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"

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.

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)

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!

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.

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.

“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?”

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