North Wales
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
MISS PASS
My first best friend was Susan.
We were inseparable.
Soon we would be starting school.
Starting at the same school.
It shouldn’t be a problem.
But Susan was three months older
and this was a problem.
She must start earlier
and we would be parted.
Unthinkable!!
Such concern from our parents.
But all was well.
It wouldn’t be a problem.
And all thanks to Miss Pass,
the headmistress,
a wonderful woman
who understood the feelings
of small children.
We could start together
and in the same class.
She was a shining example
to teachers everywhere.
We knew it as we hung our coats
on pegs next to each other
in the cloakroom.
But a few days later
when we had settled in,
disaster struck.
We were to be in different classes.
Such tears and trauma
as we hugged and kissed
and said goodbye at our pegs
in the cloakroom
each morning and afternoon.
And all because of Miss Pass,
the headmistress,
a stupid woman
who had no idea about the feelings
of small children
and should never have been allowed
to be a teacher anywhere.
We knew it as we hung our coats
on pegs next to each other
in the cloakroom.
(prev. pub. by Piker Press, 2016)
THE CHRISTMAS TREAT
It was my first Christmas in school
and we were getting a treat,
something special,
something nice.
Paper serviettes were handed out
and we placed them on our desks,
our mouths watering in anticipation.
And then came the cake,
a splendid fruit cake
coated with marzipan,
iced and cut
into slices,
one for each child.
What a treat!
I didn’t like marzipan,
so I ate the icing
and the cake
and left the marzipan to be thrown away
with the paper serviette.
But this was not allowed,
the teacher said.
All of the treat must be eaten.
I didn’t want to eat it.
Well, adults aren’t made to eat food
that they don’t like, do they,
so why should children?
It wasn’t fair.
It wasn’t just.
The teacher disagreed.
I must eat the treat,
she said.
So I threw it on the floor,
and to make sure,
stamped on it.
I was made to stand on a chair
in disgrace for not eating the treat.
At four years old,
it was my first encounter
with irony.
(prev. pub. in Free Lit Magazine, January 2018)
SUCH NONSENSE
We had a new teacher,
a student still in college.
He read us a long poem.
I listened carefully, trying
to make sense of it.
It was funny.
Was it meant to be funny?
or was the laughter of derision,
to what sounded like nonsense.
Laughter seemed allowed
and that was unusual.
School was not a place for fun.
Well, maybe it was nonsense
but I loved the imagery
and the colours of the words.
I asked if 'pea green' was
the colour of mushy peas
from the chip shop,
or was it those in pods
fresh from the garden.
Nothing was clear,
but it was fun.
(prev. pub. in Calameo)
MY BEST FRIEND
I remember. it well.
She was my best friend,
three years older and a prefect.
It was a cold day
and we wanted to stay inside and read,
not walk up and down aimlessly.
The rules didn't allow it.
I wrote us a note as if from a teacher.
She grassed me up.
I was in big trouble!
I remember it well.
I doubt she will.
(prev. pub. in The Graveyard Zine, Issue 4, The 13th Act of Madness, October 2022)
DR GREEN BOWS OUT
We called her Flo,
our formidable headmistress
who insisted on every girl achieving
her own personal best.
Competition was discouraged
and no class positions were given,
only individual achievement was celebrated
and pupils were randomly selected for the Houses
which were named after female achievers,
Cavell, Darling, Nightingale, Marvell and Fry.
Streaming was unheard of.
She was so far ahead of her time
we’re still waiting for our time
to catch up.
She believed that women should step out
and be true to themselves
always
so ‘narrow’ skirts were frowned on
as restricting our freedom.
Black stockings were also forbidden,
however fashionable.
She remembered the campaigns against them
back in her day when they were obligatory
and unfashionable.
I would have been leading,
she told me
so I should not wear them.
She ended her days in a Care Home
where she reclined in a hammock
and sipped her sherry
as she swung.
I would have expected nothing less,
from such a woman.
Always
strong enough
to be true to herself
she chose
a perfect way to leave the stage.
We called her Flo,
our formidable headmistress
who insisted on every girl achieving
her own personal best.
Competition was discouraged
and no class positions were given,
only individual achievement was celebrated
and pupils were randomly selected for the Houses
which were named after female achievers,
Cavell, Darling, Nightingale, Marvell and Fry.
Streaming was unheard of.
She was so far ahead of her time
we’re still waiting for our time
to catch up.
She believed that women should step out
and be true to themselves
always
so ‘narrow’ skirts were frowned on
as restricting our freedom.
Black stockings were also forbidden,
however fashionable.
She remembered the campaigns against them
back in her day when they were obligatory
and unfashionable.
I would have been leading,
she told me
so I should not wear them.
She ended her days in a Care Home
where she reclined in a hammock
and sipped her sherry
as she swung.
I would have expected nothing less,
from such a woman.
Always
strong enough
to be true to herself
she chose
a perfect way to leave the stage.
(prev. pub. in Mocking Owl Roost, Winter 2023/24)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I think it goes back to my high school days. In computer class, the first assignment was to write a program to print the first 100 Fibonacci numbers. Instead, I wrote a program that would steal passwords of students. My teacher gave me an A.
—Kevin Mitnick
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to WalesPal Lynn White for today’s fine poetry about the joys (?) of childhood…
I think it goes back to my high school days. In computer class, the first assignment was to write a program to print the first 100 Fibonacci numbers. Instead, I wrote a program that would steal passwords of students. My teacher gave me an A.
—Kevin Mitnick
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to WalesPal Lynn White for today’s fine poetry about the joys (?) of childhood…
—Public Domain Illustration
A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center hosts
a presentation by Stan Padilla
tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!
Sacramento Poetry Center hosts
a presentation by Stan Padilla
tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!
