[F.F. Teague]

🥂

Word-Bird and I are celebrating this evening, because the electrics went off earlier and I was helped by three wonderful neighbours. 'That is when good neighbours become good friends!' :>)

Now for another Metabear poem, part of the Hospital 2011 series and here a pred-dream (a dream while on prednisolone). The poem was one of Grandad Teague's favourites :-)


Sail Away

Drifting our way through a clear turquoise sea,
on board a pleasure boat drinking hot tea,
my dear friend Metabear singing to me,
wishing my cares all away…

Let the waves carry your worries away,
far from the currents of Hospital Bay,
onto a land that is breezy and gay,
sail away, sail away, sail…

Haling a flock of terns riding pink skies,
black-capped formation with dark twinkling eyes,
raising a descant with clear whistling cries,
wishing my cares all away…

Let the waves carry your worries away,
far from the currents of Hospital Bay,
onto a land that is breezy and gay,
sail away, sail away, sail…

Spotting seals daydream on tide-smoothed chaises longues,
grey, white and speckled in sleek furry throng,
sounding a bassline with gruff barking song,
wishing my cares all away…

Let the waves carry your worries away,
far from the currents of Hospital Bay,
onto a land that is breezy and gay,
sail away, sail away, sail…

Glimpsing fish fly by a blossoming moon,
rainbow trails dancing across the lagoon,
wings humming gently to Metabear's tune,
wishing my cares all away…

Let the waves carry your worries away,
far from the currents of Hospital Bay,
onto a land that is breezy and gay,
sail away, sail away, sail…

🍹🍹🍹

[F.F. Teague]

☕️🍪

Fliss and W.-B. return and tuck into tea and a cookie together. 'Coo-kie,' W.-B. coos :>)

Well, it's a pleasant change from Complan, I suppose!

Earlier today, I found a number I thought I'd lost, for a friend I made while in hospital. Her name was Annette and she was Irish. 'Instant besties!' :>)

I tend to make quite a lot of friends when I go into hospital. It's an anxious time for a lot of patients and there's some solace in sticking together. Anyway, the next piece here, written in 2015, describes Angie, from February 2011. When she left, she gave me her phone number with lyrics from Nat King Cole's 'Nature Boy', in which she'd changed 'boy' to 'girl', 'for funny old FT' :>)


For an angel

It's true, I travelled very far and over land and sea –
or so it felt, first night in ACU, with throbbing knee,
negotiating island bed, then grey-blue lino floor,
my single crutch in two clenched fists, a feeble sort of oar.

I hoped to find a nurse, as underneath my cotton sock
my ulcer wept large yellow tears, left undressed by the doc,
but all I found were rows of islands, home to sleeping souls,
and nurses somewhere out of range, not out on night patrols.

And so I turned to shuffle back to try my bell, ninth go,
when cries of pain came through the heated air, cries full of woe,
I turned again, and there you were, like me, quite sad of eye,
and so I held the hand you gave to me with ragged sigh.

I asked you if the pain was bad, and you said, 'Now, it's not;
I just need someone to be kind, about the hurt I've got.'
You had an ulcer, 'belly full of fire, burns night and day';
I told you all about my ulcer, 'just won't go away.'

'I'm Angie,' you said, grinning then, 'I'm not an angel, mind!' –
I told you my name, 'Fliss'; you said, 'Thanks, Fliss, for being so kind';
and I responded, 'We're the Ulcer Babes!', then I felt daft,
but luckily you liked that, threw your head back, winced yet laughed.

A nurse appeared and sent me back to island bed, 'It's late.'
We said we'd see each other soon, I left with fragile gait;
I went to bed and slept but heard you crying in the night
and in the morning you'd been moved to Side Room, out of sight.

Three days I spent in ACU, while you remained in Side,
then on to Gastroenterology – first night, Jean died;
they zipped her in a stout black bag and pushed her off the ward,
attempting to console her friend, 'Don't cry; Jean's with the Lord.'

And I felt frightened and alone, but in mid-afternoon
the porters came to fill Jean's space, while whistling random tune,
and it was you, brought out from Side – 'Hi Ange!' 'Hey, is that Fliss?'
'The Ulcer Babes are reunited!', laughter, hug and kiss.

It's true as well, the next two weeks, we spoke of many things,
of men and metabears, of joy and pain, of fools and kings,
and we agreed, of all the joys in life, love is the best,
you in your blue pyjamas, me in shorts and thermal vest.

You left on 14th February, 'medically fit',
though you insisted, 'I can't go, I still feel really shit',
then sighed, 'Alright', and came to hug goodbye, gave me a note,
the lyrics, changed a little, of a song Nat King Cole wrote.

I had your mobile number, but I didn't call for weeks,
at home and feeling wretched, hot tears running down my cheeks;
I told myself, I'll wait till I feel better, then I'll phone,
you weren't there when I rang, I left a message at the tone.

I never heard from you, but found out why November time,
when almost all the leaves had blown from off the garden lime,
the paper said you'd been out shopping, came home, fell asleep,
and never wakened, 'death from heart disease', how I did weep.

Four years have passed, I've kept my note, I read it, sing the song,
feel glad we met, were such close friends, though not at all for long,
and when I feel alone and frightened, then I sense you here –
although you've wandered very far, love seems to keep you near.

💕

[F.F. Teague]

🥂

Word-Bird and I are celebrating this evening, as I've just been thanked for my efforts in improving local accessibility. 'Good, FT' :>)

Now, W.-B. would like to post a haiku; except, it's actually a high coo. And more specifically, a


high coot

first egg of the spring –
the coot adorns her new nest
with little white flowers



Photo by Ron Cooper of Pittville Swan Watch :>)

[F.F. Teague]

A non-silly Scilly poem (maybe!) inspired, in this instance, by a honeymoon on Tresco (just for Amusement value):


Treasured Island

Awakening, they hear shore-calls from the dunes
0through mists of morning beaches, soft as silk,
the pipers, dunlins singing shanty-tunes
0duetting kettle whistle, splash of milk.
Outside, the first boats chugger through the waves
0and tourists surge along the weathered planks
00of Tresco Jetty, streaming into land,
some parties flowing north to glittered caves
0and others south to sunbathe on the banks
00of lakes or upturn shells from shining sand.

Beginning, late-years flowering of love
0in island gardens under swaying palms,
as circling terns soar joyfully above,
0their echoes as sublime as any psalms.
The Abbey rubble swelters, overcome,
0and King Protea has his red-gold reign
00with echium in rising sapphire spires,
as honeybees emit their happy hum,
0trescau rejoice across the springing plain
00and olive sunbirds sing in sweetest choirs.



Gardens by Design, A panoramic view of the impressive Middle Terrace, Tresco

[F.F. Teague]

Mine colombine companion and I continue to practise our people poems. This is from a series of poems I composed after my Step-Gran died, in Summer 2012. It describes the afternoon I first met her, with my two brothers and Cousin Ruth. We'll call it syllabics, I think. 'Yeah' :>)


First sight

All afternoon, hide and seek, jumping from trees
and wading in fishponds to clean dirty knees,
a story from Koala, new takes on school songs,
then teatime, a food fight with Aunt's best cake tongs.

Once silenced, we slumped in the sycamore shade,
enjoying the dregs of our fresh lemonade,
while guinea pig Rusty searched round for a treat
and settled by two unfamiliar feet.

We glanced up; it seemed she had always been there,
the late August sunlight upon her grey hair;
we muttered among ourselves, shy for a while,
then each by turn lured by her beautiful smile.

We learned that this lady was Grandad's Good Friend,
a Ramblers Club member, to whom he had penned
the hope that she might care to join him for tea;
and since she liked scones, she'd said yes, certainly.

- - -
Note, Koala here is not Koalaman, but my younger brother's toy, a present from Grandad's first wife when A. was just 5. Here are Koala and Koalaman taking a bath together, in 2016 or so:

[F.F. Teague]

When Grandad died, on 22nd December 2012, I felt a very strong urge to write. In poetry, I visited all the places we'd visited together. This one is about a striking rock formation in Shropshire.

Performance notes: sinister tones, rising to a shriek where required.


Ode on the Devil's Chair

Bleak rocks, for sure no man seeks respite here
0nor loiters gladly at such seething heights,
where brimstone burns its paths through jagged air
0that howls its pain through piercing cries of kites.
Geologist may fix a neat account:
0pale quartzite ridging over glacial sheets,
00tors rising sharp in freeze and thaw extremes;
were he to venture darkling by this mount,
0fresh trails might turn his tracks from worn conceit
00and newfound fractures cleave his test regimes.

Proud throne, illumined by no earthly light,
0but collecting spirit flares and witching fire
that cluster yearly come the shortest night
0above the misty swirls upon the mire.
See! Lucifer surveys his summoned throng,
0presides election of their leading force,
00rejoices cruelly in their gruesome games;
the Stiperstones resound in ancient song
0and chants run streaming over bloodied gorse
00till dawn engulfs in shrouds of scarlet flames.



Blisco, The Devil's Chair on the Stiperstones, Shropshire, England

F-image: fire, blood, Lucifer. 'Yikesy' :>)

[F.F. Teague]

Another response to a poem by John Isbell (currently on Met):

Version II: The Ram God Khnum

The god’s two horns come from a ram
now long extinct. Each twist and twirl
is lost on Earth, but not on him:
we die, not him, that is the deal.
His starry hands will shape and curl
men and gods on a potter’s wheel.

In Egypt, where both ram and bull
persist, the smoke of sacrifice
climbs up to Heaven. Now, is all
Khnum fashioned lost beneath the Nile?
Like river birds, we lift our voice –
but we have nothing to reveal.

Is it some sort of miracle
that walks this god into our lives?
Has Khnum come as the osprey dives –
to bend our knee, to break our will?
His left hand holds crisp British air.
He takes a step into the hall

and says, "Where am I? What's this place?
Who are you, staring as I start
to walk around your chilly place,
with oh such yearnings in my heart
to find my wheel and spin again,
creating children to implant
in warming wombs; no need for men
with my designs. I spin, I chant,
and bodies rise from river clay,
but where's my Nile, my temple too?
Why do you shriek and run away;
what is a ram-head god to do?
'Show me the way to Egypt, please!'
comes my request, rambunctious tone;
and some gent says, 'Well, there's a frieze;
you'll find it in the Egypt zone.'"

- - -
F-image: In the British Museum, John Isbell and Khnum converse, while other visitors scatter around them, appearing terrified :>)

[John Isbell]

Dear Fliss and Word-Bird,

I have been remiss, for you have many splendid poems to respond to upthread. But I am come here sent by your remark in my ram god Khnum thread, and so, let me say that it is a great treat to hear the ram god speak. He has been with me lo these ten or twenty years, and I had not thought to have an answer from him. I do not remember his origins, they are lost in the mists of time, as any fule kno. But now I know what's on his mind, and that matters a good deal more at the end of the day. Basically, he wants to get back to Egypt. I sympathize. The Ashmolean in Oxford continues, I think, to exhibit shrunken heads that once belonged to human beings, and in the Paris Musee de l'Homme they exhibited an entire stuffed adult woman until the 1950s. It is what it is. Thankfully, times change. Oh - let me add that Athens has a lovely museum ready for the Elgin Marbles on the day of their return to Greece.

Tot ziens (which is indeed Dutch),
John

[F.F. Teague]

Dear John,

Yes, just a few poems, lol. Happy for people to pop in when they can. Tea and cake?

☕️🍰 ☕️🍰

We're pleased you enjoyed hearing the ram god speak. It was fun to find out more about him. Yes, he misses his home. That's interesting about the shrunken heads and stuffed woman; I wonder what they might say too. Times do indeed change, but some things remain intact. I visited Athens in 1999, as part of my study tour, before heading to Mykonos, Delos, Corinth, Delphi, Olympia. I think I signed a petition in Olympia to return the Elgin Marbles. This is interesting :-)

Best wishes,
Fliss & W.-B. :>)

PS: A special sphinx for you:

[John Isbell]

A most mysterious and inscrutable sphinx indeed!

I signed a petition the other day to take down a Confederate monument we have in our town square. So yes, petitions.

Cheers to you both,
John

PS tea and cake sounds lovely! And it is just tea-time here.