Dearest Uri Gellar,
in the stainless steel dimension,
I submit my open letter
to implore your intervention.
My husband talks all year
about the cutting of our grass,
and though that is extreme
the worst is yet to pass:
Sunny days will dawn,
and that means he will go
to his beloved lawn
to mow and mow and mow.
I've marked out the perimeter
with shiny polished ladles,
I've caged that bloody lawnmower
in a slotted spatula cradle,
I wait patiently every night
for my husband to sleep sound,
then I put teaspoons on his eyes...
So I've prepared the ground.
I've become a nervous wreck,
so please send me a sign
that you'll keep the grass in check
or control my husband's mind.
While you're at it can I have
a new car and clearer skin,
a conservatory, a ball of cash
and a marble-counter kitchen.
My daughters said to ask you
for a pony and a pool,
they've spent their pocket money
on a set of silver spoons.
Theresa May is not receiving,
so why not focus on my plea?
Or my husband will be leaving
every Summer for Tel Aviv.
(Just when I thought Brexit couldn't get any stranger, Uri Gellar published this open letter to Theresa May. Uri, they are beyond help, focus on me instead!)
Monday, 1 April 2019
Friday, 1 March 2019
A Like Task
The birds fly left and then back right,
Catfiáin is mesmerised.
He crouches low and hides his legs,
peering just above the ledge.
His instincts keep his focus keen,
he's ready for some winged cuisine.
Though still and silent he must fail;
elation waves his wilful tail.
And anyway, against the grass
his dusty white's no camouflage.
The birds see him, he's in denial,
he's held in place by something primal.
He's watching and I'm watching too,
I'm fixed on every tiny move.
I, and Catfiáin, my cat,
'tis a like task we are at.
(One of my favourite poems is this translation of Pangur Bán, (original Old Irish text here) scribbled by an unidentified scribing monk at the side of his manuscript, around the 9th century. It is one of Early Ireland's most famous pieces of writing, written in or near Reicheneau Abbey in Germany. When my daughters got their kitten in October last year I wanted to call him Pangur Bán, but my daughters insisted he wasn't white enough to merit that name. They settled on Catfiáin, which means wildcat. I was pleasantly surprised with their choice as Catfiáin easily subsititutes for Pangur Bán in the above-linked translation by Robin Flower).
Catfiáin is mesmerised.
He crouches low and hides his legs,
peering just above the ledge.
His instincts keep his focus keen,
he's ready for some winged cuisine.
Though still and silent he must fail;
elation waves his wilful tail.
And anyway, against the grass
his dusty white's no camouflage.
The birds see him, he's in denial,
he's held in place by something primal.
He's watching and I'm watching too,
I'm fixed on every tiny move.
I, and Catfiáin, my cat,
'tis a like task we are at.
(One of my favourite poems is this translation of Pangur Bán, (original Old Irish text here) scribbled by an unidentified scribing monk at the side of his manuscript, around the 9th century. It is one of Early Ireland's most famous pieces of writing, written in or near Reicheneau Abbey in Germany. When my daughters got their kitten in October last year I wanted to call him Pangur Bán, but my daughters insisted he wasn't white enough to merit that name. They settled on Catfiáin, which means wildcat. I was pleasantly surprised with their choice as Catfiáin easily subsititutes for Pangur Bán in the above-linked translation by Robin Flower).
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