Sunday, 31 October 2010

Poetry Bus, November 1st.

Go here to see the multiplicity of prompts offered by Liz  this week, all connected to Halloween.


Grow It With Music


In our back yard there stands a garden shed,
and from the shed, nerve-shredding wails and moans
leak through my kitchen window. Tears I shed -
of laughter! Caddoc’s playing saxophone!

He thinks it helps his baby pumpkins grow
plump for All Hallows’ Eve. “For don’t you see,”
he says, “that serenading sweet and low
inflates my pumpkins?” One of many bees
in Caddoc’s gardening bonnet, I suppose.
In Spring I’ve heard him serenading trees.
Bet they’d like to uproot themselves and run –
as I would.  Caddoc’s sax is not much fun.

Sunday, 24 October 2010

The Poetry Bus Challenge, 25th. October

Argent's interesting prompt sought poems about "Meetings"


Name Dropping


Biggles I met at the Llandudno fete
in '64. He took me on a flight of fancy.
Man, oh MAN, I fancied him, his leather
airman's helmet gracing his airman's head.
But I digress. Dick Barton, Sherlock Holmes,
some footballer whose name I now forget,
all these from time to time became my friends,
Ill Met by Moonlight or at day's High Noon.
Jimmy Stewart, Marilyn, two comics
who wore bowler hats - Quarrell? And Hardly?

I can't escape them even in my dreams.
General de Gaulle (what a monstrous ego),
explained he won the war all by himself,
a feat he claimed was worth a Croix de Guerre
or two. We were dream lovers. Didn't last -
I swapped him for the Ghost of Christmas Past!

Not too many people know that Linbergh
landed first near Abergele. He stopped
by to say "Hello", or was it "Hiya,
Ada!" (being a Yank, you see). There is
no end to famous well-knowns I have met,
even The Man Who Never Was. A pet
he was, or was it never was?  I bet
I've known a lot more famous names than you -
But youth and youthful popularity
were thrown away on Caddoc!  Pity me . . .

Sunday, 17 October 2010

Another Trip on the Poetry Bus

For this week's prompt, NanU asks poets to abandon their usual writing den for pastures new, so to speak, and there - produce their poem - which I do now, with apologies to Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelley,(*) whose original you can find HERE.

Wishful Thinking

I met a poet from nearby Colwyn Bay
Who said: A small, dilapidated Shed
Stands in Abergele. There, amongst clay
pots, his visage battered, pocked, half dead
with wrinkled skin and look of worn dismay
sulks Caddoc banished from the nuptial bed
and mocked in Blogland by a Demon Wife.
"Full forty b***dy years of married strife"
he sighs.
                Beyond his rhubarb bed, berries
of deadly nightshade grow, deep purply red.
She culls - but only when the Moon is up
so no one sees the Demon at her toil
with mortar, pestle. Soon the ooze of oil
drips into Caddoc's bedtime Horlicks cup . . .

(*) I thought Bysshe was a real dumb name till I learned
that some recently dead pop-singer called one of his children "Blanket"




Monday, 4 October 2010

The Poetry Bus, October 4th

The prompt, this week from NanU was:-

Happiness

Yes, I remember Happiness -
the word, because one afternoon
when I was seventeen, my Mam said
“A girl can’t leave her Mam too soon.”

Not “said”, “hissed.” Ada jumped for joy
and ran to pack her little case,
met her beau from the motor trade.
He lived in Rhyl, a smashin’ place.

A week, a month, two months went by
I learned to cook and wash and dry
the dishes while he sold old cars
to any punter who passed by.

And for those months my young heart sang
till came the day he said in jest . .
“Why not go dancing on your own . .  “
Caddoc was there. You know the rest.

Friday, 1 October 2010




DJINN AND DISAPPOINTMENT
Bought
myself
a lamp, and
Alladin-like,
rubbed its dull bits bright.
Blue smoke! A djinn writhed out!
He bowed, spoke . . . "What's Madam's wish?"
Fast thinker, me! I said "Banish
Dreaded Caddoc to Llandudno, please"
Whoosh! Shed and husband vanished . . . then I woke.


(Followers and commenters can see husband Caddoc down in the right side-bar)



Thursday, 23 September 2010


PERFUMEREE
Don't
you dare
suggest I
wear fragrant oil!
The Old Goat in his
garden shed has daydreams
of romance while he's bedding
his tomatoes in the greenhouse
soil. A spoon of garlic if I may?
A clove a day keeps Caddoc's hands at bay.
(*) Just my little joke!

Sunday, 19 September 2010

Renewal of Vows After 40 Years

Has it really been that long
that we aren't put asunder?
How do I put up with you?
That's what I often wonder.
Have you not learned in forty years
to keep your Welsh hands to yourself?
You can get stuff to keep you calm
free on the National Health.
Get out to your garden shed
or do some DIY.
And don’t come in with muddy boots.
And never ask me why
I’m such a crabbed old battleaxe.
I’ve lived with you too long!
TWO THOUSAND weeks ago it was
when life went badly wrong.
All veiled in white, my Mam in tears
The Best Man reeling drunk
The darling bridesmaids rioting.
I knew that I was sunk.
And when I think there’s more to come . . .
I must try to be brave.
Perhaps, with Fortune on my side
I’LL dance upon YOUR grave.

Wednesday, 15 September 2010

Concrete Poetry

On my tours of Blogscapes I sometimes see references to "concrete" poetry and a novel form known as the "etheree", what will they think of next?  I have asked Caddoc about concrete, for he does have some uses. I have consulted Google and Wikipedia: -

"Concrete poetry begins by assuming a total responsibility before language: accepting the premise  of the historical idiom as the indispensable nucleus of communication, it refuses to absorb words as mere indifferent vehicles, without life, without personality without history —  taboo-tombs in which convention insists on burying the idea."

- which presumably means something in the Ivory Towers of the Universities of Abergele, Bradford or Connecticut.  

Concreteree

Mix
four parts
gravel with two
parts sand and one
part O.P.C(*). Add
water. Stir with paddle.
Pour into two big buckets.
Put one foot in one and one foot
in the other. Wait till mix hardens.
Now you can't move or fall over. Schimples!

(*) Ordinary Portland Cement according to Caddoc Trellis, 
to whom this etheree is dedicated.

Friday, 10 September 2010

“Big Tent Poetry” Sept. 6th.

 Prompt  is HERE -

"Think of something you said. Now write what you wish you had said”

Ladies Choice

At the Abergele ballroom long ago
the M.C., such a nice young man, you know,
announced – he had a nice Welsh lilting voice –
“The next dance, ladies, is a ‘Ladies’ Choice.’”

The band struck up – I yomped across the floor.
I’d spied a nice young man beside the door.
“You'll dance with me, young man. Indeed you shall.”
I should have said “Where are the toilets, pal?”

Thursday, 26 August 2010

Magpie Tales#29

Disconcerting in the Extreme!

I'm as sure as I can be that this is the Gingerbread House from "Hansel and Gretel." Allow me to remind all bloggers that this is a story which treats of inter alia:-  Child neglect, child cruelty and eventual abandonment, witchcraft, kidnap, false imprisonment and threats sufficient to put the poor wee souls in a state of fear and alarm. Not to mention the potential for dental decay, marital discord so severe as to be indistinguishable from dysfuntion with the parents of two poor waifs discussing how to get rid of them! Here's me new to blogging and I fall straight into a Pit of Vipers! You haven't heard the last of this.

Living in a S***hole

This is my first ever blogpost.  I will write stuff about living in Abergele, and sometimes I will post some poems. I will also complain about declining standards of British and World morality, excessive drinking, prurience, promiscuity, sex-in-advertising etc. Between complaints, pictures and poems, I hope you'll get an idea of what I'm like, and what it's like living in Abergele.

Incidents like the one pictured below add to the excitement and interest that come from living in Abergele.


and here's a view of one of Abergele's interesting buildings. That's an exaggeration - it's a view of Abergele's only interesting building, apart from the one above, which used to be one of Abergele's etc.


Sometimes, Abergele gives residents and holidaymakers a real frisson.  Here's a picture of a recent happening. Abergelonians lined the bridge across the railway at Pensarn to watch this.  A few hours after this photograph was taken, another train unexpectedly drew to a halt at Abergele & Pensarn Station and some people got out and other people got in.  A memorable day indeed. Trains usually go through Abergele and Pensarn station as fast as possible.  Like this one.


I mentioned holidaymakers. Dozens visit Pensarn every year. Pensarn is another s***hole on the coast, a few minutes walk from Abergele.  Why they visit Pensarn is a mystery.  Personally, I think they visit only to collect beach "pebbles." (See picture) They fill their pockets, boots and backpacks with them.  Then they journey on to Bala Lake (see Google maps). And throw themselves in. The rocks help them sink. That's what a visit to Abergele and Pensarn does to you.


I wish I lived in Colwyn Bay, or Rhyl.  Somewhere more interesting and exciting. Somewhere where there's nightlife and a skating rink and people selling Moroccan Skunk, so I could feel bubblier and truly alive.

Goodbye for now.
Ada Trellis