SHEETS OF MEMORY

[Perhaps bittersweet, but true]

The calendar of my memory holds
Folded each close-packed sheet,
And I look through each day, my life’s long day,
And I trace the way, my life’s long way
Through a palimpsest of shades of grey
As the friends of my life I meet.

And I wish, when the Lord made memory,
He had thought of one thing more:
I wish he had planned - but it’s too late now
For never will man discover how
To forget, no matter how firm his vow,
And to slam shut memory’s door.

There’s so much, in the sheets of my memory,
That I love as I love life,
And yet there’s a day I would wipe away,
Tear the sheet from my memory, blot out that day,
The day when my darling was gone away,
And I became widow, not wife.

So, Lord, if you’re busy folding yet
New calendars of memory, pain and fret,
Could you please include, as a gift to man,
(It would be a joy and a gift to man,
A blessing and a shrift to man)
The ability to forget?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

GROWING PAINS

[Anyone else feel like this?]

I think I’ve got to own up,
Before one day I’m shown up,
That I haven’t really grown up.
I’m a fake.
Being grown up might be jolly,
But for this foolish, childish wally
The whole idea is folly -
A mistake.
I wish that I’d been taught to be
The grown up that I ought to be,
As adult as I’m thought to be.
I’m not.
One thought brings me some comfort,
[It’s a very odd and rum thought],
Are the others all in some sort
Of a plot?
Are all grown ups just pretending,
A pretence there’s no amending,
Are they children without ending,
Like me?
Well, like them I won’t be shown up,
And none of us will own up.
We’re pretending to be grown up,
Aren’t we?
~~~~~~~

WHY DO IT?

[Probably just a habit ... ]
So why do I write verse at all?
It’s like banging my head on the wall;
It’s so nice when I cease
That the ultimate peace
Makes the interim pangs seem quite small.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SENSIBLE SHOES

[Let's Walk]

Sensible shoes, sensible shoes:
How very depressing are sensible shoes!
When I was little, I dreamed of the day
When I’d choose my own shoes, and could banish away
Winter black lace-ups, Spring sandals of brown:
I’d have shoes like a peacock, to startle the Town!
Shoes in gold lame, with heels inches high,
And shoes diamante to dazzle the eye,
With rhinestones and gemstones and buttons and bows:
I’d have shoes like a rainbow with bells on the toes!

Purple or puce, or lace, white as milk,
In patent and plastic and satin and silk.
And boots - oh, such boots! - in fur, fabric or feather,
To the ankle, the calf, the knee or - wherever.
Then I was grown, and my own shoes could choose:
Farewell forever to sensible shoes!
I bought shoes for the morning, the noon and the night,
I bought heels too high and I bought styles too tight,
In colours and fabrics and fashions galore -
No matter how many, I still wanted more!

And boots - oh, such boots! - and they’d none of them fit,
But that was a fact I would never admit ...
I’d corns and squashed toes and dropped arches and worse:
I tortured my feet and I emptied my purse,
Until age brought me wisdom, flat-heeled and complete:
As feet aren’t like shoes, then shoes should be like feet.
Now the shoes of my dreaming lie hid where they are,
In the ways of my mind, where they’re lovelier far
Than the shoes that I walk in, the shoes my feet choose.
I’m back where I started, in sensible shoes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

SELECTIVE MEMORY

[Anyone got any answers?]

Why is it I only remember
Those things I would rather forget?
Why can’t I blot out the sorrows,
But cling to the happiness yet?
When the dear Lord gave me my memory,
I wish he had left me to choose
Which memories should perish,
And which I should cherish,
And which I should keep and which lose.

I’d remember my sons’ lovely childhood,
But I’d wipe out the tantrums and tears.
I would savour their triumphs
Through schooldays,
Forgetting the not-so-bright years.
I would see them as lads to be proud of,
Not yobbos with spots and a glower,
Their girlfriends quite charming,
Demure, unalarming,
Not a bit like the actual shower.

And then I’d remember their weddings,
With my hat as an instant success.
I’d forget the depressing
Effect of my dressing,
And the fact that my hair was a mess.
My memory would only remind me
Of the charm which I oozed from each pore,
And my daughters in law
Would applaud me,
Smiling graciously at the Church door.

But the Lord, he insists I remember
My life as it actually was:
The life of an ordinary woman -
It is this I remember because
There’s my fair share of joy and of sorrow,
My ration of tears and of mirth.
The Lord has been good to me,
More than he should to me:
How could I ask more on this earth?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FRIENDLY PERSUASION

[With friends like this ... ]
I asked my friend: "Now tell me true -
Do I look my best in blue?"
My friend said: No - you've always been
Best in palest shades of green!"
I asked her: "Are these heels too high?
She said: "They show your bulging thigh!"
I asked her: "Do you like this coat?"
She said: "It looks like homespun goat!"

I said: “Is this skirt too long, please?"
She said: "No, dear - it hides your knees!"
I said: "Is my hair nice like that?"
She said: "No, dear: just wear a hat!"
My friend was very dear to me,
That she knew best was clear to me.
And when she said: "Your clothes won't DO!"
I thought that what she said was true.

To please my friend was my great passion:
That, and staying in the fashion.
I showed my friend my nice new man.
She said: "I'd lose him if you can!"
But when I told my man: "Be gone!" -
My friend was there to take him on.
There's only one way this could end.
I kept my clothes and changed my friend.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MEMORY'S DRAWERS

[I was six in 1936 ... ]

In nineteen thirty-six I was little,
With my hair in a fringe, with a plait.
I'd a blue pleated skirt, and a nice white ironed shirt,
And a tie that did up - at the back.
I'd a round velour hat with elastic,
In a knot that I chewed till I'd choke,
But so often my doings were stopped short in ruins
When my knicker elastic broke.

Mummy took me to the Draper's,
A new Liberty Bodice to buy,
Because I'd grown out of the old one,
And my spender tapes just wouldn't tie.
It was fleecy, with all rubber buttons -
The sort you could sniff, squeeze and stroke,
But just as they bundled me in it,
My knicker elastic broke.

I did sums on my slate in the schoolroom,
Where the black Tortoise stove kept us warm,
And I learned to read - "Pooh", and "Just William" too,
And I carved my name - wrong - on the form.
And once a week Teacher's big wireless
With music the whole school awoke,
And for dear Betty Driver I danced then
Till my knicker elastic broke.

Where WAS Children's Hour on the Wireless,
And WHERE was my dear Uncle Mac?
There was just dull old music and voices.
When I groused, they said: "Don't answer back!"
Then they told me the old King was dying,
And they said that he'd died when I woke.
And I cried then, 'cos Mummy was crying,
Then my knicker elastic broke!

How I longed to be like Shirley Temple,
Whom I'd watched from my threepenny seat!
But I'd straight hair and pimples - she had curls and dimples:
In "Good Ship Lollipop" she was sweet!
So I thought I'd do "Animal Crackers" -
That would show them! - they found it a joke,
'Cos I wasn't like Shirley - I was square, squat and burly,
And my knicker elastic broke.

At School, Teacher told us one morning:
"Now, children, today's Empire Day,
And we're all going out in the playground,
Our respects to our dear Flag to pay!"
So we marched ourselves round in a circle,
And then into singing we broke:
"Grenadiers!" Rule Britannia!" "God Save Our ... !"
Then my knicker elastic broke.

Then Dad said our new King was leaving,
And he wouldn't be wearing his crown.
And when I asked "Why?" They said "Hush!" "Bye and bye",
And they said to be quiet and sit down.
And they said not to sing my new song then
(sing Hark the Herald Angels sing,
Mrs. Simpson's pinched our King)
Cos they said that it asn't a joke,
And everything seemed to be wrong then,
And my knicker elastic broke.

The Bishop was coming to visit,
And we all had to wear our white frocks.
I had black, shiny shoes with a button,
And some dreadfully tight white silk socks.
To the Bishop I made my small curtsey,
And I couldn't quite hear when he spoke,
But he patted me - twice! - on my hair band -
Then - my knicker elastic broke.

And so, through the drawers of my memory,
For the year of nineteen thirty-six
While world peace tottered, one small girl just pottered -
But there's one recollection that sticks.
From a patchwork of half-understood things
Comes a picture that time can't revoke:
In every crisis in my small devices -
MY KNICKER ELASTIC BROKE!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~