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.
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