My Boat Song

Once was a boat that was called after me,

named as the Mary Rose,

tiny but strong to fish in the sea.

How the wind blows, who knows?

Once I was small, lived on an isle;

Dad called me Mary Rose –

his special name, making me smile.

Who knows what stays, what goes?

When I grew up, then I could see

feet made of clay, not gold.

Gone was my god, gone from that day –
old stories long grown cold.

Jack was my new step-father who

never usurped that name,

yet built a boat, showing me true

new ways that love became.

Once was a boat that was called after me,

named as the Mary Rose,
tiny but strong to fish in the sea.

How the wind blows, who knows?


And no, you are NOT allowed to call me Mary Rose! Seriously. The only other person who did was my favourite uncle, Tommy, who died in his nineties a few years back and who doesn't belong in this poem. It's a special name, not for general use, not even by best friends, lovers or husbands.

(I don't have a photo of the Mary Rose but she was something like this, with a pointier bow. This is from the Antique Boat Centre. As the image is marked as available to be saved, I am assuming Public Domain.)

At 'imaginary garden with real toads' Kim's weekend mini challenge is Boats, and she quotes many people's favourite boat song – certainly mine – The Skye Boat Song. Check out the link to find more boat poems.

I grew up on an island, often 'messing about in boats', and was later married for 27 years to a professional fisherman, so had many possibilities to write about ... but perhaps we all have one boat that is more special than others.

All His Life

From ten years old

twice daily

my Dad's injured shin,

open to the bone,

was dressed in red 

mercurochrome

and re-bandaged.

Above this gaudy wound –

more horrifying  

to child me –

on his smooth, pale knee

a dimpled scar

gouged  
(like a blinded eye).

For quadrille #22 at dVerse we are asked to include the word 'scar'. It brought back a vivid memory.

(Dad's legs were almost unnaturally smooth and pale, as he always wore long trousers to conceal the large bandage. Years of attempted skin grafts never took. The deep scar on the knee was from the same 10-year-old accident.)

Never Mind

'Were you close 

to your father?' 

she asked. 

I said yes.

Hesitated ...

No spark 

of understanding

lit her eyes. 

So I omitted that night:

my drunken shrieking,

wanting to kill him

years

without contact.

'Yes ... a fun Dad

when we were little,'

I said.

Written for Quadrille #19: Spark, at dVerse

My Dad

Grew roses,

strawberries,

ferns and bamboo.

Made wooden dolls

from round-topped clothes-pegs,

drawing faces on.

Sketched for me

water-colour flowers; I remember

pink heath’s delicate bells.

When I had nightmares

sat with me into dawn,

telling stories.

At parties, played

comb-and-tissue

mouth organ;

declaimed with gestures

‘Abdul the Bulbul Emir’

or some Rabbie Burns.

Made an acrostic poem

every family birthday,

the person’s name down the side.

Laughed

sang

danced.

Linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #309

Cross-posted to my verse portraits blog, Impressions You Left

Views from the Train

I have gone all away from the morning, the train rushing madly on, the chug chug chug of its wheels underneath me and the shaking of its rapid walls, the clang and rattle, and the long, repeated screech as we approach and leave the stations.

Morning was pale yellow as I peeped underneath the blind, the sky streaked and cloudy, the landscape flat and broad. Trees were sparse and low, bare and spindly, not the trees of home. I saw no mountains, I saw no rivers. 

But my father will be there on my arrival – there in the hot landscape where we'll live with his new wife; his new old, fat old wife with the white streak in her bright black hair and the scornful smile on her deep red lips.

hot and flat

low scrub in red dust

yet birds rise

MiIdura Vines

This work has been released into the public domain by its author, Longhair at English Wikipedia. This applies worldwide. In some countries this may not be legally possible; if so: Longhair grants anyone the right to use this work for any purpose, without any conditions, unless such conditions are required by law.

Written for Haibun Monday #8 at dVerse

View from the Bus Window

This far south of the Equator

the sun’s rays take a lengthy slant

and evenings last

for hours and hours,

turning the grasses golden

below the line of trees

that march in single file

along the top of the hill.

This was my father’s country,

all undulant curves

and soft, gentle colours.

No wonder he was so fond of women!


(An old journal entry I came across, which needed little tweaking to turn into a poem.)

 I'm linking to Gillena's Monday WRites 35:

Father Christmas

The little ones didn't know it was you.

You were on your way to be, as usual,

Santa to the crippled kids.

You'd been a crippled kid yourself,

and I guess those kids must have liked

a Santa with a limp. As for us,

we never even noticed. You don't notice

what you've grown up with, never any different.

You decided to come by our house

dressed up, a treat for the little ones.

I was big enough to know, and I knew

I must not tell. But I was nearly bursting,

jumping up and down, clinging to your arm.

'Oh Daddy!' I whispered through my grin.

'Daddy Christmas!' Mr Lightfoot next door said

very quickly, then whirled you away in his jeep.

The Lightfoots' new puppy ran after it, barking,

but my little brother and his best friend,

Roger Lightfoot, grabbed him. My mother

gave the puppy a biscuit. His name was Bingo.

He was black and tan. Then she gave us all

a biscuit — shortbreads out of the big red tin

she kept in the kitchen. She had on her new

teal coloured jumper over her pleated skirt.

I thought my Mum was prettier

than a film star. You thought so too.

Sometimes she sat on your lap

and you kissed her and sang:

'I'm half crazy, all for the love of you,'

and both of you laughed. But that day

was the last time I ever remember

all of us being so happy.

I suppose we had a good Christmas

two days later, but I don't remember.

I remember that day, and my little brother's face

shining. Father Christmas came to his house

and talked to him! I was mostly unable

to speak, my breath coming huge and fast.

I remember how red your costume was.

I remember you driving away.

Written for Poets United's Midweek Motif: Fathers. Based on an exercise in Wingbeats: Rube Goldberg Poems, by Oliver de la Paz.

Mourning the Goat

30 Poems in 30 Days: Day 7

Write a poem that involves an animal. 

There is no goat.
I can hardly believe it.
But it has been declared
on national TV
by the head man.
I must  accept it.

I remember my Dad
personally ironing
his white apron
with the blue and gold,
its tiny suitcase,
and my Mum poking fun.

Hearing the banter,
I loved to imagine
jolly half-naked fathers
riding that billy-goat
in their nice clean aprons
as it pranced, tossing its horns.

That must be when I first
heard the word “regalia”.
Much older, I liked to think
of an inner circle of Magic,
and the goat perhaps
a metaphor for Pan.

But to learn that there is no
goat, no ride, no dancing,
no half-nude cavorting
of any kind – that’s cruel.
No secrets, no mystery …
no more magic.
 

Note: Dan Browns’ next book will be about Freemasonry.
The Masons have pre-emptively revealed that they have no secret rituals.