I didn’t know until today
that Bombus Terrestris
was the buff-tailed bumble bee,
but I like the thumping heft of it
and the drawn out hiss.
I will say it often,
find ways to Latin drop.
I will chant it as I chop chives,
it will be the theme song of vacuuming.
will carry me away.
That buff-tailed bumble bee
on a sprig of bramble blossom
against unreasonably bright blue sky,
‘17p’ printed in black, the Queen’s head in gold.
Cards, cards, and more cards,
all those buff-tailed congratulations –
…..I would say swarming
…..but bumble bees are not hive-minded.
Those stamps were big in 1985.
Dead or Alive were in ‘the charts’-
…..now there’s a phrase that’s not worn well –
you spin me round, like a record, baby,
round and around.
It’s almost a foreign language
words left dangling from obsolete machines.
But that was the song
the first you ever hear with outside ears,
played over and over in Maternity.
The singer’s dead now,
first class post is more than halfway to a pound,
but bees and buzzing spring
still speak of life and energy and wonder.
We love our children
and when they love us back
it still spins us round and round.
Posted in Stories
Tagged 1980's, birth, children, jan dean, language, love song, Pete Burns, poem, poetry, postage stamps, story
I asked another jellyfish
who being all curve and wobble
could not compute the concept ‘point’
direction was a problem too
we float we float
our liquid selves within the liquid sea
and then I understood something about tears
and remembering you were lost
I cried for you
I read it in a book bubble&squeak
they ate it I wanted it
how could you not want bubble
on your tongue to chew squeak
my mother gave me a look and gravy
on Sunday veg fried up on Monday
she never said as she dished up
this is it you fool I grew out of stories
with hard boiled eggs and lashings
of whatever there were lashings of
I never tasted their other life
though I’d been eating it the whole time
today I learned that Bengal candles are sparklers
maybe it’s time to meet a tiger in the fire
has been elbow deep in me
I imagine my intestines lilac blue
and steaming gently in the unexpected air
unravelled they can stretch
the whole way round a tennis court
they told us that in school
I never thought I’d put it to the test
the bowel reacts to being handled
can be skittish might flounce
peristalsis – that squeeze that starts as swallowing
then ripples sweet and regular right through –
must settle down into its proper rhythm
meanwhile strange surges flutter
as if a trout is netted in my belly
and now it flexes slippery and strong
I think of Mr Brough
of skill honed by practice
the sly gutting of a fish
let the making move me
the songs lift
I will shape the space
watch the light dapple
I will find the blessing in it