0285 A Pretty Kettle Of Wish Poem by Michael Shepherd

Meltdown. A new kettle urgently
required for the gas stove. Men
love an excuse to wander around
the Aladdin’s cave of an ironmongers
the older the better.

Shock-horror. Rattly, thin as
they can get away with, and outrageously,
the same price as technology’s
masterpieces of electric jug…
long gone, the solid kettle which sits
so friendly on the hob of open fire…

So it’s off to the Oxfam thriftshop.
a short prayer to the goddess
of the hearth (Hestia, in case
you wonder, poetically) – and lo
and behold, abracadabra, hey presto –

a Designer Kettle in all its glory –
solid, shining, copper-flashed-bottom,
two-note whistle in two-tone brass,
chromium-bright finish, ingenious
spout-opener, handle in clever cool plastic, the whole
a vision, part Futurist image fit for a painting,
part evoking a Mussolini-era steel helmet, and
a theft at the price.

The two-tone whistle packed up the first week
despite prodding and poking its gleaming brass;
the spout-lifter burned the fingers – I had
to grow a long thumbnail to survive;
the gleaming surface scratched when cleaned;
the copper bottom crumbled off;
the short spout made filling a teapot
dangerous on two counts: the steam, and
the aim, endangering the hands.

Was it designed by a woman
or a man? You’ve guessed it. Who’s
the more practical?

The debatable poetic conclusion
of this poet: men go for
form; women go for content.