was deposited
for the reluctant scary short back and sides procedure
there in Anson’s barber-shop complete with its garish pole
reminding all of a different cutting and crude surgery.
It was not the scissors so much as the hearty loud man-talk
under pipe and cigarette smoke wreathed on the ceiling
and the sweeping up of too many dust-wrapped floor locks
and the fearsome stropping of cut-throat shaving blade.
Old Ben’s shed with its view of the village was much more fun
and although the quality of the work may have been less
I was relatively happy perched up on plank with harmless chat
and the eagerly awaited reward of a sticky mint humbug.
Then Elvis brought new style, Brylcreem and ever-present comb
and my black mop shiny-plastered into a duck’s backside
in the vain hope of catching some girl’s eye at the school dance
and giving more authenticity to my eight-chord guitar playing.
Many cuts, shops and barbers good and not so over the years
and eventually all I am left to ask for is a tidying procedure
as my rocker’s mane has long gone the way of my suede shoes
and only side-burns remain as a grey memory of old days...
and now in this strange waiting time my meagre cover needs a trim
and I am hoping that my long-suffering wife will oblige.
with a possible poem on the horizon
I sit on morning-warm deck with tea and time for slow thinking
as another string of inadequate words appears
like unexplainable ripples on a nearby ironing-board sea
and yet again I find myself
wandering down an old road through familiar memories
asking to be made into something
and challenging me to write about both the then and now
in ways that makes the relevance
ring out like the church clock keeping village time,
the cry of new-born lambs,
the introductory notes of the harvest-time hymn
or the cleave of the grave digger’s spade
into the clay-rooted turf of a hill-top burial ground.
A friend up the street leaves out copies of UK newspapers
and here and amongst and beyond the politics
there are imagination-pushing specks in the arty sections
where I sieve for the elusive gold
of elegant prose and a kind of poetry deep enough
yet so comfortably accessible
that understanding does not bring a brain-stretching exercise
but grateful realization that others walk
the same road with stronger and surer steps than mine
yet with common purpose
taking insight from image and allowing it to grow into
hope, joy, fear, fellowship
or whatever emotion impels the writing in the first place.
Right now, it is the virus with all its opportunistic tentacles
dominating our lives and demanding so much
of those on that stretched and dangerous front line
as most other news becomes lesser news
and the travel sections are first to reach re-cycling
where for now they belong
as we learn to recognize ways of making shorter journeys
bringing equal delights and diversions
and time for neglected reflection on all that we have,
stopping along the way where once we hurried on
to look beyond our eyes, breathe in nature’s perfume
and listen, listen, listen
for the laughter of children and distant church bells.