a short poem about infinity
Author: jim clayton
life’s but a walking shadow
I’ve quit a lot of things in my time, believe me
jobs, school, college – all defeated me
the relationships
I let slip
even this poem I’m writing today
will no doubt end up going the same way
‘You lack sticking power’, mum used to say
when I’d tell her the latest thing I’d thrown away
‘You have to learn to grin and bear it’
(and now here comes the scary bit:)
‘What? You mean – like a SKULL?’
‘How’s THAT an encouraging image at all?’
Ever since then
skulls have been an emblem
of forbearance, or tenacity
or that faintly annoying, saintly kinda capacity
for gritting your teeth and seeing things through
(Yeah? And look where THAT philosophy gets you)
Now mum’s dead
and it has to be said
(although I’m wary of sharing it)
infinitely grinning and bearing it
Because let’s face it (pun intended)
Death is just sticking power super-extended
Absolutely no-one bails on death
‘Out, out brief candle,’ said Macbeth
and that was a guy who knew quite a bit
being up to his neck in it
mutiny on the Stanley
I put it to you, sir
that you are one galumphing great hound, sir
d’ye understand me, sir?
a hirsute, uncouth cur, sir
a sybaritic, rule-breaking saboteur, sir
a chaos connoisseur, sir
with poorly coiffured fur, sir
d’ye concur, sir?
it is most unfortunate, sir
that you are cursed with an importunate manner, sir
and I have scrutinised, sir
how you have utilised, sir
those unfeasibly & unwieldy paws, sir
to cause havoc in every hammock, sir
d’ye demur, sir?
Damn yer gorgeous & appealing eyes, sir!
THIS IS MUTINY, SIR!
Literary A&E: Four case histories
Patient A: 59 yo male. History of freewriting, blogging. Known to self-publish. Suffered an acute disarticulation of the expressive centre when experimenting with comedy shorts. Self-presented to this department with chronic spiritual pain & morbid imagery.
Treatment: 500ml bolus of Camus, five day course of anti-prolixities. Ref to writing support group.
Patient B: 20 yo female. History of confessional poetry and dilatory doodles. Social media addiction on a background of gothic selfies. Suffered a prolonged dystopia.
Treatment: stat dose 10ml Sharon Olds, 10ml Carol Ann Duffy, to be replaced in the community with Joan Didion and Patricia Lockwood.
Patient C: 82 yo female. Extensive history of village-based eulogia, Miss Read and R F Delderfield. Presented to this department via emergency mobile library, suffering a distressing episode of unexplained profanity. Found to be in ATBS (Acute Toxic Bucolic Syndrome).
Treatment: 10mg The Sopranos, IM. Ref to the James Herriot Memorial Clinic. Travelcard.
Patient D: 38 yo male. History of BA History, followed by MA Viking & Anglo-Saxon Studies. Developed Pernicious Sagamania, manifesting in tattoos, facial hair and intermittent DnD. Self-admitted to this department on a tandem he called his ‘long bike’.
Treatment: 1mg Paw Patrol, followed by a short course of PowerPuff Girls. Ref to community Norse Team.
Musee des Beaux légumes
beached
one day
away
on holiday
when we were small
we accidentally kicked our football
into the sea
and watched the waves take it out gradually
mum swam after it
and after a bit
she was so far out
we couldn’t figure out
what was the ball or what was her cap
so we hurried back
to the promenade
and tried really hard
on tippy toes
to use one of those
cast iron penny telescopes
but gradually the jokes
died away
as we watched her swim further off into the bay
and wondered if she’d ever come back
or mum was gone and that was that
fifty years later she’s really dead
and – what’s left to say?
except I remember her swimming far out
out, and out – impossibly out – far out into the bay
The Rime of the Ancient Astronaut
Argument: How an astronaut in a cheap, party shop beard and a spaceship dangerously like two toilet rolls duct taped together gets smashed off course by a storm of Kibble in the Constellation of Shar-Pei and crash lands on the planet Stanleynia; the strange things that befall him there, and how he doth make his return to Earth. And why he doth subsequently get chucked out of some kinda bougie, social media event.
PART ONE
I saw an ancient Astronaut
stand in line with a plate
so asked him very politely
to see his invite, mate
He whirled and fixed me furiously
with wild and wayward eye
his beard held on with string and tape
a kipper for a tie
‘There was a ship!’ the strange guest said
‘No one can deny it!’
I backed away a foot or so
as all around fell quiet
‘We blasted off from Space-X port
The crowds all cheered and whooped
– a whizz of stars, a space montage –
we landed on Venus, pooped
But coming back, tragedy struck!
We hit a shower of Kibble!
Many men died that fateful night
Our booster rockets crippled
Day after day, day after day
We stuck, no oomph nor motion
As idle as a cardboard ship
On a point of sale promotion
PART TWO
A ship hove by! Oh frightful sight!
The crew a pack of mutts
And at the door I think I saw
A lurcher going nuts
They towed us down to their planet
Hark to the tale I speak!
Every last seat was a sofa!
Every bone with a squeak!
A team of golden chihuahuas
dragged me to their leader
A scruffy old hound called Stanley
Asleep on a hairy two-seater
‘Say from where thou com’st, traveller?’
He spoke in speech most queer
(but then if you’re an alien dog
you’d sound all like Shakespeare)
‘Welcome to Stanleynia!’ he cried
‘I rule with iron paw
– the rate is just three treats a night
a double room is four’
I hardly slept in my basket
planning a quick escape
I stole a ship and up I ripped
before my guards awak’d
PART THREE
Since my return have I wandered
Press launch, party, soiree
Blagging whatever food I can score
From the all-you-can-eat buffet
And so, at this uncertain hour
My agony returns!
Until my ghastly tale is told
My gastric reflux burns!’
We bade him sit and clear his plate
But also called the bouncers
I liked the hustle but wanted muscle
To rule out further encounters
rescue dog
Out on our morning walk we found
the storm had brought an oak tree down
blocking our usual route
with its branches & roots
‘I think we can climb through’
I said optimistically
Stanley looked up at me uncertainly
‘Just pretend you’re a rescue dog’
The inevitable epilogue?
Stanley got stuck
so I had to go back and pick him up
he’s a big dog; it was a big production
in his case ‘Rescue Dog’ more of an instruction
The Mound
Frankenstanley
This is the story of Frankenstanley
abominable ears and legs a’gangly
thrown together from a box of bits
jolted alive with crocodile clips
Ha-haaaah…
but when I saw my drear creation
staggering around the messy work station
I felt so foolish! I’d been such a mug!
I immediately tried to pull the plug
Noooooo…
Frankenstanley beat me to it
saw a window and leapt right through it
out of his mind! out of control!
we only caught up at the fucking North Pole
Gggggggrrrrrreeeeeeat….
Now we’re doomed to traverse the ice
and the cold winds clamp my nuts in a vice
so in conclusion to this letter
I think science is fine but Literature’s better
jim clayton 