Ovid Love Poems (English) Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Undies
Baby dolls, brassieres, Y fronts, mankinis
Thongs, long johns, string vests, chemisettes and bikinis
Briefs, boxer shorts, cod pieces, Brazilian knickers
Jockstraps open drawers, willie warmers and hipsters

Why not follow the fashion from Ayr to Orlando
Dispense with the undies and stride out commando?


Detritus of a Life: 5 Desswood Place
My great Aunt Florence lived in Desswood Place
A granite house, an orderly, neat garden.
I only ever saw her photograph

She was a spinster lady, bookish, frail
Rolled hair caught in a net, round spectacles
Brown tailored dress, fastened up to the neck
Small ankle button boots, and thick ply hose

As I was distant kin, I was taken
To choose a keepsake, like stepping in
To a 1930s time capsule.

The electric plugs were bakelite
A book lay on a table:
A Classical Dictionary,1906
By J.Lempriere D.D.
Well thumbed. One whole wall
Was a library, the hub of the house.

The furnishings were heavily Victorian
Half dragged into the 20th Century
On the piano was a photograph
Of the family's dairy horses
Lined up with the dairymen on the cobbles

Brass glinted everywhere in that studious house
The hearth was tiled, the poker, tongs and shovel
Were pristine. The chairs had crocheted covers
The clocks with Roman numerals, were wound

On a green baize card table, a hand of patience
Was laid out, unfinished. Velvet curtains, nets,
And wooden shutters kept the world removed.

In the kitchen, plastic was king. A bar
Of shriveled pears soap looked like a
Well dried prune, all cracked and wrinkled.

Bright yellow marigolds were crossed like
Courting hands. Over the sink
An ancient apple tree stood in the garden,
Its bitter fruits unpicked. I chose
A Parker Knowles recliner chair.
Out of the top drawer, my uncle said.

I'd no idea what he meant till
I opened a catalogue, years later
£2-£4,000 is its current wirth
Stale crumb from a rich wife's table

The Death Bot
Death is a real divorce from family
When my son died, it was as if a gun
Went off inside, I spurned society

Grief must be endured stoically
After the death, that serves to numb and stun
Pain ultimately heals, though gradually

No avatar could cheat finality
Making a ghost where before there was none
A manufactured immortality
Let the dead rest, their peace not be undone


The Seagull
I am a seagull on a post.
I pose like Nelson's column
And if I see a person pass,
With keech I'll surely splat him