We have not had a good day today so I wanted a poem that would make me feel better. There are no buttercups out just now but there are drifts of celandines everywhere, with the glorious daffodils singing alongside. Celandines make anyone feel better being so tiny and so determined to shine in amongst the hard worn grasses.
BUTTERCUP IN FROZEN
Twice In one night, I thought I saw A buttercup, Shining In the middle Of a field Of frozen snow, But I was wrong. It wasn’t a buttercup, It was love. Small enough To be overlooked. Big enough To change the world.
If she had to cut her coat According to her cloth, The old girl knew It was going to be a damn thin coat, Nowhere near thick enough To keep out the cold.
Glancing into a passing shop window, She felt absolutely fed-up, For the coat she had been wearing For all of her present eternity Was thin, too, and wrinkled, Needing an iron.
But, sighing, with a bit of luck, she knew she would Patch it up a few more times Before she was ready to change it.
I went dancing a lot when I was young and as it was the time of Rock and Roll, that was part of the dancing I did, as well as the waltz, the tango and other favourites that had you up and on the floor from the first chord of music. As a younger child, I was taught tap dancing and ballet and wanted nothing more but to dance. I have such brilliant memories of those days and did tap dancing for years. Whilst I still rock and roll, however, it’s in a very polite and sedate manner with a nod here and a twirl there whilst I’d absolutely much rather be whirling and swinging!
I’ve left this original introduction in because it still applies except that places to dance with a band or group are few and far between now. Still, given half a chance, I dance!
WALLFLOWER ROCK AND ROLL
Buying roses and chrysanthemums From the woman in the market, I ask if there are wallflowers, This morning up for sale. Wallflowers! says she. Why, there are bunches In a box lying just around the corner, Small and compact plants, to make a garden sing. But there are no long and leggy gilly-flowers With their scented velvet petals, In reds and yellows, oranges, and crimsons dark as blood, For no-one wants this lady. No-one wants to take her. She has to flower and blossom in the shadows on her own.
We were standing down along From the old and ravaged dance hall That used to be our golden home in all those years gone by When quick as a curve in time, The dance hall years sprang out at me. With throb of drum and splintered icy glitter of guitar, A fevered trumpet singing silk; the sax’s cool desires, Then harsh and sweet the singer sang, And so the dance raged on and on. Rock! Rock! Rock! Until the street began to swing, With fast ecstatic dancers in fast ecstatic dance.
No wallflowers in that dance hall, no little flower alone, For short and compact, long and leggy, They’re out there dancing on their own. Rolling with the rest of them, rocking with the best of them, The swirling, whirling girls with their flaring, sexy petticoats, On their moving, grooving heels so high; stiletto thin, They can balance on a silver coin, Rocking angels dancing on the head of any pin. Hot rock with grace, with love and passion, For though they think they own the dance, They know the dance owns them.
No wallflower lad stands all alone As Princely in his thick soled, Suede, and mighty brothel creepers, Cool and smooth in bootlace tie and Lamming gown, With Tony Curtis curl of hair slickly curling down. Young lions they stand, fierce, on the prowl. Aloof and fabulous in their time, Until the music bolds their blood, Guitar and trumpet, sax and drum, When flesh and skin and bone give in, To make the dance hall sway and swing To flirty, dirty, rock and roll. ROCK ON!
Hats have never agreed with me but I live in hope. The last time I tried one on, the lady next to me, also trying on hats, every one of which looked devastatingly pretty on her, took one look at me and silently shook her head. I saw her point. The hat was wearing me.
THE HAT
This hat demands Someone with a strong personality To stand under its brim. Someone who always walks Down the middle of the pavement. Who only ever patronises High class establishments Selling hats of good breeding.
This hat wants someone Who always carries an umbrella. Who never ducks into the nearest Pub For strong drink and a bag of crisps To sustain them, and who would never Hang this hat on the back of a chair To be attacked by a small Pomeranian.
After that, this hat felt so ill-used and abused It demanded a new owner.
Very well! If you insist! But you just wait and see. You’ll not get very far without me.
Obviously, the hat shrugged its brim, Clearly didn’t believe a thing I had to say. Calmly murmured that from here on in, It would make its own way. The last I saw of that very superior hat, It was waltzing out of the door On a very superior head.
Poems by Gwen Grant 