I wish I were stylish
I wish I had style
Perfect taste, perfect dress sense
I’d stand out a mile.
Every head would turn
When I entered a room
Poised and composed
A true fashion icon
Moving with grace
A delight when I speak.
I suppose I should face it
I’ll never be stylish
Except in my writing
Style’s clearly not my dish.
Definition of an expert: “A has-been drip under pressure”
“Ex”- as in ex-policeman plus “spurt” – water coming from a pipe under pressure.
This was one I made earlier – much earlier – when I attended a creative writing class at Lancaster university.
Make your face up,
make up your eyes,
blend the colours,
paint the skies,
gild the lily until it dies.
Mask with mascara betraying eyes,
lengthen the lashes add to the lies,
brush on the blusher, don the disguise,
put on a brave face, a sage face and wise,
colour the lips but hide the eyes.
Make up stories make up lies
save your face, shut off your eyes.
I’ve time to spare.
to do and dare
I’ve time to share
I brush my hair
What shall I wear?
the forecast’s fair
“Begone dull care”
The Bard once said. Depends
if weight of care
can bring despair
so I don’t dare
to leave my lair
or climb the stair
to reach the rainbow’s end.
I yearn to be
I’ll learn to be
“Frailty, thy name is woman”
Shakespeare, or rather Hamlet, lamenting the fact that his mother had married his uncle very soon after his father’s death. Today I think we’d call Gertrude treacherous and wicked rather than frail. To me the term “frail” conjures up a person man or woman, who is physically weak, probably elderly and easily swayed by a stronger personality.
The term that goes most often with “frail” is “old lady”. A doddery old woman tottering along with the help of a stick, speaking in a low croaky voice and generally overlooked and disregarded by those around her.
I’ve dealt with this situation in several pieces of fiction I’ve written where an old lady is being bossed about (usually by her daughter}. This “frail” character develops unsuspected strength and ingenuity when dealing with an unforeseen problem. The chararacter of the little old lady with hidden depths is, I think, sadly overlooked in popular fiction.
Nowadays we have become used to strong women in postions of authority, Margaret Thatcher, for instance, and of course our new Prime Minister. By no stretch of the imagination could either of these women be described as “frail”.
A frantic rush to get away from it all,
snap shut the suitcase lid,
close it down on the daily frustrations,
thinking to escape by keeping on,
moving on, searching for a new place,
new sights, new sounds, new feelings,
till the travel becomes an end in itself.
The journey becomes its own justification.
Its own metaphor for the journey through life.
The mad dash down the motorway,
tantalising wait in traffic jam,
the struggle to escape from thinking
by moving on
never realising – or never admitting –
that it can’t be done.