Be more dog !

I’ve recently been told that my work is too depressing…..so here’s a piece of light doggerel…..

 

Be more dog they say,

so,

I’m shedding language like fur

clawing only to words that give shape and meaning to the day

and i’m learning to tilt my head to one side

when you speak

expressing interest

although quite frankly, I only get about half what you say

I won’t judge by colour of skin or the cut of your jib

but whether when we meet

you come down to my level

tell me I’m beautiful

offer something delicious to eat

Be more dog they say

so

I’ll make as much noise as I want and can’t make me sush

and if I’m scared I’ll show it

Left alone for too long, I may make a mess of things

and this may not be a figure of speech.

Be more dog they say

so

I’ll turn my belly to the sun

and my face to the sky

and fit 7 years of living into each 12 months

cos when you’re a dog, time flies

Be more dog they say

so

I’ll eat when I’m hungry

and eat when I’m full

walk straight past those mirrors

and if I’m with you, well, I’ll just make you more cool

Be more dog.

Bovvered…Question mark…..for Shamima Begum

” my mums got a new boyfriend….proper wasteman…..but I’m not bovvered”

“my stepdad threw my phone down the stairs, smashed the screen and everything….but I’m not bovvered“

“he said the photos were just for us, everyone at school’s seen them now…..but I’m not bovvered”

“my uncle’s a right pedo..…”

and for a moment, the mask almost slips, but then it’s jammed back into place with a ferocious anger

“but he’s not fucking touching me and anyway….I’m not bovvered”

and in the room with no windows at the end of the corridor,

today,

we are not bothered about Shakespeare,

we are not bothered about Steinbeck

we are especially not bothered about the committing to memory of 16 or 17 random poems,

just to prove we could all have had a grammar school education

and I’m trying really hard to not be bothered about the simple fact that half this class can’t read well enough to even understand the questions on a GCSE.

Shamima, 15 years old and a virgin on our wedding night

was your warrior husband gentle, playful even ?

or, already battle shattered, did he grab at you with hot , hard hands while you lay still, face blank, not bothered.

and later, did you run your hands over the thick black fabric that enveloped you, shrouded your swelling belly

or, were you already fatalistic, a shrug, inshasllah, if he wills it

and later still, when you held your first and your second and your third dead baby were you bothered then ?

or, did you seek refuge in the rhetoric of revolution ?

Shamima, you would never have ended up in the windowless room at the end of the corridor

you were, by all accounts, bright, hardworking, able

but, in some other classroom, with light and air and a whiteboard that actually bloody works, were you already lesrning  to keep your head down, face blank, still, not bothered while you wsaited for something to happen ?

and back in that windowless room at the wend of that long corridor

Siddik, and M squared and Leyton and Tenika and Tequila and Saffron and Joey and Ami with an i

are still not bothered,

are still,

are waiting for the next thing to happen.

Watching and not watching bigger women wearing leggings

They are killing time,

so, an uneasy coffee truce,

Watching and not watching bigger women wearing leggings.

The daughter’s radar is razor-sharp,

quick to pick up any hint of judgement or distaste,

so, she , the mother, keeps her head down, face neutral

stirs her skinny latte once, twice, clockwise, anti clockwise,

tries not to see the mountain of whipped cream atop the daughter’s’ chocca, mocha, frappe latte

And they are watching and not watching bigger women wearing leggings.

A woman walks past, ramming….

“Oh ramming” says the internalized daughter, special branch thought police

“Ramming, what an interesting word to choose”

The actual daughter, looks up, sees and reads her mother perfectly

‘ maybe she’s just hungry”

She says, surprisingly gently.

The mother closes her eyes, tries to imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like to walk down a street

Mouthful of hot cheap cheese, hot cheap meat

To use the hem of a T-shirt, already straining over breasts and belly, to mop a grease spattered chin

And they are watching and not watching bigger women wearing leggings.

The daughter walks to the counter

leans into the display,

deliberating

She and the server are talking, laughing.

The mother, calculating in her head, wonders if she can risk another coffee, decides  to play it safe,

sips water

Her daughter heading back,

already licking icing off her thumbnail

And they are watching and not watching bigger women wearing leggings

And this is not a love song, but….

This is not a love song

But

You make art and music and good bread

And never forget that i don’t like butter,

So on picnics, my sandwiches are sliced separately, wrapped differently, ensuring that only I get to enjoy their delicious dryness

And thus is not a love song,

But,

As a DJ, you kept your head down,

Mudjahadin hat just visible above the decks,

Not really a Hands in the Air Like you just don’t care kind of guy,

But,

Just occasionally, if it was going well, you would risk a smile and then a quick 1,2,1,2,3 soft shoe shuffle.

And this is not a love song,

But,

When my daughter was tiny new,

You held her, fitting perfectly into your cupped palms,

Not a father, never a father,

Bound to her with ties other than blood,

Maybe better.

And this is not a love song,

But,

You have learnt to slow down, to keep pace with your father,

Learnt to bite back irritation when you have the same conversation for the 3rd or is it 4th time today,

Learnt to cook meals where the meat and vegetables are clearly delineated on the plate.

And this is not a love song,

But,

Over the years you have,

Supported my attempts at dressage mediocrity,

Scouted backgrounds for photo shoots to meet my social media neediness

And always, always, always preview horror films to check that I can take them.

And this is not a love song,

But,

This is not a love song.