Family tree

The oak stands in the garden
of an ancient manor house
owned by the same family for generations.
Its branches reached far and wide
for centuries, but eventually rot set in
and they began to fall to the ground.
Gradually the tree was reduced in size.
Fewer and fewer leaves each year,
more and more dead wood.
Just as the house fell into disrepair
as the family’s wealth and influence declined.
Now the last survivor of the family
has joined his forbears in the village cemetery.
The house was sold at a knock-down price
due to its dilapidated condition.
The new owners have applied for permission
to fell what’s left of the tree.
The family bible raised little interest
when entered as a job lot at auction.

The idea for this came from the old habit of tying a knot in a handkerchief to remind you of something.

[hozbreak]

Memory Hanky

First comes a knot for my heart
to protect me from the wreckage of reason.

There follows a knot for my head,
imagined source of the supreme fiction.

There’s a knot for each of my children,
proof that life is possible.

My mum has her own special knot
to protect her memory from death.

My dad has a knot to help me forget
how his love bequeathed a life of fear.

There are two knots reserved for me,
the first to remind me that I’m all there is.

The second is the knot of myself
to be untied when I return to dust.

Upper, middle, lower…

Here’s a poem by Howard Nemerov
http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=12988

… and then there’s working… and the aristocracy…

Class. Knowing one’s place. Or not.

Here is an ending
marked with a question mark.

Is there time?

Now, I must tidy away yesterday,
making space for today
as it grows into the wonders of tomorrow.

February 29th

Conflicting smells fill her flat this evening.
Four hundred and thirty-five roses
crowd every surface, every receptacle
pressed into service, even her teapot.
Some stems well past their best,
brown fallen petals litter the place.
A single rose was delivered on the 1st.
Two on the 2nd, three on the 3rd etcetera.
The final twenty-nine were delivered today.
She refused his proposal last year,
but her reservations about his fishy past
have been challenged by all his sweet talk.
He says he’s leaving it up to her,
pointing out this is a Leap Year.
The table is set for two, candles lit,
aromas from the kitchen battling it out
with the whiff of rotting roses.
He’s bound to bring champagne.
The doorbell rings.

Neglected, the fleshy buds

of your orchid lost their colour

and the little lemony canopies

turned oyster grey and started

to crisp at the edges.

This morning, flat out and reluctant

on my yoga mat, three bright-pink,

full-lipped blossoms peaked out

from under their dying hoods

showing me all is not lost.

February… spring is almost in sight. So… flowers. Here’s Wendy Cope:

http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=5679

and here’s Selima Hill with a poem apparently about flowers:

http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=16653

and Mimi Khalvati

http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=5138

Interesting that women seem to have cornered the market in poems written about flowers.

Here’s an ekphrastic poem based on a Dürer print (see details here)
[hozbreak]
Version 1

I was minding my business in Pandamonium

(1) Death
If there’s one thing I can’t stand
it’s single issue fanatics of any kind
especially religious fundamentalists.
The barmy ones believe it’s good to do themselves in,
killing loads of innocent souls on the way,
these are unbelievers of course, expendable.
Well, I can’t handle the extra workload.
For a start it’s messy trying to find their souls
among the litter of body parts,
especially when they struggle, claim their time hasn’t come.
So today I am going to nobble the chief loonie
as he passes through the valley of death dressed as a knight.
The Devil is going to be there too, to scare his horse so he falls off.
Then we will stamp on him, send him back to his Maker.

(2) The Devil
So there I was on a beach near Pandemonium
warming myself by the burning sea when who turns up?
Non other than that weedy creep Death.
He said he needed some help in the valley of death
and he was prepared to pay me well. I tried to get
a weekend pass back to heaven, but he wasn’t falling for that.
He told me to dress up like a goat with cloven hooves
so I’ve had to get my Devil suit out of hock at the pawnbroker’s.
That was only a couple of hours ago. It seems some religious nut
is expected to ride through the valley on a horse.
He said I’d got to to stamp about and roar like the devil
so the horse would bolt and throw the Knight.
What actually happened was the fanatic had a dog,
an Irish wolf hound big as a small horse.
The bastard animal bit me and pulled off my goats mask.
Then talk of the devil, Death appeared on the scene.

(3) The Knight
This world is going to the dogs. It’s full of infidels,
unbelievers who refuse to follow the Word,
my Word given to me on an acid trip by a power
far mightier than me. It is written that unbelievers
should be eliminated now—waiting for the Rapture
means waiting too long. I have cohorts prepared
to give themselves to the task of cleansing this world.
Today I was leading a march through death valley
followed by a dozen new conscripts
in need of hardening by exposure to the dark forces
that inhabit the place. But then that idiot the Devil
turned up, under contract I shouldn’t doubt, craven
git that he is, always after a fast buck. Anyway,
there he stood, dressed like a goat, stamping and snorting,
so I set Gnash, my Irish Wolfhound, on him. Gnash bit his arse
and hoicked off his stupid goat outfit. Then that other fool
Death appeared, minus nose and lips, blocking my way
on a puny horse wafting a skull and egg timer in my face.
What’s occurring guys I asked. Why don’t you both bugger off
or else I’ll report you to the boss. He’s my friend.

Version 2

I was minding my business in Pandamonium

(1) Death
This is a bum job, low pay, no perks, too much overtime.
So if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s single issue fanatics,
especially religious fundamentalists. Can’t they see
I’ve already got too much to do, what with wars and epidemics.
The barmy sods believe in blowing themselves up,
killing loads of innocents on the way. Unbelievers, expendable.
Well, I can’t handle the extra workload. For a start it’s messy
trying to find their souls among the litter of body parts,
especially when they struggle, claim their time hasn’t come.
I’d go on strike, but everyone would think that was a great idea.
So instead I’m going to nobble the chief loonie as he passes
through the valley of death dressed as a knight.
I’ve paid the Devil to be there too, to scare his horse so he falls off.
Then we will stamp on him, send him back to his Maker.

(2) The Devil
There I was relaxing on a beach near Pandemonium
warming myself by the burning sea when who turns up?
Non other than that weedy creep Death. He’s always moaning.
He said he needed some help in the valley of death
and was prepared to pay me well. I tried to get a weekend pass
back to heaven, but he wasn’t falling for that. Stingy beggar.
He told me to dress up like a goat with cloven hooves
so I’ve had to get my Devil suit out of hock at the pawnbroker’s.
That was only a couple of hours ago. It seems some religious nut
is expected to ride through the valley on a horse.
He said I’d got to stamp about and roar like the devil
so the horse would bolt and throw the lunatic Knight.
What actually happened was the lunatic had a dog,
an Irish wolf hound big as a small horse.
The bastard animal bit me and pulled off my goats mask.
Then, talk of the devil, Death appeared on the scene.

(3) The Knight
The world is going to the dogs don’t you know.
It’s full of unbelievers who refuse to follow the Word,
my Word given to me on an acid trip by a power
far mightier than me. It is written that unbelievers
should be eliminated now—waiting for the Rapture
means waiting too long. I run the Church of Salvation,
have my own TV channel, and online merchandising store.
I have real power. My thousands of cohorts are prepared
to give themselves to the task of cleansing this world.
Today I was leading a march through death valley
followed by a dozen new conscripts in need of hardening
by exposure to the dark forces that inhabit the place.
But then that idiot the Devil turned up, craven git,
probably under contract. He’s always after a fast buck. Anyway,
there he stood, dressed like a goat, stamping and snorting,
so I set Gnash, my Irish Wolfhound, on him. Gnash bit his arse
and hoicked off his stupid goat outfit. Then that other fool
Death appeared, minus nose and lips, blocking my way
on a puny horse waving a skull and egg timer in my face.
What’s occurring guys I asked. Why don’t you both bugger off
or else I’ll report you to the boss. He’s my friend.