Thursday extracts: Models

Catalogue Girl

Catalogue girl, so gently posing
in your world of creaseless clothing
if I stand and pout like you,
I can look quite stupid too.

Annette Campbell (1956 - )

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Another extract from what is possibly the last Poems in the Waiting Room that will be available to all surgeries. Please, if you can afford to help, send a donation to PitWR, c/o Michael Lee PO Box 488 Richmond TW9 4SW

Thursday extracts: reduce reuse recycle

I found this poem on the latest (and possibly the last - see below*) Poems in the Waiting Room leaflet. Imagine my delight when I discovered that the author lives about 10 miles from me!

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String


Ours was passed round the family on parcels
and never cut, only teased
of its obstinate knots - one good reason
to stop biting your nails.

It kept well in a dresser jug - door end
by the garage key with its bent metal tag;
coiled, the end rolled, tucked in, made fast
in ways you picked up without thinking.

Like so much:
brown paper (flattened under a cushion);
stamp edging (hoarded in a purse);
paperclips (shining in a toffee tin).
All the things you couldn't buy,
even if you'd thought of it.
I never knew you could buy string.

D A Prince. From Nearly the Happy Hour, 2008. Happenstance Publishing.

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* OK so listen up. Just as I've introduced you to the wonders of Poems in the Waiting Room, they've announced that they can't afford to keep doing it. Nobody has agreed to fund it. If you want your local surgery to receive the leaflets you need to support them.  As far as I can tell they can do it for £25 a year. I plan to send them a cheque - because these little cards give me so much pleasure during my regular doctor trips. Contact Michael Lee at PO Box 488 Richmond TW9 4SW or email 

pitwr(at )blueyonder(dot)co(dot)uk

Thursday extracts: Self medication

Foxglove


Purple-dappled dainty petals,
Seamlessly sewn to make a hat,
On a toddler's finger teasingly to settle,
Or a bell to announce a prowling cat;

Or lividly languid grandpa's nose,
Dripping dew-drops wherever it goes;
And a whistling chest of flutes and oboes;
Elephant feet overflowing his shoes.

His pulse, his life, irregularly irregular,
Since ancient fevers encrusted his heart;
Longed-for landmarks a step too far,
Till he and his dropsy are persuaded to part.

Some ancient wisdom from a gypsy crone,
Not from guidelines in a medical tome;
So salute decoctions of digitalis leaf,
Deliverer of unimagined relief.

Raymond Hume (1945 - )

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I've mentioned this before but it's such a good thing that I thought I'd remind everyone. This poem was extracted from a leaflet that can be found at doctors' surgeries across the UK. They're called Poems in the Waiting Room, and they are a quarterly publication, printed on an A4 sheet, folded in three, and given away free.

Poems in the Waiting Room

I've been to the doctor's this morning. Nothing serious - all routine - but I was happy to find a new copy of a little leaflet that's available there. Happy to find a leaflet in the doctor's?  What's it about?


Well - it's a triple fold card called "Poems in the Waiting Room" that offers a selection of poetry you can read while you wait and can take home with you.  I always pick one up when I see one and often find some excellent new poems as well as some old favourites.

Check them out here if you would like to know more.



And here's a choice from the current selection:
Madonna of the Evening Flowers

All day long I have been working,
Now I am tired.
I call: "Where are you?"
But there is only the oak tree rustling in the wind.
The house is very quiet,
The sun shines in on your books,
On your scissors and thimble just put down,
But you are not there.
Suddenly I am lonely;
Where are you?
I go about searching.

Then I see you,
Standing under a spire of pale blue larkspur,
With a basket of roses on your arm.
You are cool, like silver,
And you smile.
I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes.

You tell me that the peonies need spraying,
That the columbines have overrun all bounds,
That the pyrus japonica should be cut back and rounded.
You tell me these things.
But I look at you, heart of silver,
White heart-flame of polished silver,
Burning beneath the blue steeples of the larkspur,
And I long to kneel instantly at your feet,
While all about us peal the loud,
sweet Te Deums of the Canterbury bells.
Amy Lowell (1874-1925)

(Sorry - I don't have any photos of larkspur.)