Goodbye Routemaster
The iconic (damn, I swore I’d
never use that word..)
red London bus
was designed by the lively minded
for the active lively – those who
take a few chances with life,
look for a little excitement,
test their limits, enjoy
– the French have a phrase for it –
the little happinesses, sweetnesses, or
good fortunes, it doesn’t
translate quite so well –
let’s say, exhilarating moments?
viz.:
the back platform, a step
nearer the ground, is open; rubber-floored;
a central vertical bar,
wound with a grip-fast plastic,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0021 Santa Claus Franchises Inc: A Public Statement
We the undersigned have been requested
to issue the following statement on behalf of
Santa Claus Franchises Inc in the light of
recent serious allegations:
SCI as an international organisation
takes its responsibilities to the public
extremely seriously, while at all times
being sensitive to contemporary issues.
SCI defends itself vigorously
from suggestions that it projects an image
of extra-terrestrial benevolence
which may lead to later
adverse effects of trauma, mental and physical
ill-health, etc. All SCI Franchise Outlets have an
authorised notice that ‘parental discrimination
should be exercised at all times’.
There are no similarities to the tobacco industry
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0009 On Being Caned, Frequently
Ooh! Ow! ...I'm a victim! ...I've got a psychic scar! ...
not in my schooldays,
I have to say;
how quickly the world changes!
Life was straightforward at my schools –
you disobeyed the rules, you got beaten, caned –
simple as that.
And if you were the adventurous type,
you disobeyed often, just for the hell of it,
got beaten often; the heroic aura glowed from you;
modest hero too – you never showed the marks when asked…
though perhaps paused a moment longer
when putting your pyjamas on
if you were at boarding school
to show you hadn’t stuffed any foreign substance
in your pants. You quickly learned
that cardboard made a giveaway hollow sound,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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City of the Mindful Heart. For KV.
The inhabitants are rightly proud –
let’s take the guided tour…
they show you first (they’ve never been inside,
themselves.. though they know someone who has…)
the Palace, it’s still called,
the seat of government… throughout
its sometimes turbulent, sometimes complacent rule,
it’s stood for that central place where golden hearts
seek unity in national multiplicity;
and seek to care for multiplicity…
not far away, that great domed building,
it’s been temple, church, mosque in its time,
been desecrated, restored, so many times;
and truth to tell, while it’s the symbol
of the nation, there are many more
who are proud of it, than have entered it…
here too, a quiet place to find
the unity in multiplicity…
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0029 Monte Carlo
So this was it. I'd passed through years ago
as a hitch-hiker, spinning out our 25 pounds
max allowance, over three hot weeks of France
until I was sick of tough-skinned monster tomatoes
and baguettes without butter; as we made our sweaty way
to Monaco's, surprisingly, Communist youth hostel
beyond the gas works and the soccer ground,
around the path at the foot of the cliffs...no romance there.
But here I was, as a journalist, two nights in a hotel
of grand aspiration, where guests left empty
the spacious restaurant and its tasteless menu.
Monte Carlo out of season; shrunken to a provincial town;
the waves hitting hard and cold against its promenade.
Tired after a day of work, foot-hot amid white-gloved uniforms,
I felt I should squeeze something memorable from the single day
as the lights went on. Too travel-stained to enter the Casino,
placed where the pier would be in an English seaside town -
but I hovered. It was a stage set which had rashly intruded
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0005 Letter to a Younger Poet
Thanks for your letter. Though
you’ve caught me at a rather awkward time –
I’m going into surgery tomorrow – a rather
risky op; so I’ll try to put all the answers that I’ve got
into this one letter;
I hope you'll understand...
and that helps me to make my first point to you:
write as if you, too, may not live
beyond tomorrow – write as if
it’s the last thing that you’ll ever write –
give it everything you’ve got,
hold nothing back;
or better still – write as if
the world will end for everyone tomorrow:
write so that in their last hours, too, this
will make them feel, will make them know
we’ve faced life fully, faced it so complete
that death is relatively unimportant now…
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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In the steps of Rumi 88: Metaphor
Simile – what looks like something else –
that’s a fun game for the senses,
for the mind: oh look Dad,
there’s a scarecrow in that field
that looks just like a man, does it
really scare crows?
Oh look Dad, there’s a beggar in the street
who looks just like a scarecrow,
I wonder if the same crows
see him too?
But metaphor – ah, that’s something else:
explanations don’t quite explain it:
you see something; it brings to mind
something very different; maybe
you just forget it, pass on; maybe
you’re a poet, and you think,
that other thing casts a subtle light
on this first thing, I’ll see if others
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Hardware Shop
There's nothing so becomes a man
as a local hardware shop - it expands
the horizons of his home improvement, and
brings harmony to his home life as
those little jobs get done;
and although these days a car-trip
would take you to an out-of-town
with wider variety and lower price,
there is greater delight in detailed chat
with that little man around the corner
who's been there since - oh, you knew his father.
He's got it; or will get it; you chat; come out feeling good;
there's order in the world. Things get done.
But they're a dying breed. We had two - didn't know
just how lucky we were until Mr and Mrs Tidy
(how many Tidy generations of hardware had there been?)
with their two shops run together - he in one, she in the other - and
he identified just what it was you wanted; she
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Pooh Bear and The Alarming Rumour
In the Hundred Acre Wood, agitation spread like one of those cold March winds that seem to be blowing in every direction at once. All the Animals were murmuring to each other, then to someone else, and rumour spread like blown dry leaves in an autumn gale..
Wol’s nephew, who was too clever for his own good, Wol said, had found a torn piece of dirty newspaper wrapped round some compost behind a tree, which came, it said, ‘From Our …..wood Correspondent’
and which said something about ‘…Robin…girl’…
What could it mean? Had CR found a girlfriend? Pooh was half happy for him, but the other half knew that girls meant boys having less time for walks in the wood with bears, however Much Loved…
Others feared that CR would be going away to school, as he had told them he would one day, and his sister – who they’d never met – would come instead and do girly things like tidy up, and brush Eeyore’s hair away from his eyes, and sit the Animals in a row and play School … Piglet turned very pink around the ears at the thought.
Rabbit’s friends and relations were unconcerned – they had bunny girls of their own to play with. But Roo got the story wrong as usual, and thought CR would change into a girl, like hens sometimes change into cocks, and got all excited and jumped up and down shouting ‘Christine Robinia…’ which embarrassed everyone. While Tigger just bounced around, hoping that this would be a New Adventure after all..
Only Tortus, who was so old that he had once seen Snow White walking through the Hundred Acre Wood, feared the worst…saying that girls from that wood with the holly in it had rosebud mouths, tidy hair, long eyelashes, sang silly songs, and were yucksomely sentimental…
Could it be true? The Animals all crowded in front of Wol’s tree to ask his advice. Wol took a long time to find his spectacles, and came out looking serious.
‘The wood with the holly in it is a long way from our wood’ said Wol, ‘and doesn’t see us as we see ourselves…so you must prepare yourselves for the worst…’
The Animals walked slowly and sadly away. It seemed as if the end of the world were nigh. No more Christopher Robin, and a girl with rosebud lips and tidy hair and long eyelashes instead? They would just have to wait and see. Some girls, after all, are fond of all animals…some are even tomboys and kick leaves and walk through puddles and climb trees…
Eeyore hadn’t joined the crowd. He stayed in the corner of his field, eating a dewy breakfast. ‘No one asked me…’ he said mournfully. ‘ I’m always the last to be consulted…’
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0375 Season of mists and merry mythfulness
You…leave…the…
Pennsylvania classroom at a
quarter to four..
leaving all your Bio. notes
for checking, at the door…
With exquisite timing, a Pennsylvania judge
has ruled that the wonders of biology, as
revealed by the dissection of neatly-pinned frogs
and suchlike squeamy miracles of internal packaging
so cleverly evolved by, uh, ‘Darwinian evolution’,
must not mention - no, not just God, as
Creator - heaven forfend - but even
‘divine intervention’ - like some ‘hey, stop the show
right there! ’, as the alternative to
‘Darwinian evolution’ - so called, by the way, because
it’s only a theory anyway, not yet
a proven law – it’s just a kinda myth..and
with nasty Emperor’s-clothes, whizz kid, questions
sticking their hand up in the classroom –
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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