TRYING TO BE HELPFUL
I’m sorry, I don’t know, I’m not from here.
Well, certainly, you could try following the blue railings.
I think it’s a long way, it might take some time, maybe.
Yes, if you keep walking I’d say you’ll get there by Monday.
Perhaps even Sunday night if you don’t mind the dark.
But then I’ve been here four days and recognise little.
I’ve seen that blue building over there before.
And that blue bus. Yes, yes, I know it’s all blue.
The whole town, the road, the pavement, the park.
Even when it’s cloudy the sky is blue, too, yes.
As I said, I don’t know. I’m not from here.
WINSTON CHURCHILL
Who was Winston Churchill, anybody know?
The teacher looks around at glum, bored faces.
A girl, trying to be helpful, pipes up from the back.
Our neighbour’s got a cat called Winston.
Yes, but is its family name Churchill? says the teacher.
Or maybe Churchill’s its second name, says the teacher.
In which case who’s the cat named after?
Anyway, says the girl, getting into her theme.
Anyway, the cat’s dead now. Got run over.
The class thinks about the dead cat.
What colour was it? asks a boy by the window.
Tortoiseshell, says the girl, and, feeling the need
To embellish a little now she has the boy’s attention,
She had one bright blue eye and one bright red eye.
The class goes quiet, thinking of the dead cat’s eyes.
The boy says I think you made that up, you’re
Always making things up to get attention.
The girl gets up and runs out of the room, crying.
She leans her back against the wall of the corridor.
To keep her tears in, she looks up at the ceiling.
So who was Winston Churchill? Come on now,
Let’s be sensible, says the teacher.
But all the children can think of is a dead cat,
And the girl who makes things up and who
Is outside now, crying, because she wants
So much to be believed. Just once.
IT’S NOT THE TIME
It’s not the time to talk about
The crack in the bathroom sink
The garden chair overturned
On the purple lawn
After the yellow storm
The unicorn that lives next door
It’s not the time to talk about
The day you cut the strings
On every puppet you owned
The day your mother said
Look the sky is repeating itself
And you said It can’t help
Being what it is, mother.
It’s not the time to talk about
The man who believes
He is made of glass
Now his lover’s left
Now his city’s invaded
And all he wants
Is to throw himself
From a mountain
Into clean air
Until he shatters.
It’s not the time.
Bob Mee poetry and more 