I haven't written any poems for quite a while, resting after the intensity of the OU course in Creative Writing, and this year's Napowrimo which seemed to have sucked me dry. But this morning a painting of Acker Bilk by my friend Jocelyn Gilfoyle prompted a memory of my Dad, which needed to be recorded. He had a great love of instrumental music especially brass bands, which were unappealing to me as a child - after the first few tracks I'd usually had enough. But I loved the novelty of him coaxing music out of his cornet, just by pursing his lips and blowing, It only came out at Christmas, The scuffed black case with its puffy silk lining, The tarnished brass cornet nestled safe inside. Each year his girls would ask him to play His party piece at the family gathering, Amazed that his puckered lips could draw Sweet notes from this unassuming instrument. He'd always start with an apology for being rusty, But once the first few wavering notes were tested...
It's funny how some memories of childhood stay fresh and clear, while others disappear. I came across this memory in some notes I'd made on childhood during my course, and had to write them up before they disappeared once again. My nineteen guests sit in a circle Splay-legged on the carpet, Silent, eyes blank, looking straight ahead As if in the company of strangers. A mixed, assorted bunch, From tiny dolls with painted hair, To blue-eyed, blonde-haired Fiona, Standing half my height, my latest friend. Mixed in between, with no distinction made, The hunched and furry bears, Reaching out their worn and clumsy paws Towards impossible teacup handles. The shaky teapot pours juice into their cups, Red plastic plates are passed around To share the iced ring biscuits politely, Though every one is bitten by my proxy teeth. The party warms up as 'tea' and biscuits disappear, Guests slump in their places, inhibitions lost, As they regain the toy box familiarity Of li...
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