Thursday 24 October 2024

Five Poems by Wendy Webb

 



In the Beginning: Godot, Marsupials, Vladimir 

 

Ἐν ἀρχῇ ἦν ὁ Λόγος, because there’s a beginning to everything,  

archaeology especially, 

so, in the beginning was the Word, not any word, not many words, 

but Word with ὁ, capitalising on first chapter, first para 

and first everything. Except Archaeology.  Too soon, too early 

for archaic or even arches.  Not simply ‘I was born’ to confuse 

story’s direction. Nor many words, one significant by logic (word)  

καὶ ὁ Λόγος ἦν πρὸς τὸν Θεόν 

hardly surprising, logically, that one word, capitalised, 

connected to ‘Waiting for Godot…’ (let’s not play). 

Vladimir maybe waiting, while Estragon 

(more femininely attractive to the West) 

simply grows sunflowers and drones, 

waiting, for a word, the Word. 

Twin emphases (or Siamese), the final word (or first) 

καὶ Θεὸς ἦν ὁ Λόγος 

studying Theology may confuse or translate words. 

Divisible, reversible, mix and match, more waiting. 

πάντα δι’ αὐτοῦ ἐγένετο 

pantocrasy, pantomime, pants (US or UK), everything 

third person singular, masculine, γυνή (woman) creates 

for woman generically creates, brings into being, 

rather like Godot (who never arrives) for Vladimir. 

καὶ χωρὶς αὐτοῦ ἐγένετο οὐδὲ ἕν ὃ γέγονεν 

Strangely, charis (charity) is ever-present, and absence is, always 

about waiting, for women (or Estragon), created by gynaecological 

means, nothing from nothing (singular, repeat). 

Καὶ ὁ Λόγος σὰρξ ἐγένετο 

And the Word no longer waits for birth 

to flesh a library of logic, or rainbow hope 

like Paris Peace Treaties, minus eCigarettes. 

Stumped in a stumpery vacated by skunks, 

so, the scrunt scrunges his bouncing balls à la tiddledywinks, 

while scrunts chill peaceful Durdle Door 

echoing sitooterie pleasures of the Dew o’ Ben Nevis 

or illicit houghmagandie. 

Australians pick up a scrunge, clean scunge off their yard 

at noon, disturbed by the Tasmanian Devil’s scrunts. 

Yet silently, somewhere, word is fleshed and waiting: 

Vladimir indivisible with Volodymyr.


 

 

Anxious? Guaranteed Beached, with Gin

 

 

This phantasmagorical experience of any day, 

month, season, protuberously annually: 

seated absorbing synaesthetically, 

drinking in ordure absolutely stationary. 

 

You want exochordic bells to ring? 

Tension’s a grolar or pizzly bear head? Tedious.  

Don’t think inanely in jest 

with gloomiest feelings, opaquest drives. 

Revelatory – perhaps – why them, not me? 

Disclosure-exposure? Swallow it slowly, 

 

Shocking view: elephant in swimming pool? 

dolphin in nursery? 

toad in snake pit? 

 

Backtrack… strolled out plan-rich, to have fun: 

Garden Centre in pouring rain 

eyeing up Artisan gin (prices) 

craft beer (mouth-watering) 

comfy gardening footwear (misnomer) 

desperate high-speed robbery of plants (two full baskets). 

 

Sported sunglasses, then slow-breathing beach- 

consumed in Dentist’s chair 

X-Rays of teeth and wobble back (normal) 

Wash and rinse out now 

polish and done – INVIGORATING – 

escape (for 18 months!), dizzying…

 

 

 

Ho, Rabbit, Rabbit Memetic

 

[In the style of: Oh, Romeo, Romeo…]   

 


Ho Rabbit, Rabbit, whatever hart-wow Rabbit? 
Defy try slather hand, refute try game. 
More gift wow, tilt hot, bell butt shorn mice leave. 
Hand will not linger, bell ask Sapswingchop. 
Toss butt, try game, this itch mice alchemy: 
Wow, hart try stuff, taught hot, ask Flufftailbob. 
White’s Flufftailbob? Is itch for hind for flop 
for ear for fate for many other sparks 
beguiling to ask bark. Ho bell some other game. 
White’s win, ask game? Tat twitch we call, ask trunk. 
Buy many mother games, will sell asp cheap. 
Go Rabbit wild, where bee hot Rabbit mauled, 
regain tat deer complexion twitch bee loves. 
Withhold tat tattle. Rabbit, daft try game, 
hand force tat game, twitch itch not spark off tree, 
shake haul mice stuff. 

 

 

 

Amid Daffodils, in Cloud Cuckoo Land

   

 

Spring-Cleaning disjointed September, no feral 

barking of Pre-School, Post-School clubs and socials. 

New house garden, deep in building debris, 

years of composting, peat-rich to shrub a lawn  

from wispy clouds 

of daffodils. Eat your heart in, Wordsworth, nothing  

danced December but Wartime bombs, 

rediscovered and disposed of in the Press. Faint cuckoo,  

crows and neighbourhood catfights, 

breeding among scrub after dark.  Play chicken  

on garage roof, watch drunken foxy  

prowling at noon, 

high on…? Youthfulness.  Thunderous clouds. 

Splatted like Kentucky Fried  

on estate road in deep snow.  Phantasms of reigning Reynard, 

a dandelion in his jaw. 

You realise, don’t you, students drink, leave home,  

fail to text. 

Regrettably, Cuckoo Clock announces 12: 

stop dancing, William.  RIP. 

 

 


Lucy’s Parents

 

 

Parent them and mean apparent: worry constantly 

massively after parents’ deep shock 

This part child takes violent resilience 

depression. Antisocial husband’s achievements  

developing guilt, refusing care about agony 

Will geek alone… imagine nurse school traumatic,  

Lucy possibly caught paranoid unbearable  

denial, its sense of anything well read  

Verdicts don’t victimise serious disbelief 

100 unimaginably notorious lost sensitivities  

You then, baby history weeping telegraphs, 

will she understand your former delight anymore?  

Criminal miles, in likelihood done,  

have parents mistrusted her intentions, become  

Lucy for some?  

Think love’s a sad friend, mother’s falling down semblance 

of work?  Come, say proud arms just clung, 

her risk inconceivable post-text  

Court killer personalities; arresting 

degree of damage around others. Do we court  

crimes? Known crimes?  

Would guilt have previously absented, 

compartmentalised absence, grown  

stress of 10 telegraphed neighbours thinking? 

Depend irreparably on her crashing out, it can’t become  

disordered.  Parents suffocating everything,  

so crimes might last only in Lucy’s  

intentions. Hard to show her they’ll ever be so 

described as feeling people… accept judged solidarity of hope 

into Poppins. They worry-hate their child even then.





WENDY WEBB, from the North Midlands, UK, prolific poet, experimenting with many modern and traditional forms and reading historic poets extensively. She ran a small press poetry magazine; won some awards; and is recently published with Reach, Sarasvati, Quantum Leap, Crystal, Seventh Quarry, The Journal, Frogmore Papers and online through Wildfire Words, Littoral Magazine, Lothlorien, Atlantean, Poetry Wivenhoe, Drawn to the Light (Ireland), Seagulls (Canada) and Autumn Voices, and local radio on Poetry Place. 

Landscapes: Amazon.co.uk: Webb, Wendy Ann, Norris-Kay, David, Meek, CT, Meek, Norris-Kay, David: 9798851001659: Books  

 

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