Mixed Messages

Yellow crop top
skin tone leggings
a bare midriff
good as bare bum
but topped with
a biker’s leather
black bomber jacket

Cargo pants and
an old guy shirt
North Face jacket
don’t he know that’s
drug dealer gear
– sitting perving…

What you looking
at you old fart?

I’m sorry!
Did I drop one?

No I said
you are one!
– An – Old – Fart!
And stop perving!

A cool, grey cat
may look at a queen…

What does that
even mean?

In America
New York, Harlem
the Golden Age
of the black man
A cool grey cat
– an old white man…
may look at a
woman in the
prime of youth

Did I say you
could look at me
you old white man?

Everything
about you says
“Just look at me!”

Yes but not you!
Why would I want
you to look at
me – old fool!

They do say
“Only a fool
wishes to be
young again…”
but you make me
remember young
– I was young once
like you – you know?

I suppose but
just don’t look at
me – it ain’t for you
I’m all dressed up!
How old are you
Mister-talk-like
-a-dictionary?

Turned seventy
just last month
and can’t help but
see you when you
pace up and down
in front of me!
Where should I look?

True nuff, dude
– can’t stand waiting
what time’s this bus
coming anyway?

Still ten minutes
– could take the weight
off and sit down…
If the wind changes
you’re stuck with that frown…

Them metal seats
are far too cold
– any more advice
Mr Seventy

My mother would
have said you’ld catch
a cold – bare bellied…

And how old’s she
when she’s at home
– like you – cant mind
her own bus’ness!

A hundred and five
were she still alive…

Sorry mate I
didn’t think
I mean…
my mother
says the same…

Mothers! Who’d have ‘em?

You’re funny Mister!
It’s mothers have you!
Where you off to
anyway, bingo!

Keighley Poets Group
at the library
and what about you
– boyfriend? Girl’s night out?

Meeting the girls
maybe to score
not that it’s any
of yours “old fart”

If only I was
fifty younger…
I might even be
 in with a shout
I could dance then
shake it all about…

In your dreams mate
too posh for me
too many long words
you gonna write
a poem about me
am I your muse?

And have the world
call me a perve
and not just you?
You are a sight
for sore eyes it’s
true though – but I
didn’t mean to
upset you – it’s
hard not to see
beauty when it’s
there to be seen…

True nuff – I can’t
expect that only
fit young dudes will
see me and not
be seen as well
by “Cool grey cats”…
no Harry Potter
selective cloak of
invisibility…
Oh look! The bus!

It has been nice
to talk to you
and come to see
the other’s view
untangle all the
mixed messages
which age and looks
can scramble up
I hope you have
a good night out!

You too Mr Poet
– knock ‘em dead at
your poetry slam
and you can write
one ‘bout me too
– if you want to…

© Andrew Wilson, 2025

I should first say that this conversation is an act of imagination lol! I have started attending a poetry group at my local library (whose construction, like many in England, was funded by Andrew Carnegie – an arch capitalist who made obscene amounts of money and ameliorated his conscience by spreading literacy through libraries) – the group are mainly people who have no online presence but only meet IRL – in the real world (an expression only used by those in the digital world!)
There is a topic chosen for each meeting and the one upcoming next Tuesday, is “Mixed Messages” and I wrote this poem for the meeting.

I have been absent from my usual online haunt – dVerse Poets Pub for the last month as I am participating in the A to Z Challenge and each post takes a lot of research, illustrating and writing which you can find, starting here. However, I thought this poem might fit Dora’s prompt in Poetics but missed the deadline and so I am posting it for the Open Link Night

A to Z 2025 Challenge, Frewin,Fossils and Film…

I confess I am not a great fan of auto-biographies that begin at the beginning and follow a temporal path up to the present day – not that the person might not have some interesting stories, facts and opinions strung on their necklace but it just doesn’t appeal as a structure. On the other hand, in my last, extra year at school in Oxford, retaking an A-level and adding a couple more, I was allowed out of school on my recognisance and saw a fascinating Exhibition at the Modern Art Gallery. The Artist had laid out and photographed every single possession of a single person – for example, all the cutlery was laid out in one shot, all the shoes in another. This more thematic approach appeals more and although I am not arranging the objects which I have chosen to tell my story in chronological order, I hope that my writing will be sufficiently interesting to keep your interest Dear Reader, and that on the journey from A to Z, you will assemble an impression of my life and who I am…

This recent addition to the street architecture of Oxford’s main shopping street, Carfax, adorns the entrance to an alleyway sandwiched between two department stores and leads to the back entrance of Frewin Hall.

If you have ever received a comment from me on WordPress, you may have wondered about my username Frewin55 – short story, Frewin is my middle name and 1955 the year I was born and so I turned 70 just last month. The more interesting and turbulent story of why I was named Frewin is told in a recent poetry post I made for dVerse Poets Pub – Whats in a Name.

Fossils

A selection of fossils garnered over the year which I keep not just for their intrinsic interest but also because they remind me of the places and times they were found…

Fossils and thus Geology, are another interest that I got from my mother. We used to holiday in Charmouth, Dorset – part of what is now (since Jurassic Park popularised dinosaurs) called The Jurassic Coast although the same feature occurs in East Yorkshire where the same rocks appear having snaked their way up through the geology of England. I wrote about my mother, Charmouth and fossils in a poem called Cast in Gold here,

In the picture (top row from left) you can make out a Turritella in a cross-section, a section of a bed of bivalve fossils, a colonial coral from the Middle Carboniferous at Rathlee, Ireland where we used to live, ditto the one below. Left hand column – Various Ammonite fragments from Charmouth, the top one is made from Iron Pyrites – Fool’s Gold. Second column – a “Devil’s Toenail from Runswick Bay, East Yorkshire and below, two fragments of Crinoid beds. Third Column, the two white fossils are coral that my stepson brought back from Mexico – they are much closer to modern corals than the Carboniferous examples. Below them, three Rhynconella fossils which by corrugating their shell shape, could maximise their intake of water to filter for food whilst only opening a tiny amount and thus keeping safe from predators. Fourth column, Belumnites so called because of their resemblance to bullets – from Charmouth, just this year when I introduced my partner to the joys of fossil hunting. Bottom right, a recent (geologically speaking) piece of Bog Oak – a very fragile piece of wood preserved in the bog that formed when the climate became much wetter five thousand years ago – first drowning the trees and then growing five feet of peat bog to bury and preserve the base of the trees. Five thousand years is a mere moment in geological time and it is unlikely that the bogs and bog oaks will survive as fossils in the long term – most likely, the current climate change will stop the process of peat bog formation and the bogs and their fossilised trees will be eroded away…

Film

My love of Film began with a book -a Pelican, from the publishers Penguin and like all Penguin books, Film, by Roger Manvell, wore the “utility” style cover from the immediate postwar period which became so iconic. My father had a little bookcase exclusively full of these Penguin and Pelican books which I guess he had bought before he married my mother. “Film” contained sections of B/W stills from films such as Battleship Potemkin (the woman shot in the eye on the Odessa Steps), Buñuel’s L’Age d’Or (the eye and the razor-blade) and The Seventh Seal – all images so intriguing that they lit a fire in my young brain even though it would be years before I would have a chance of seeing these films.

The iconic scene of playing Chess with Death from The Seventh Seal – Ingmar Bergman’s monochrome masterpiece.

When I first dipped into this book, we didn’t even have a TV and when we did, the only films shown were in my father’s words “American rubbish” and it would not be until I lived in London, post-university, and got a job at the Ritzy Cinema in Brixton, that I finally saw some of these “arthouse” movies. I started as a general helper, selling tickets, ushering, clearing up between films and serving cakes, quiche and coffee but not sweets and popcorn – an innovation in Cinema fare for those days. The Ritzy showed at least 10 different films over the course of a week and since it had a single projector, that meant the projectionist had to combine an average of seven “cans” of film into one large and heavy reel – cutting off the header and footer from each can’s contents and splicing the sections together and then reversing the process when the film was finished with. This was so much work for the projectionist, one of three founding members of the cinema, that when I asked if I could help (nothing venture nothing gain) he jumped at the chance. I can truly say that this was one of the most enjoyable jobs I have ever had and by the measure that when you find something you love, it doesn’t feel like work.

The Ritxy Cinema as it was when I worked there around 1980.

Nowadays, cinemas, even small ones, have digital projectors and cans of film are a thing of the past and many great works are to be found on streaming services so much of the romance of the physical cinema has been lost for most people, the lights going down, the audience hushing, the ads, the previews and finally the film itself…There is one thing which is particularly magical about a real film projector and which only projectionists get to see… You can open the “gate” which is where the film passes through the beam of light which projects it onto the screen. To create the illusion that our eyes and brains see as moving images, it is necessary that the projection is broken up into individually illuminated frames, so when you open the gate, the synchronised flashes of light illuminating the fast-moving film, make it appear that the film is stationary, that is magical enough, but look more closely at the frames in the gate and you can see the characters moving in miniature just as they are doing on the cinema screen…

Lament for Lost Efforts of a Generation

I lament the loss of peace in our time
Stolen, destroyed, blown up on a whim
The new generation of despots craves
The last generation turn in their graves

Craves wealth and power and influence
Acting without thought or sense
No thought at all of how to behave
The last generation turn in their graves

I lament the loss of knowing what’s true
Endless fact checking we must do
Block our ears to he who raves
The last generation turn in their graves

Nothing around us now seems safe
When dogs of war at their leads chafe
Bully boys beat up on the brave
The last generation turn in their graves

I lament their sacrifice laid waste
Blood and death’s most bitter taste
But given for to freedom save
The last generation turn in their graves

Two wars supposed to end all wars
(Bar those in places far, of course)
The sacrifice of those lost brave
The last generation turn in their graves

I lament their struggle was in vain
As fascists come around again
Ask will Democracy be saved
The last generation turn in their graves

To be remembered as the best not worst
In reality, they’ll be roundly cursed
Become the very byword for a knave
The last generation turn in their graves

© Andrew Wilson, 2024

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Grace in Poetry Forms, invites us to write a Lament using roughly the form:

  • stanzaic, written in any number of quatrains.
  • metered, often iambic or trochaic tetrameter.
  • rhymed, rhyme scheme:   aabB ccbB ddbB etc. B being a refrain

What’s In a Name

Andrew means “manly” I can live with that though I once had a yen to be Martin
Briefly

My family name is Wilson – Son of William – whoever he was in the mists of history
Unknown

My recently widowed Grandmother demanded I be commemoratively named Arthur
Unwise

Andrew Arthur doesn’t sing right so my rebel parents named me Andrew Frewin
Defied

Frewin – Anglo-Saxon “Frea-ing” – Friend of the Ruler!
No way…

© Andrew Wilson, 2024

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Laura Bloomsbury in Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft, invites us to write the poetry of names using a 
WaltMarie poetry style…

10 lines
Even lines are just 2 syllables
Odd lines are longer but without syllable restriction
The even lines make their own mini-poem if read separately
The meter and rhyme are unspecified

And the theme of your poem should be

The history/meaning of your name
or one you wish you had
or an imaginary one

I was born in the gatehouse of Frewin Hall, Oxford which is part of Brasenose College of which my father was then a don. In return for this subsidised college house, part of his duties was to lock the gates at 9pm each night as the students were curfewed in those days – imagine! My Grandfather on my Father’s side died during my Mother’s pregnancy with me and this poem tells the result of the conflict between my domineering Grandmother and my parents…
There is a Frewin family who presumably built Frewin Hall but as far as I know, I am the only person to have Frewin as a middle name, so if you have ever wondered about my “handle” Frewin55, now you know. (I was born 8th March 1955.)

The view through the gateway of Frein Hall – the cottage where I was born at home is on the left and you can find out more about it here

Stardust

In the beginning, there was just gas
hydrogen drifting in nebulous clouds
assuming fantastic shapes
within which gravity began to
group the atoms into clumps
flocculating into formless blobs
that swarm and meld together
until the weakest of fundamental forces
is magnified by unimaginable volumes
temperature rising with such pressure
that eventually combustion spontaneously
ignites the first generation of stars

A star is a balancing act
between the explosive force of the burn
versus the constant collapsing
pull of gravity but fire consumes
the star and gravity always wins
and the star is blown to bits
to dust in fact – stardust brings
new elements to the feast for
the greedy, next generation
growing in the nursery of new nebulae

The new stars have more complex
deaths with a series of alternating
explosions and collapses each
one concentrating and crushing
new elements into existence
before blasting them into ever
more varied stardust which will
one day make the flesh and bones
of a big-brained hominid
who will gaze back through
generations of galaxies let alone
stars – back towards where it all began…

© Andrew Wilson, 2024

Over at dVerse Poets Pub,  Melissa Lemay in Poetics invites us to write a poem on the subject – Metamorphosis of Sorts…

A Warning To the Witless…

Our love, equality’s blood now spills and foams
Stabbed by fantasists and dictators with loud fuss
We mourn the loss of freedom taken from us

Supporters held in thrall, dismayed as truth hits home
Democracy is murdered as those fools stand by – witless
Our love, equality’s blood now spills and foams
Stabbed by fantasists and dictators with loud fuss

We poets must respond and fight with sharp-edged poems
Not just to mourn our lost love, blazon our distress
But as a call to arms for all to rise and seek redress
Our love, equality’s blood now spills and foams
Stabbed by fantasists and dictators with loud fuss
We mourn the loss of freedom taken from us…

© Andrew Wilson, 2025

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Grace in Poetry Forms invites us to try the English Madrigal – a complex form which was often a song and often too, referring to love. This is a somewhat different love song for the dark times we live in – not just in America but across many countries around the world that will nevertheless be made worse by what is happening there.

Key Features of the English Madrigal

Content: Often includes a theme of love

Structure of an English madrigal

*Usually written in iambic pentameter.
*Comprised of three stanzas: a tercet, quatrain, and sestet.
*All three of the lines in the opening tercet are refrains.

Form: A thirteen-line form in three stanzas:
Stanza 1] Tercet -Three lines
Stanza 2] Quatrain – Four lines
Stanza 3] Sestet – Six lines

Rhyme and Refrain of an English Madrigal

[L1] A (refrain 1)
[L2] B1 (refrain 2)
[L3] B2 (refrain 3)

[L4] a
[L5] b
[L6] A (refrain 1)
[L7] B1 (refrain 2)

[L8] a
[L9] b
[L10] b
[L11] A (refrain 1)
[L12] B1 (refrain 2)

In the Offing…

Stormy Sea, Emil Nolde, watercolor, paper

Two yachts and a pleasure steamer
Caught in the offing amidst a squall

The squall blew in suddenly
Catching the sailors off guard

Standing off to avoid wrecking
on a lee shore, they battle big waves

The waves are ultramarine blue
Starved of light by the red-tinged clouds

And yellow sunset light beyond the clouds
Trumpets the coming of nightfall danger

They weren’t expecting danger on this Sunday sail
Sailors struggle, passengers huddle on the steamer

Pray for those in peril on the sea
Two yachts and a pleasure steamer…

© Andrew Wilson, 2024

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, Melissa Lemay in Poetics invites us to write an Ekphrastic poem selecting from a number of paintings (unidentified as yet) before revealing who the artist was and something about his career. Emil Nolde, it turns out, was an ardent Nazi who attempted to climb the ladder of art success at a time when the tide was turning against his expressionist style in favour of the insipid efforts to which all propaganda are likely to produce.

Melissa asks us whether, upon learning about Emil Nolde’s unpleasant politics, we feel differently about his art.
I think a man’s politics are separate from his art unless he is using his art as propaganda and then as I say above, the quality will suffer because it doesn’t come from the heart.
Nevertheless, I can think of people, still alive today, whose work and life I don’t want to support because their politics are abhorrent. Emil Nolde no longer needs our support and I feel no different about the work – only the man…

A Parka For Your Soul

“Make of it a parka

For your soul.”

Alice Walker, from Before you knew you owned it

I kept seeing the kid in the parka at random times and in random places about the city but it was only when I went on a trip out of town and there was the kid standing on the train station platform opposite where I was awaiting my train home. I say a kid, but in truth I never really saw his face – lost in the halo of the fur around the hood. Was it even a he or a kid and not an old man – I just had an impression from the general build and demeanour. It was that time at the station that I knew the manifestation was mine alone – a spirit guide, if you will.
There was a comfort then, in the vision, it salved my soul which let’s face it, in these end times needed salving…

© Andrew Wilson, 2024

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, msjadeli in Prosery invites us to respond to the line from Alice Walker (at top) in 144 words…

Love Like Food

Rushing in from an activity
of enforced abstinence
and tearing the wrapper off
cramming all eagerly

Remembering to take a little
with you next time
and nibbling slowly
at intervals to keep you going

Making preserves and garnishing
your pantry so that those Summer
flavours are there to sustain you
come Autumn and Winter

Building a shelf of seasonings
to keep the taste buds
tingling with excitement
against the threat of ennui

Savouring the memory of
past dishes – great feasts
whose memories you can still smell
forty years on – even when you’re not hungry

Handwritten recipes—a diary of
a life lived through food
each recipe conjuring time and place
– discovery of ingredients you came to love.

© Andrew Wilson, 2024

Over at dVerse Poets Pub, sanaarizvi in Poetics, invites us to write about what love means to us in light of the upcoming Valentine’s Day…
In my writing group, Deborah had the same idea and presented us with Love Like Salt by Lisel Mueller so this poem is written in the shadow of that one…

Truth?

What price the truth, is truth now dead
that leaders spout – thoughtlessly said
unfiltered guff from mouths uncouth
distract the people – the poorly led
from what’s the real that will be rued
is truth now dead, what price the truth…

© Andrew Wilson, 2024

Over at dVerse Poets Pub,  Laura Bloomsbury in Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft invites us to write a “Sparrowlet” an invented stanzaic form created by Kathrine Sparrow.

A stanza of 6 lines – any number of stanzas permitted
8 syllables per line
end rhyme scheme BbabaA (often written in iambic tetrameter.)
L1 and L6 of each stanza is written in 2 hemistichs i.e the line split in two, with commas
The 2 halves of L1 are inverted but repeated exactly as a refrain in L6.
For example:
L1 In winter’s cold, as moonlight beams
L6 as moonlight beams, in winter’s cold.

N.B. The 2 halves of L1 contain and set the a and b rhymes thus:
RRRA, RRRB
xxxxxxxb
xxxxxxxa
xxxxxxxb
xxxxxxxa
RRRB, RRRA