Fragments of Personal History

Why Mexico?
 
Fragments of old songs,
Retrieved from my youth,
Thrum loud in my head.
It mainly happens
Alone at the farm.

The songs often change,
But one’s more constant: 
‘South of the Border,
Down Mexico Way.’

That’s odd, because I
Never wanted to
Go to Mexico.

That Second Pocket

For small boys, NZ pre-war:
Short pants, heavy serge worsted,
Itchy (who’d underpants then?),
Cloth flap for fly, no pockets.

Later, oh joy, one pocket;
Finally, unbounded bliss,
A big boy’s button-up fly
And a pocket on each hand!

But, then, that created  a
Problem: how to apportion
One’s pocketable treasures
Between the newly-won twain?

Verdict, judge-like considered:
Left for usuals (like hankies),
Right for specials - a childish
Choice that’s lasted a lifetime!

First Love: First Lesson

Lucy, your name and two plaits
(Alas, ne’er saw your hair loose)
Are all that dim memory
Is now able to produce.

But I do well remember
That I loved you so hearty
As to forgive, when unasked
To your tenth birthday party.

For I knew that your parents
(No-way you) had debarred me
As the son of imprisoned
Red revolutionary.

On the day, so besotted, I
Crept up compelled to your place,
Hedge-peered at the birthday games,
Yearning for sight of your face.

I found it: you were laughing,
Dancing - and so I awoke.
You were happy without me!
It was then my heart broke.  

Mount Crawford Prison

A mile from our home,

It frowned down on us.

Sundays, rain or shine,

I walked its road with

Mother and sister

To see my father.

He was well fed and

The warders friendly.

My mother arranged

Tobacco drops (the

Party financed them)

At defined fence-posts.

Down in the schoolyard

They called him ‘jailbird’.

Some fist fights followed.

I was proud of him

As a teller of

Political truths.

‘Sedition’ his crime:

Fiery speeches

(At Stalin’s command)

Damning warmongers

Who urged resistance

To Nazi boldness.

With remission for

Good behaviour,

He served ten months and

Then emerged to the

Plaudits of the Left

And a normal life.

Years later, I learned

His New Zealand crime,

As Soviet crime,

Would have committed

Him to the Gulag 

And a likely death.

 

Me and God

The very young know
It’s really easy
To converse with God.

I often did it,
Living at the manse
In old Miramar.

A hole in the lawn,
Close by the clothes-line,
Was our medium.

He didn’t say much,
As I recall, but
Was tops as a listener. 

An Infant Humiliation

Small boy walking barefoot

To school, steep downhill road.

Battered old truck, suspect  

Brakes and men on its tray,

Slowly overtakes him.  

Starts running alongside. 

Surprise, he can match it! 

Men cheer him on, puffing

His pride and blinding him

To the light pole ahead.  

The blood and the bruises

Are now scarce remembered.

Not so the laughter that

Rings in his ears as truck

Trundles off down the hill. 

Running for Stalin

Three trans-Tasman comrades

Fleeing Pig-iron Bob,

Exotic names to boot

(Judah Waten, Keeva

Bronson, Noel Counihan):

High drama for a green

Ten-year-old Stalinist

Each was put in hiding

(The Party did its job),

Noel two miles from my home.

Prideful puffed, I was charged

To run a hill-top road

If he needed warning:

We had a telephone.

Went furtive to his room

(He lazed back on the bed)

To know the door to knock,

And the face to talk to.

Then I waited, straining,

Hoping, dreaming of a

Chance for left-wing glory.

That chance, sad, did not come.

Worse still, firm verities

Began to fall apart:

Hitler dudded Stalin,

The Holocaust peeped out,

And a young believer

Was on the path to doubt.

Of Worship

I was born a Christian
Of the Protestant ilk,
Conversed warm with my God
Down a hole in our lawn.

Then my parson father 
Switched gods; and so did I. 
We now worshipped dead Marx 
And licked Stalin’s bootstraps. 

In time, it turned out this 
One was more murderous 
Than the first: I left in
Anger, grief and remorse. 

Thereafter I wandered,
Bereft, till one fair day 
Fortune and Gus took me   
To Victoria Park.  

Epiphany! Behold, 
A true innocent god!  
Unto death shall I cleave - 
Even though this faith does
Bring me much suffering.

The Umbrella in the Kitchen

I had a cat,

Smuggins by name; 

Black and white as 

Befitted a 

Kitten saved from 

A Collingwood 

Puddle by my 

Kindly daughter. 

We lived alone

In harmony,

Respectful of

Each other’s space

Until one eve,

Recklessly, he

Breached one of our

More settled rules.

Discovered, he

Fled pursued in

Fury up and

Down the hall to

Old umbrella

Damply drying,

Open, on the

Kitchen lino.

Like an arrow,

He darted into 

Its darkest depth,

Then turned and sat,

Still and tall and 

Almost lordly,

His amber eyes 

Blanding at me.

My vengeful mind

Skidded to a

Halt, confronted:

Who was I to

Gainsay such a

Candid claim to

Traditional

Sanctuary?

So thereafter,

While Smuggins lived,

That umbrella

Remained in place,

A plain feline

Cathedral which

(On clear entry)

Expunged all sin!

 



Mad Hatter Country

Hat-averse (except in mountains)
Throughout a longish life, I’ve been
Sudden seized in these senile times 
By specialising obsessions.

So … a hat for the farm when calm;
A hat for the farm when windy;
A hat for the farm when freezing;
A hat for summer trips to Yea,
A hat for winter trips to Yea;
A summer city hat to shop
At Coles, the chemist, Dan Murphy’s.
A hat for greeting my daughter
At international airports.

They all live, cheerfully jumbled, 
On the back seat of the Prado. 
In the glove-box, as semitic
Insurance, there’s a yarmulke.

Aging

I turned eighty-one
A while ago and promptly
Became sleepier.
 



Haiku: On Aging

As I’ve grown older,

I’ve got nicely proficient

At falling asleep. 

Ode to My Right Thumb

Oh, dear old faithful digit,

By my side these four-score years

From boy through man to dotage, 

Dutiful, dependable.

Yet small thought did I give thee

Until the day I saw thee

Severed, torn and bloody, and 

Bethought that I had lost thee. 

’Twas only then gave I due

Weight to thy loyal service

Through all those years of grabbing, 

Grasping at my ev’ry whim. 

The shame of it o’erwhelmed me!

So in my heart I swore that

If perchance thou did come back,  

Sweetly would I dote on thee.

Dancing at the Ritz: A Salutary Experience

A mangled thumb takes me

Providentially

(If painfully) to the  

People of Public Health. 

First, Rob and Natasha,

Yea ambos, calming (the

Morphine helps) and skilful,

Then driving down the Hume.

At bustling Northern Ritz, 

Prue, Liz, Ian, Charam,

Luke each take time to treat

Or give gentle counsel.

Ritz trolley over-night:

Eavesdrop on front-of-house

Rebecca - Solomon

In Northern nurse’s guise. 

Filipino Alex

Enlivens morning hours 

Until I’m trundled from 

The so familiar Ritz.

Back in a bed again,

Encounter more gentles:

Nicola, Gitika,

Kirsty and red Pauline.

The patient way they tend

Loud-suffering Daniel

(He’s in a room next-door) 

With endearing voices.

Time comes for theatre,

Anand, Luke and Helen:

Errant thumb rejoined with 

Finesse and cheery talk.

Post-op, gentle Lisa,

Alison, Gillian 

And Siobahn in Wound room; 

Magpie Liz in Hand room.

Such an experience!

One aspect of the case:

Unfailing competence 

From so many people.

The second aspect (less 

Readily expected):

A sense of care and warmth

And simple kindliness.

Profound Thought

 

A thumb

Is to gripping

As a bum

Is to sitting.

Ode to My Left Thumb

Old friend, thou hast tended me

These four-score years as faithful

As thine right-hand brother whom 

I have drenched in recent praise.

Prithee, be not uneasy 

In my affection for thee. 

Thou, I swear, while less adept,   

Stand as cherished in my heart. 

Ne’er will I forget the way

Thou clenched thine brother’s severed 

Parts together and stemmed the  

Pain until the morphine came.

And if this ode be briefer,  

It speaks not I love thee less - 

Merely that thine story be,  

Thankful, more sedate than his!     

 


Three Haikus on Sleep

i.
Sinking into sleep, 
A welcome drowning without
Discomfort or fear.

ii.
Sleep that is troubled 
Opens my eyes to demons   
That lurk in my head. 

iii.
Sleep that’s untroubled,    
Being so sweet and restful
Lacks entertainment.

The Blessing of Two Cataract Operations

When you were ten 

Your wise mother 

Got you glasses. 

They were shameful:

No other kids 

You knew had them. 

They stayed in-desk  

Until you had  

To see what was 

On the blackboard; 

Then you whipped them

Quick on and off.

All your long life,

Until these days,

You’ve worn glasses 

Each waking hour

(Except, of course,

When you made love).

You’ve cursed them for

Hurting your nose, 

For sweat-blurring

Your gun’s foresight, 

For frosting up

In mountain storms. 

But now, at last,

Your customised

Gaze (left to read,

Right to drive) has

Freed you from those

Friendly tyrants!

 

From Swot to Brawler

When I was small and very young,
I loved my little hill-top school
Where two great teachers inducted      
Me into the world of learning.

Charmed, I worked, tried hard to answer
Every question, and so fell
Head-over-tip into the pit
That some school-kids design for nerds.  

Life then became a trifle fraught;
The danger time was going home. 
Bully boys and girls would betimes 
Amuse to chase a ‘bloody swot’.

They never caught me (perhaps they
Did not try that much) for I was
Fairly fleet of foot - and, besides,
Fear was riding on my shoulder. 

So my father (a Varsity
Blue in boxing) bought pint-size gloves
And, on his knees, taught me to punch
And weave in classic boxing style.

It worked: fear controlled, I stood and
Fought and (I think) gained some respect.
His lessons even yielded me    
Top honours in high school boxing.

But in a dusty brickworks yard
I was taught a later lesson:
It is folly to assume that
Queensberry rules beyond the ring!   


 

  

In My Rash and Lucky Youth
2014

 
School-mates three (self-built canoe
And harbour-trained) lived a dream
On river Whanganui,  
Steeped in Maori legend, once
Plied by mighty war canoes.

The Journey
One hundred forty miles cost
Ten days, one capsize (and all
Our sugar); but gave us nights
On ferny banks, steep sandbars,
River ripples in our ears.

And gave us sun-lit days of
Peaceful bliss, interspersed with
Blood-racing thrills in raging
Rapids, as we made our way
Down towards the distant sea.

Rare sightings on the water:
One canoe, Maori dugouts,
A tourists’ paddle steamer: 
They watched us clear the famous 
Ngaporo rapid, and cheered!  

The Luck
Sunshine, unblinking, ten days.
A one-skin canvas canoe
(Three-skin the river pros’ rule),  
Not one hole, only grazes,
Daily patched from our pitch-pot.

Miraculous chance first-day
Meeting with the one other
Canoe: its crew gifted us
The solution to rapids.
They probably saved our lives.

 

 
 

My Wicked Uncle Arthur
2014
 
The family’s black sheep
(Calvinism in our blood),
Guilty, whisperers said,
Of drinking and women:
Callow youth, I met the
Last one and fell in love.

Dwelt long in foreign climes
(Suspicious in those times),
Rumoured wealth, high living, 
Adventures and, oddly,
Fighting the war in the
American Marines.

As proof, perhaps, smuggled
US jungle carbine,
German sniper’s rifle:
Offered me the choice.   
Deer hunter hopeful chose
The carved German rifle.

My wise unprotesting
Mother softly spoke of
Registration; led me
To polite policemen
Who admired my lovely 
Gun – then took it from me!  

Arthur further outraged 
By introducing me  
To ‘the trots’ and wagers.
The betting lust bit hard,
But a grey mare thrice said
The game was not for me.

Lost touch (he no writer)
Sadly: later heard he
Died, diminished, as a
Little country grocer.
Never heard what happened
To his charming lady.

Going to the Flicks in My Extreme Youth
2014
 
Saturday arvo at ‘The Capitol’:
Got sixpence, slap it proud on the counter,  
Walk in tall, claim a good seat, catch both the
Serial and the black-and-white feature.

No sixpence? Wait for ‘interval’ (when the   
Legals lunge for ice-creams), mingle, sneak  
Back with them and suss out a furtive seat.
Flaw: you don’t know how the serial went.

But later on ... strapped to a tray of drinks  
And ice-creams, with a licence to roam dim 
Pre-interval aisles, you get to see the 
Serial not only legal, but free!

 




Mother
2014

Daddy in jail, she so brave:
Weekly walked a midnight mile
To conceal pipe tobacco 
Beside a prison farm post;
And once, broom-brandishing, she
Chased a policeman from home.

Daddy came back from prison:
Such joy for sister and me! 
But soon (we didn’t know why)
He went away again with
Strangely off-handed farewells
(As we both cannot forget).

Mother, we well remember,
Never spoke ill of Father, 
Never once sought our pity. 
Was ever the comforter,
Soothing our anguish at his
Departure, holding us close. 

Money tight, got a city 
Job (hill-walk, dreary tram-ride),
Making us her weekday chefs:
My speciality, boiled mince with
Onions, cabbage, mashed spuds and 
Yummy baked sago pudding.

She had us darn our own socks
(Needed in pre-nylon days),
Sew our own buttons back on,
Wash and iron our own clothes -
All female-quarantined skills
I have ever since treasured. 

And she taught us about fun.
Friday treat: tram into town,
‘Awatea Tea Room’ meal
(Waitress, my sweet puppy-love), 
Sometimes ‘the shops’, always a
‘Picture’, contented tram home. 

But, above all, there was her
Faith in our dreams – in contrast 
To our baffling Communist
Father who seemed intent on 
Dousing every timid 
Hope of advancing in life.

So, sister’s chance for London
Was vehemently opposed
(She later won West End fame);
I was emphatically
Warned against an ambition
That exceeded my ‘station’.

Mother, instead, assured us 
(Her words engraved in my mind),
‘Whatever you want, if you
Want it enough, you’ll get it.’ 
Simplistic, no doubt; but it 
Worked for both of her children. 
 

 

On Being a Wartime Paper Boy
          Trying to Help His
             Single Mother

                     2014

Task: deliver The Evening Post  
In good condition, six days a week,
From flatland shop to sixty hillside
Homes on a bitsy old bicycle.

No throwing over gates (rain frequent, 
Gladwrap still uninvented), mostly 
Mail-box placement; otherwise a plod
Uphill or downhill to a doormat.

Now and then, it becomes a bit much 
(Soaking rain, night-dark, muddy path, slip   
Sends bike, papers and small boy flying) 
And true misery enters the soul.  

Saturday morning, rain or shine: knock   
On sixty doors, ask for the money.
Nobody home? Come back till they are.
Sometimes they’re churlish: you do your best.

Pay: one penny a paper per week
(Five shillings) from a red-haired lady  
Who shrilly rejects a timid plea 
That the rate be a bit more for hills. 

 
  


















Never Did Make the Scouts
2014

Boy Scouts, I read, had thrilling adventures;
But you had to be a ‘Cub’ beforehand.  
So off one dusk to a ‘cub-pack’ meeting
In a tiny hall with a red tin roof.

Just one adult: a really old lady
All in khaki, a really big hankie
Tied about her neck, and a big Scout hat  
(The real cubs there had only small peaked caps).                                                        

Said she was ‘cub-mistress’, talked a great deal.
Got all of us small boys to dance around
Her shouting ‘Ah-kay-la’ (burnt in my mind)
As if, I thought, we were worshipping her.

Next she told us to salute the King’s Flag.
My flag then was the Red Flag: so, trembling, 
I voiced a conscientious objection.
That old cub-mistress was brutally frank.

I left the pack, as I recall, head high
And replete with a principle upheld.
But promptly fell into sin by joining
Louts throwing stones on the roof of the hall! 

 

Of Mice and Shame

2014
 School corridor: small boy
Enters to find a pack  
Of big boys bounding down 
On him, baying like hounds,
Their quarry a mere mouse.

His hands cup to entrap; 
Rodent flies in, hands close.
Stabbing pain, hands open. 
Mouse dashes off leaving
Blood and shame in its wake.

Worse still (for eleven-
Year old), first-aid person 
Comes to his class and asks  
The ‘boy bitten by a
Mouse’ to put up his hand!
 

A Child Preens
2014

Ever, I make my bed,
I eat all on my plate,
I fill the coke bucket,
I polish the hall floor,
And dry every dish:
I’m a good boy, I am! 

Remembrance of Times Parlous
2015
 
The world looked bleak when I was twelve,
A year of ration cards and fear,
Germans sprinted across the steppe,
Japan island-hopped towards me,
And Daddy dear deserted us.

Now the family’s only male,
New responsibilities to
Shoulder, new roles to play: above
All, provider and protector
(Of course, Mummy’s inspiration).

Provider’s job: supplement lean
Rations with cabbage, parsnip, beans,
Wrenched from our wretched hill-side soil.
Protector’s: guard, as best might be,
From expected northern raiders.

Provider laboured long and dug
And raked with earnest vigour, sowed
Hopeful seeds in Saturn’s sight - but 
The god was blind, the harvests for
The most part really rather sad.

Protector dug longer, deeper
And craftier, creating a
Well-appointed air-raid shelter
That hopeful guaranteed us all
Survival when the bombers came.

But, oh, so thankful, they did not!
The Battle of the Coral Sea
(Asia’s version of Stalingrad)
Intervened, and tipped the balance
Towards my island and my world. 

In Fond Memory of Worser Bay

State Primary School

2015

Dwindled since to a small
Wooden building on a
Wind-swept hill-top, it once
Loomed above my small-boy
World like a cathedral,
A temple of wonders.

And three of its teachers
(Small-faded now in strict
Memory, yet still fixed
And alive in my head)
Nudged me towards the thought 
That has since ruled my life.

I was first given the
Sense of learning as joy
In the late Primers, by
A red-headed lady,
Large and jolly, who sat
On the floor with us kids.    

In the middle Standards

It was a slim young chap,
Likeable and lively
And innovative, who
Injected excitement
And mild competition. 

Then, at the last, there was 
Dear old Mister Reid (the
One name I hold), with his
Abounding concern for
Knowledge and for students, 
To ram home the message.

Such luck (at the start of 
A long life of learning), 
To strike three teachers of
Such quality at that  
Little school on the hill!
No wonder I loved it.

  

  





How Mrs Lee
Reformed an Apple-thief

2015
 
Didn’t think of it as really
Thieving, just an exciting game
When me and my small gang ‘raided’
Apple orchards in our hilly 
Suburb, snatched some tasty trophies.

Mrs Lee, well-known as a witch 
(She was old and ugly and lived
Alone with a cat), had a few
Trees safe-guarded by a massy
Hedge that we thought impregnable.      

But came the day when one of us
(Was it me?) spied a sudden flaw
In this intimidating hedge, 
A low animal-made tunnel
That might just admit small persons. 

So, near on dusk, furtive figures  
(One, a bold sister defying 
Brotherly rebuffs) crouched by the 
Hedge as the leader (was it me?)
Wrestled a passage through the hedge. 

The rest quick followed, and all raced 
Gleeful up to Mrs Lee’s trees.
But, then, horror!  Before we touched
A twig, the witch was on to us, 
Wailing like an Irish banshee!  

In terror we fled back to the
Tunnel and wriggled through like eels
(Sister last, no chivalry then),
Only to find that Mrs Lee 
Was not prepared to let us be!  

In witchly fury, and despite
Her ancient bones, she had pursued
Us and arrived in time to clutch
Poor sister’s receding ankle
And, madly cackling, drag her back.   

Sister’s shriek sent coward brother,
The hound of heaven at his heels,
Racing over the hill to home  
(Mother at work, father long gone),
To cower, regret and await.

At last: an ominous knock on 
A never-ever knocked front-door.
Tremulously opened to a  
Grim Mrs Lee and a tear-stained 
Sister held captive at her side.

Of Mrs Lee’s aspect, voice, words, 
My memory now holds only
One thing: her stated intention 
To tell my headmaster about 
My apple-raiding wickedness.

Her promise seared my simple soul.
Expulsion from the school I loved!  
For weeks my head throbbed with the fear.
And by the time the fright faded,
I had lost all taste for apples.

The Night I almost Disembowelled
               a Soviet Spy
2016

I played Macduff to his Macbeth.
The last night, we fought (as usual)  
To the death; he disarmed me of   
My sword (as usual), and I sought
To despatch him (as usual) with       
My Army issue bayonet.
But for once, my downward stab strayed
(I muffed the turning of the blade),  
Pierced his papier mâché 
Armour, took him in the belly!  

We tumbled (as usual) offstage, 
To polite applause (as usual). 
But then (most unusual) Macbeth
Was hastily, fearfully stripped 
Of his armour, his belly bared.
Ah, the relief! My dread dissolved.
A shallow wound, a bit of blood: 
Nothing that band-aid amateurs
And the attention of willing  
Maidens could not alleviate.  

I liked him; he was good to work
With, always helpful, genial 
(I was new to the acting game,
He was an old amateur hand).
A fine Macbeth, he turned out to            
Be as traitorous in real life.
For years, from within our foreign
Service, he fed information
To the Soviet KGB.
Later, he committed suicide. 

My Puzzling Father

2016
 
As children, my sister and I loved him dearly.
He left us, brusquely, when I was twelve and she ten.
We grieved deeply, especially my sister who
Was neurotically blind for several days.

He moved to a distant town, founded another  
Family, responded sparingly, we believed,
To our letters; and letters were all we had to
Keep in touch with him - which, it seemed, was up to us. 

Once I hitch-hiked two hundred miles just to see him 
At his office: he was polite, offered me tea,
Introduced me to his secretary as ‘Ross’ 
(No ‘son’), and did not ask where I would sleep that night.

He never voiced hopes for our future; and showed no 
Respect for ours – urging my rapturous sister
To decline an offered London scholarship, and
Asserting I should not aim above my ‘station’.

Later, pressured by my mother, I told him of  
My modest wedding to come. In reply, he mailed  
A five-pound note, with an explanation of the
Sacrifices that it entailed: I sent it back.

Later still, when my sister achieved West End fame
And I was well-entrenched in academia,
He wrote to each of us (after years of silence) 
Proclaiming paternal pride in our achievements. 

I knew not how to reply; and so never did. 
My sister, softer, hopeful, more forgiving, tried.
Sadly, in the end, the reconnection brought no 
Joy to her who had for so long loved him best.

All Hail the Internet!
2017

In my dotage I’ve been prone to 
Falls (when stickless) which reduce me   
Almost to a landed fish, with
My creaky mountain-damaged knees.

One night, desperate, I turned to   
The alien world of the net
And unexpectedly found hope
In the dear ol’ State of Georgia! 
   
‘Para ladder’ (solo uplift
Promised), I card-bought on the spot.
Ten days on, as also promised,
It was carried to my doorstep. 

Soon enough, without contrivance,   
Its prime promise was full honoured,
And so was I at last released
From a dread haunting me for years.   

  I:  How Lucky can you Get?
 2017

True, there have been one or two down-times;
Yet most of my four-score-plus years have
Slipped smoothly by and left so many
Memories, both wry and rapturous,
For an old man to pleasure over.

But the overriding wonder is 
To have been gifted all those golden
Years in a world so replete with woe!  

The Generational Charms of 8 

2017
 

As child, captivated by its entwined 
Symmetry and endless rotundities
As student, awed by its standing as the
Scholarly symbol of eternity.
As dotard, delighted that sagacious
Chinee deem it luckiest of numbers -         
Because I’ve quite recent acquired a pair! 

 For My Grandchildren:
    A Glimpse of My First Ten Years

2017
 

They began and ended in disaster: 
My birth ‘triggered’ the Great Depression,
My tenth birthday the Second World War.

In between, I dwelt in a world where
Folk marvelled at the home ‘wireless’ and  
Black-and-white ‘talkies’; where there were few
Private ‘motor-cars’ and ‘telephones’; 
Where all ‘aeroplanes’ had propellers; 
Where women dressed to hide pregnancy
And only the most daring wore ‘slacks’. 

A world where I cut up newspapers
For toilet-paper; summer-walked to
School bare-foot; lit a stove for weekly
Baths; set out nightly bottles for the
‘Milkman’ on his cart and clopping horse;
Stored butter inside an outdoor ‘safe’;
And got into ‘the flicks’ for sixpence.

A simpler world than yours; but 
Just as comfy - until the War came      
And introduced me, too soon, to fear.     

   


 
My Chequered Military Career
 2018

During the butt-end of The War 
And the early peace I soared from 
Humble private to the lofty 
Rank of staff-sergeant, which gave me 
The privilege of bellowing 
Orders, while on parade, at one
Hundred and more of the finest
School cadets in New Zealand.

As cadets, khaki uniforms 
(with short pants) replaced the usual 
School uniform - and infused tram
Journeys to school with a pride that 
Straightened many a youthful back.
Also in khaki (long pants) some                        
Teachers in the Army Reserve
Were our commanding officers.

We marched and drilled at length,  
Dug air-raid trenches and were trained
With care in the handling of guns. 
(I still recall how to load and 
Fire a Bofors anti-aircraft 
Gun and a ‘twenty-five pounder’
Field gun, as well as the simpler
Rifle and Bren light machine gun.)

As an occasional duty,
It was mostly fun, felt really 
Important while the war lasted
And the guns always excited.  
(Though, to our regret, we never
Got to live-fire the big two, we
Had plenty of target-shooting  
With the rifle and even the Bren.)  

Late in the day, flattered by the
Invite, I spent a fortnight in 
Barracks: there, the romance withered  
As I realized a soldier’s lot 
(Of constant curt orderings, of  
Dormitory snores, chilly dawn
Risings and deadly aeons of     
Boredom) was not at all to my taste.     

A year or two further on I 
Was profoundly relieved when my 
Age-group slipped down the crack between
The end of war-time and the start
Of peace-time conscription. 
Sweeter still, I was already  
Employing my well-taught gun-skills 
To feast on high-country venison!  

 

Worth a Try

2020

When I was very young

(Somewhere around the time  

I believed ‘8’ to be the 

Most beautiful number 

And eight the perfect age),      

I worried about my mind.   

There was so much to learn 

(I had no doubt that learning

Was my thing) and my brain

Was so little that its    

Capacity to learn   

Had to be limited 

 

So, I resolved to make 

As much room in it as

I could for big things   

By trying really hard

To forget all the little      

Things that might clutter it.

Two Rude Awakenings

2020

The varsity hall was jampacked.

I had to sit on the floor, a 

Starry-eyed ‘fresher’ still 

To attend a class at my new  

Temple of learning and reason.  

 

The meeting, inspired by a  

Cable from the local students’  

Union applauding Gottwald’s coup     

In Czechoslovakia, pitted  

Communists against Catholics.

 

As a romantic Stalinist, 

I knew which side was mine, but I    

Also had a naïve faith in   

The coolness of educated minds.

So nursed visions of thoughtful debate.

 

I have never forgotten the

Dismay that overwhelmed me when,  

Instead, a verbal brawl erupted. 

The worst of it was that my side 

Behaved no better than the other!

The Kind of Memory One

Cherishes More than Most

2020

Half a century ago,

She stealthy creeps into

The bedroom her parents

Had shared for all her life,

And tucks something under

The clothes jumbled in a

Suitcase open on the bed,

Later, another bedroom,

The suitcase is opened.

Her gift, uncovered with

Tears, is a treasured, carved

Madonna-and-child, with

‘TO DADDY 1969’

Scratched on its wooden back.  

The Proposal

2023

Remember?

That, oh, so strange night, in my sixtieth year. 

I had no warning; 

Just suddenly choked on the thought of your  

Leaving me, as usual, so I could work. 

And there was no thought, either, behind the words  

that blurted from my lips.:   

‘Will you marry me?’ they said. 

You answered coolly, with a straight face. 

‘I’ll think about it’; and drove off. 

‘After twelve years’, I thought, ‘It’s come to this.  

Like a callow youth on a first date!’  

But nobody was playing bad games.  

On the early-morning call,

The voice said, ‘Yes’.   

And came over straightaway, 

To cement the deal.