Give a Damn…

Give a thought to the dispossessed
better still give money

Give a charity a regular donation
then they can plan how to dispense salvation

A nation of the dispossessed
is claimed by others – it’s a given

I don’t give a damn about the animals
says one of the entitled supplanters

Call a man an animal or cockroach and
you can now give a call to the exterminator

Give heed to a cornered rat says Putin
it may just jump for your jugular in desperation

When dispossessing a nation – give a thought
to world opinion – goodwill is not inexhaustible…

© Andrew Wilson, 2023

In response to “It’s a Given”posted by merrildsmith in PoeticsUncategorized  over at dVerse Poets Pub for Giving Tuesday

The Language of Knickers…

Having only been writing poetry regularly since May of this year, I was troubled by the usual doubts, was my free verse really just prose, or prose poetry – and it took a while to find and see poetry as a voice, and a language. So then I wondered if you could talk about literally, anything, in this voice and language. So this poem explores a frivolous subject with the voice of poesy…
I read it out on OLN Live and promised to post it for OLN over at dVerse Poets Pub hosted by Grace in OpenLinkNight

Is it beneath a poet to talk about knickers
the garments beneath – until they are not.

In the Nineteenth Century
obsessed with classification
they codified the Language of Fans
(the ones you fluttered and flirted with)
so that you might send the right signals
to your desired paramour
and not the wrong ones
to the rest of the world
the Language of Fans
the Language of Flowers
the Language of Colour
do knickers also speak
in a language of their own?

Undergarments, bloomers
pants, panties, scanties
skivvies, thongs, briefs or knickers.
I only know the words in
the English language
who knows what other words
are said or never said
in other languages
seen or never seen

Women may spend so long
choosing their outer clothes
do they give such thought
to what lies beneath
on the off-chance
that today might be the day…
and what woman’s mother
did not warn her
always to wear clean knickers
in case of being involved
in an accident
as if doctors and nurses
of the Emergency Room
have not got
more professional concerns
than the emergence of dirty knickers!

Are black knickers sexy
because of the maximal contrast
on a white woman
and do white-on-black
have the same connotation
do white knickers evoke
purity and innocence
for in some cultures
white is for death and the afterlife
but a shared view is that
white represents the divine and holy
in life and in death
can knickers ever represent the divine
or is it that which they enclose
that lovers dream of divinely

If black is sexy
ramp it up with laciness
for nothing says sexy
more than half revealing
that which is not supposed
to be seen – which can be said
for knickers themselves

Before the mini-skirt
made the possibility of
glimpsing knickers
unguarded (or intentionally)
Underwear was often
flesh-coloured or
pale peach -think
silky French knickers
loose and airy
and never seen
beneath the flappers
below-the-knee
fringed concoctions
the mini-skirt called for
briefer underwear and
ironically when so much
was being revealed
it was felt that pale peach
would not do
in case a flash was mistaken for flesh
and so bright colours
patterned prints
and even slogans
proliferated
– with slogans surely
the message outweighs
the medium

If knickers black on white
or white on black say
I am here – look at me
then what of red
small and satiny
ruched or ramped up
further with lacy transparency,
– what do red knickers
spell out – if there is indeed
a secret language of knickers
the colour of blood,
red is associated with
danger, sacrifice and bravery
so it is it a brave choice
to wear knickers of a colour
that also signals
heat, passion, sexuality
anger, love and joy?

A friend once told me
how a colleague
had eventually confessed
that intending to visit
her at her remote
cottage in the country
he was arrested by the vision
glimpsed through the
un-curtained window
of her lying across her lover’s lap
Victorian bloomers around her knees
receiving a fond chastisement
the colleague crept away
eventually
for is not the unwrapping
of the beautifully packaged
the erotic deliverance
of what is promised
in the language of knickers
some knickers anyway
something seemingly forgotten
by most makers of porn
with the slow reveal simply
being lost between cuts
a mistake the Burlesque stripper
would never make

And after white, black and red
what do other colours say
about the wearer
if they say anything at all
– purple, cerulean blue
emerald green
these are colours
at least in my experience
seldom seen
and what of the form
what does that say
if message it is even
intended to convey
and not a very private preference
quite without intent of sin
of what to wear
closest to the skin

In middle age
lascivious gives way to
comfort and by old age
it is big knickers all day long
unlike the thong
which covers the naughty bits
but bares the bum
and instead of flattening
the curves as other garments do
– leaves the tight skirt with no VPL
outward shape fit equally
close to underlying form

The freedom of French knickers
the high cut, the arbitrary
line of boy-shorts
what an education most boys
could confess too
who grew up with the
catalogue pages
lingerie it seemed
to the uninitiated
in every imaginable
form and colour from
black to white and red to blue
today’s young explorers
with unfettered access to the internet
might be forgiven for thinking
that more women than not
spend their lives going commando
and why is it called lingerie
who lingers over lingerie?

Make no mistake
knickers are the stuff of dreams
or more prosaically – fantasies
and even without a Victorian
guide to the messages
without teaching
perhaps even
instinctively
we mostly seem
to know the meaning of
the language of knickers…

© Andrew Wilson, 2023

Caught Off Guard

What are the outward signs
of a heart caught off guard
is it tear-ing up –
if not actually sobbing
– then eyes welling
voice constrained so hard
that it’s held to
a pained silence
whilst I try to
get hold of myself
hold back the tears
open the throat
carry on speaking

You expect to tear up
when delivering a eulogy
and I have written for
my father and mother
and latterly my sister
the last and most difficult
to deliver – the words
freshly written the day before
though sixty-two years
in the gestation
I wrote on a ferry
in the Irish Sea crossing to Dublin
and there were no tears
as I laid the words to rest
any more than when
I heap tragedy on my characters
in my “serious” novel
Thomas Hardy I will never
ever again speak ill of
your torturing Jude the Obscure…
– Ah! But read back the lines
to an audience and the emotions
etched into each page
pull a garotte from my heart
and tighten it around my throat
each word another knot in it…

There are happier moments
that catch my heart off guard
the golding of greens
as the light turns to sunset
the brightness of sunlit land
against the black of a storm-filled sky
the unguarded smile
of a mother for her baby
and the enfolded exclusivity of
teenagers who are unaware of
enacting an instinct that
really urges them to make babies. I look at my partner
lost to the present
more often than not
and a thousand memories
of happier times
holographically stored
explode in my brain
flood my heart
sometimes pulling out
that heartstring
and sometimes painting on
a philosophical, ruminant smile…

© Andrew Wilson, 2023

Avocado – Don’t mind if I do…

Avocado green – redolent of
sickening seventies bathroom suites

But that green is only one variety
most avocados are black

Black and knobbly skins belie
smoothest of pale green flesh within

Smooth till smashed and served on toast
the latest trendy café go to – with marmite please

Go to Israel and elsewhere to see groves of
avocados greedily sucking the soil dry

Avocados ripen to the point of ripening
but left on the tree – ripen no more till picked

The ripeness of an avocado is inscrutable
hiding buttery softness or bruised decay – till cut open…

© Andrew Wilson, 2023

Tonight dVerse Poets Pub is hosted by Melissa Lemay in Uncategorizedhere

Teacher

Heart a hater
trace heartache
hear react cheer
he her each
chart care there
art create teach…

© Andrew Wilson, 2023

 Björn Rudberg (brudberg) in Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft over at dVerse Poets Pub, invites us to write an Anagrammatic Poem,

  1. Select a title of one word containing not more than 3 vowels and 4 consonants.
  2. Try to find as many words that are using only the letter in the title
  3. Combine this into a poem of your own
  4. Do not use any punctuation in the poem

I picked the word Teacher – the artwork is created in Midjourney.

One Day…

If I could choose a day
to relive in your company
out of forty years
give or take
when and where would I
set the dials of the time machine
to take us

To the first night we met
in magical massage engaged
diving deep
despite the presence
of strangers
in a one time embassy

To our time in Ireland
walking down to the Atlantic
ten minutes from our cottage door
where fossil “serpents”
writhed across the rocks
and we just stood and breathed it in…

I treasure the winter nights
I slipped sleepless out the front door
wrapped warm
sitting head back
gazing at the myriad stars
threaded through
with man-made satellites
steadily traversing from
the sun-catching to the
dark side of the sky
your warm body waiting
gently protesting my cold one
slipping back in beside you

The first Christmas in this
then new house – scarcely moved in
turning a building project into a home

I think I would settle
and I believe you would be happy too
for the covid deserted coffee bar
by a beach in Crete
playing hookey from the lockdown
though no police ever stopped us…

The ceiling woven from palm-fronds
dappling the light on your face
while the ocean lapped
just yards away on that hot, bright
Cretan winter’s day

Even in winter this café
would normally be thronged
for Sunday lunch serving
fryer-fresh chunky chips
and Greek sausages
with children running round
and people swimming out
over the sandy bottomed bay
the beach frosted with
stones and shells
where the waves kissed the land

But we had the beach and café
To ourselves – brought our own coffee
or was it tea – I don’t remember
but I remember sneaking looks at you
over the top of my book
as we read in companionable silence
as only long-lived love
makes truly possible

I do not need to go there again
it wouldn’t be the same
even if there were chips
because I hold the treasure of that day
safe in my heart
and sometimes I take you there anyway

© Andrew Wilson, 2023

Lisa (Posted by msjadeli in Poetics) is our host tonight over at dVerse Poets Pub where she invites us to use a time machine to fulfil something on our fantasy time travel bucket list…

Between the Bullets and the Bombs…

A detective contemplates a corpse
stabbed so many times that
he concludes – this was personal
so I am called an evil terrorist
as if the zombies in a
first person shoot-’em up
were suddenly weighted to win
I don’t want to witness my crime
by seeing the enemy as people
so I remember my X-box
shooting down Nazis
whose Holocaust
ironically
helped justify
our Palestinian “displacement”
between the bullets and the bombs

I press the button
which drops the bomb
but I don’t see the blast blossom
the seven stories pancake down
all in my rearview mirror
I don’t even see the confirmation
back at base – nothing to learn
about smart bombs
and our TV does not show
the dead children
or traumatised living
amongst the rubble
an angel of death
my hands are clean
only the world seeing
the blood dripping from them
between the bullets and the bombs

I am an old woman
whose heart has just given out
on the refugee road to elsewhere
surrounded, shelled
we took the only road they left open
my children will go to Kuwait
via camps in Lebanon
where they will be displaced
again by Saddam Hussain
and die in England
they will call this The Disaster
but my great-grandchildren
will have a good life
far from the bullets and the bombs

I am an old woman from Poland
I escaped the Holocaust
of Jews, gypsies, homosexuals
and the less-than-perfect of mind or body
only to find myself taken
to another prison camp
where the Jews are outside the wire
my husband and I helped the inmates
driving them to hospital
and I learned their language
so they have scheduled me for early release
and I will not die
between the bullets and the bombs

I am a baby who died
as the grossest provocation
the loudest shout-out
to a world that has long since
stopped listening and covered its eyes
whilst I am a baby crushed
into my mother’s breast
my grave a concrete sandwich
but we two babies
separated by bullets and bombs
whose ancestors lived here
side by side in peace
for millennia
if tested genetically
cannot be told apart
brothers and sisters under the skin…

Written for Poetics: Why war? over at dVerse Poets Pub Posted by paeansunplugged 

To Australia’s Indigenous People – Sorry…

This post by Di on Pandamoniumcat’s Blog, is in response to the No vote in the recent Australian Referendum on the issue of Constitutional recognition of Australia’s indigenous people. Failure to recognise the existence of people who already lived in the land you took can never end well and hopefully, this is not the end of the road for this cause…
It was posted in response to For Dverse Poets Meeting the Bar: A Collective Point of View

Casserole Dish Gardens

You planted me two years ago
myself and my sister casserole dish gardens
– you who have always been fascinated
by the miniature worlds of Bottle Gardens and Bonsai.

Bottle gardens grew too lush
in the sweet-jar worlds
of your teenage window sill
Pennywort and Maidenhair ferns
an unruly tangled jungle
and Bonsai you studied and realised
you needed a Master
not just to teach the art
but from whom you could inherit
because a hundred-year-old tree
needs a hundred years to grow
no matter how small it is kept
by tortuous processes…

Coming back from Covid lockdown Crete
you smuggled fragments of plants
to create me – a miniature garden!
In Crete, Jade trees the size of bushes
a plant you didn’t even know had flowers
now grace us gardens as tiny trees
planted next to choice rocks
a nod to the Bonsai plantings
of your dreams

We are mostly filled with succulents
which flowered this year in ways
which surprised and delighted you
reaching a flower-tipped tendril
towards the light but then shrivelling
and dying – perhaps not to return…

One of us you inherited
from your late sister in Ireland
whose partner delighted her
by planting  a pink-dyed
spiky phallus of a cactus
along with succulent friends
in the lopsided glass
of a washing machine door
– the self-seeded Shamrocks
came along for the ride
the tiny Mexican-hatted miniature
of Tequila – “For Emergencies”
redundant, since she
had already encountered
her final life emergency.

You took us to work
where there were wider window-sills
than your open-plan hayloft conversion
and you see us and celebrate us
whilst weekly watering us.
People think we succulents can survive
without water but in truth
like most plants – we like it weekly

Meanwhile, as your eye wanders
through we miniature worlds
do you feel in control of your creations
or are we in your life
a living reminder of
mortality and fragility.
Do you wonder if we will outlive you
and carry on, watered by another –
inherited by another?
Do you wonder whether
anyone has even thought
to water us these weeks
you’ve been consumed by covid
when, head full of cotton wool
you forgot to ask anyone
to fill in for the gardener?

Don’t worry – we can manage
the occasional drought!
Can we say the same for you…

© Andrew Wilson, 2023

This poem is posted in response to Björn Rudberg (brudberg) in Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft over at dVerse Poets Pub

Sunflowers

Trauma is nowadays
seen as implicated
in almost all ways
in which people are derailed
in their mental health.

Addiction to drugs or alcohol
sex or over neatness
– these are the symptoms
and not the diagnosis
– whichever label eventually applied

Those who are traumatised
are often complex souls
and doctors often feel challenged
and give up on their role
to get to the bottom of things

Borderline personality disorder
is a favourite soubriquet
for those that cannot be rendered
silent about the roles their trauma plays
and refuse all other labels

Some disorders may respond
to the doctors’ pharmacopoeia
hardest is the slough of despond
a symptom so common it’s hardly seen
as mental health but just a frequent human condition

Bipolar is stabilised with lithium
yet patients constantly reject its spell
preferring the rush of manic fun
and whilst the black dog they would quell
prefer half a life than all life levelled and flat

Vincent van Gogh would today be told
he was bipolar and given lithium not talk
He said “Normality is a paved road
– It’s comfortable to walk,
but no flowers grow on it.”

And we would be deprived of his flowers…

© Andrew Wilson, 2023

This poem is posted in response to Haunted – Tuesday Poetics over at dVerse Poets Pub hosted by Melissa Lemay in Uncategorized