—Poetry by Mike Hickman, York, England
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
For Alice (whose poem about the non-apology
situation was so very much better than mine)
THE ANTI
Then: She was judgmental.
There was no physical or mental aberration too small
to be pointed out to siblings, neighbours or visiting tradesmen.
Plumbers seemed to most especially revel in such things, or so she said.
The postie and Milko the Milk were equally enthralled.
Weight, hair, skin, or sexuality
(oh, how she loved it when things veered into the filth of sexuality)
were the foulest of foul games.
Caught expressing yourself in any teenage fashion at all?
She would take it, and she would spin it,
and I would have nowhere to hide in a family the size of ours.
I still remember the Radio Rentals man who got the tale of some youthful fumbling
recounted to him in full, salacious detail.
And there could, of course, be nothing worse than expressing interest in others of any sex (she reserved the right to be disappointed as to the exact sex).
That was a special case for public excoriation.
Dating? Me? Ha!
Ribald laughter was especially reserved for Rachel, the riverboat shuffle,
and the hangover that followed.
Hysterical laughter for everything else that followed that.
After: You are surprised when I say there was nothing at all?
For years. That I fear the judgment, I expect from everyone?
That I act and I dissemble, and I pretend?
Now: You notice the shoes.
And you make no comment.
You attach no shame.
You fetch the super glue.
Today: I understand the anti.
(prev. pub. in The Hub Pub)
THROUGH A SHREDDER DARKLY
Stewart Stargrove shreds the remnants of his year.
In his last two weeks in the job, he stands and he shreds and he shreds and he stands.
And they walk round him, his colleagues,
And they don’t see what he is doing, even as he is doing it.
As the forms and the duplicates and the applications and the receipts are reduced to ribbons,
Tagliatelle-tangled into the bin beneath.
Stewart Stargrove slices away at his days.
He compresses them into so much mulch and yet there are still more slithers to come.
So many slithers, cascading and coalescing into single character, single digit streams.
And those who walk by
Do not notice his looks of relief. Of satisfaction. Of despair.
Each time he checks the bin, pushes down still further into the entanglement.
As the days that once meant so much to him interweave and intertwine.
And he tries so hard to let them go.
As those days wind their way round him, dragging him down, dragging him in,
Pulling him under, under, under into the bin,
Until all they see, those who walk past to their desks and their diaries and their own despairs,
Are his shoes and his spats feebly waving in the air,
Before he is one with the shredding,
Before he, too, is sent for recycling.
Which is fine.
Because give it twelve months,
And, in another office, and in another town,
Stewart Stargrove will once again be shredding his year.
(prev. pub. in The Haven)
ONCE IN A LIFETIME FEELS TOO LUCKY
This does not happen to someone like Scott, so now it has…
Scott’s soul is not the kind to sing.
He says that, when he is alone.
The better to enjoy the silence.
The better to stay silent.
And there are no smiles cast his way.
He says that, too, when he is alone.
When there is no danger of encouraging humour.
When there are no eyes for that smile to reach.
Deep, brown, compassionate, or otherwise.
And there is no one there to listen
When he shuts the door, and barricades it with a chair,
And hides under the table,
And clamps his hands to his ears.
Because he can’t hear, now, can he?
And if he can’t hear, then no one else can.
And if he shuts his eyes, too,
Then he cannot be seen.
Stands to reason, doesn’t it?
Just as he crouches and squirms.
Because his soul is not the kind to sing.
Because that did not just happen.
Because he did not just meet you.
Because this once feels too lucky for someone like him.
Because now this has happened, then what else might be possible…?
Because now he has experienced this even once,
There is no barricade built that can keep him from taking flight.
(prev. pub. in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself)
This does not happen to someone like Scott, so now it has…
Scott’s soul is not the kind to sing.
He says that, when he is alone.
The better to enjoy the silence.
The better to stay silent.
And there are no smiles cast his way.
He says that, too, when he is alone.
When there is no danger of encouraging humour.
When there are no eyes for that smile to reach.
Deep, brown, compassionate, or otherwise.
And there is no one there to listen
When he shuts the door, and barricades it with a chair,
And hides under the table,
And clamps his hands to his ears.
Because he can’t hear, now, can he?
And if he can’t hear, then no one else can.
And if he shuts his eyes, too,
Then he cannot be seen.
Stands to reason, doesn’t it?
Just as he crouches and squirms.
Because his soul is not the kind to sing.
Because that did not just happen.
Because he did not just meet you.
Because this once feels too lucky for someone like him.
Because now this has happened, then what else might be possible…?
Because now he has experienced this even once,
There is no barricade built that can keep him from taking flight.
(prev. pub. in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself)
APOLOGISE FOR THE APOLOGY (NEVER FOR THE MISTAKE)
Ever had this advice from a boss? If you have, you will recognise the following…
Dear Team,
We apologise for the short notice
(But we didn’t have the time to appreciate
How much we might conceivably screw this up,
And how long it would take to explain).
We apologise for the inconvenience
(But of course it’s still better than the inconvenience
Of having to see to your convenience).
We apologise for the mess made (by others).
We apologise for the cancellation (beyond our control).
We apologise that we are apologising
On behalf of the others whose fault we say this is.
We apologise that we are apologising
On behalf of those you have never met,
And we might as well have made up.
(And most likely did.)
We apologise for all the above,
Even as we know you’d be fools to accept our apology.
Even as we know we’ve denied you right of reply.
Because who will say what they really feel in a reply all?
So, let us say that we apologise for all the above,
And more,
In the cheapest way we possibly can,
Because it saves all the time we will not be spending
Apologising for ourselves.
(prev. pub. in The Haven)
SUFFICIENT NUMBERS
The boss wants to know who’s coming to the Christmas do—if there’s anyone left on the staff by then…
In the week that began with another whip-round
For a departing staff member,
When, really, by now we should all have Standing Orders
For the cards and the leaving presents…
A week that then continued with four other resignations,
(Even so, a mere 20% of the total across the last year)
And in contrast with the usual silence from this august individual
At each departure (not even so much as a thank you),
The boss decides to unleash an All-Staff Email
About this year’s Christmas party,
Which is a tad dubious, frankly,
Because this has never happened before.
There has always been someone lowlier to do this before.
But now he is saying that he is going to book the All Bar One,
If we can get the numbers to him by Friday.
And, if there are “sufficient numbers,” we’ll have tables, too.
If there are “sufficient numbers,” he says.
“Sufficient Numbers,” he says.
If there are sufficient numbers.
My God, there are ways of working out how many dissatisfied customers
You have on your staff,
And how many more might leave even before New Year,
But this is a new one, and no mistake.
Presuming he’s not just trolling us, of course.
But then, that presumes he could organise a Christmas do.
When we already know he couldn’t manage a good night out
In a brewery.
(prev. pub. in The Haven)
The boss wants to know who’s coming to the Christmas do—if there’s anyone left on the staff by then…
In the week that began with another whip-round
For a departing staff member,
When, really, by now we should all have Standing Orders
For the cards and the leaving presents…
A week that then continued with four other resignations,
(Even so, a mere 20% of the total across the last year)
And in contrast with the usual silence from this august individual
At each departure (not even so much as a thank you),
The boss decides to unleash an All-Staff Email
About this year’s Christmas party,
Which is a tad dubious, frankly,
Because this has never happened before.
There has always been someone lowlier to do this before.
But now he is saying that he is going to book the All Bar One,
If we can get the numbers to him by Friday.
And, if there are “sufficient numbers,” we’ll have tables, too.
If there are “sufficient numbers,” he says.
“Sufficient Numbers,” he says.
If there are sufficient numbers.
My God, there are ways of working out how many dissatisfied customers
You have on your staff,
And how many more might leave even before New Year,
But this is a new one, and no mistake.
Presuming he’s not just trolling us, of course.
But then, that presumes he could organise a Christmas do.
When we already know he couldn’t manage a good night out
In a brewery.
(prev. pub. in The Haven)
RESIGNED
Whatever you do, you do not have to resign yourself to it…
I have decided no longer to resign myself
To the gaslighting about what we think, believe and want,
Or to the fact that this thing or that thing were really done
Way back when, when we all know they weren't,
Or that it is normal to have to ask something, whether out loud or by email,
Five, six, seven times before finally realising it has been ignored,
Maybe six months later.
When the silence no longer can be.
I have decided no longer to resign myself to the playground atmosphere,
To the unkindness in our midst, so often in our midst,
To the pressures and the strains that have nowhere to go
Because those emails are never answered
And because no one wants to stand still long enough
to take responsibility for anything.
I have decided no longer to resign myself to having standards
seemingly only for myself
When it feels like others cannot see the point
Or, if they can, they couldn't care less about demonstrating it.
I have decided no longer to resign myself to the despond
Of having made such a bad call,
Thinking these were good people
And seeing my expectations chiselled away by the day,
Until resigning myself to having no expectations at all.
I have decided no longer to resign myself
In the best way, I know from my past life, to avoid resigning myself,
Because I remember the release,
I remember that it is genuinely a fundamental attribution error
To believe that this is who I am all the time,
This incredible despond,
Because I have felt it lift before.
I have decided no longer to resign myself,
And I want to pass on this advice to you.
Reader: I resigned
(prev. pub. by The Haven)
_________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
STOP ALL THE [ALARM] CLOCKS
—Mike Hickman
My friends, stop.
Your anticipated alarums are enough in themselves to wake her.
Unset yourselves.
Give her back the time.
Release her from the anticipation of clamour.
Of heart-racing alertness.
Of the chain-link adrenalin chase that is her usual routine.
Give her back her time.
Allow her the weekend.
Let her rest.
And, if you can’t do that,
Then at least go off in another room,
Under a pillow,
Under a mattress,
As far away from her sleep as possible,
If you would like me to give you the opportunity to ring again another day.
(prev. pub. in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself)
_____________________
Welcome back to Mike Hickman from York, as he writes about life and employment in the UK with his British spellings. Many thanks to him for these ironic pictures of life on his side of the pond! (—not so different from life over here…)
Head on up to Lincoln today at 3pm, when Lincoln Poets will feature Patricia Caspers plus open mic. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
_____________________
—Medusa
Whatever you do, you do not have to resign yourself to it…
I have decided no longer to resign myself
To the gaslighting about what we think, believe and want,
Or to the fact that this thing or that thing were really done
Way back when, when we all know they weren't,
Or that it is normal to have to ask something, whether out loud or by email,
Five, six, seven times before finally realising it has been ignored,
Maybe six months later.
When the silence no longer can be.
I have decided no longer to resign myself to the playground atmosphere,
To the unkindness in our midst, so often in our midst,
To the pressures and the strains that have nowhere to go
Because those emails are never answered
And because no one wants to stand still long enough
to take responsibility for anything.
I have decided no longer to resign myself to having standards
seemingly only for myself
When it feels like others cannot see the point
Or, if they can, they couldn't care less about demonstrating it.
I have decided no longer to resign myself to the despond
Of having made such a bad call,
Thinking these were good people
And seeing my expectations chiselled away by the day,
Until resigning myself to having no expectations at all.
I have decided no longer to resign myself
In the best way, I know from my past life, to avoid resigning myself,
Because I remember the release,
I remember that it is genuinely a fundamental attribution error
To believe that this is who I am all the time,
This incredible despond,
Because I have felt it lift before.
I have decided no longer to resign myself,
And I want to pass on this advice to you.
Reader: I resigned
(prev. pub. by The Haven)
_________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
STOP ALL THE [ALARM] CLOCKS
—Mike Hickman
My friends, stop.
Your anticipated alarums are enough in themselves to wake her.
Unset yourselves.
Give her back the time.
Release her from the anticipation of clamour.
Of heart-racing alertness.
Of the chain-link adrenalin chase that is her usual routine.
Give her back her time.
Allow her the weekend.
Let her rest.
And, if you can’t do that,
Then at least go off in another room,
Under a pillow,
Under a mattress,
As far away from her sleep as possible,
If you would like me to give you the opportunity to ring again another day.
(prev. pub. in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself)
_____________________
Welcome back to Mike Hickman from York, as he writes about life and employment in the UK with his British spellings. Many thanks to him for these ironic pictures of life on his side of the pond! (—not so different from life over here…)
Head on up to Lincoln today at 3pm, when Lincoln Poets will feature Patricia Caspers plus open mic. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
_____________________
—Medusa
Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA, USA
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
