24th April 2014

Sonnet 134

So...now I have confessed that he is thine,

And me, myself mortgaged to the father's will ,

Saving myself means listening hard for mine:

Maternal steel can be my comfort still.

When she passed, I imagined I was free

To express myself, that one of a kind

Who doesn't need a guarantee of me,

Independent of mother/daughter bind.

The statutes of marriage (what's left to take;

Oh morals left bankrupt, such careless use!

Was it all just for procreation's sake?)

Breeding much generational abuse.

Matrimony's instutionalised  me,

Mum's three weeks gone , and yet am I not free.

22nd April 2014

Sonnet 133

Big Russian doll she broke let out a groan,

It was her father-in-law's (she was me),

Left in the room to stand disgraced, alone,

Scared of his temper - was this her to be?

Initially glad to be spousetaken,

Husband monopolisations ingrossed

Her inner babydoll; left forsaken

The maiden: dread spinster's rubicon crossed.

At heart of course she was still Mummy's warde,

A Mum's heart is always daughter's best bale,

Dead yet, yet beating inside her, her garde:

This inheritance used to be her jail.

So she tells him "Yes, your son's pent in thee,

Like I was in she - now she's pent in me".

2oth April 2014

Sonnet 132

Eyes, eyes, everyone's eyes searching through me

For pity, for mourning, or rank disdain,

Not finding who's gone, who I'll never be -

Have her fans guessed who's simulating pain?

If it's Nothing - nothing; if not - Heaven

That's waiting for her far side of life's East,

With that full Starre that ushers in the Eaven

Halfed in it's glory by her resting West.

Mary's* white mourning veil creeps round your face,

What would they find carved on this scotch queen's heart?  

 Road to Fotheringay,** playing her part,

Every stranger's wearing my mourner's blacke,

And all they foule that thy complexion lacke.


* Mary (1542 -1587) Queen of Scots, Reigned 1542 - 62, in White Mourning.  Painting by Francois Clouet.

** "The Royal Road to Fotheringay" by Jean Plaidy.   Tells story of   Mary's early years in the French court. 

18th April 2014

Sonnet 131

I can't be Liza*, echoing Mum's art

While fans eulogise biopics, the cruel 

 Proof of what she had to be, give - all heart;

Starlet supercharge left her carbon  jewel.

Yet in good faith some say that me behold

I am but chip off an old block (all groan),

I know they know I'm not so brave so bold

So no star quality - best left alone.

But to be sure, this is not false I swear;

Her talent died with her but not her face,

Her reflected reprise too much to bear -

My self-image was left in a bad place.

How I look's no memorial to her deeds,

Again - I'm no Liza: still Mum's fame proceeds.


*Minnelli, daughter of Judy Garland.

17th April 2014

Sonnet 130

You're gone - I could do Page 3 in The Sun,

Collar and cuffs Elizabethan red,

Lose this academic's frizz of grey dun,

Kind thoughts and sympathy squashing my head.

Brass blonde to the end  - what's so wrong with white?

Decades of bronzer sunken in your cheeks,

Channel shopping hopping: deathbed delight;

"Part of the QVC Family" - that reeks.

What you're revered for - what the public know;

Strength; integrity; judgement staying sound;

Precious gems left semi as they fade, go:

Civic goddess falling softly to ground.

Condolence cards remind me you were rare:

I'm scared what I'll do now there's no compare. 

15th April 2014

Sonnet 129

Th'expense of spirit is seldom our shame

Since it got cheap to consume our rude lust

In fat, sugar and carbs - but who's to blame?

Whose buck broke mass consumption's deed of trust?

Injoyd no sooner but dispised straight,

The slow build-up: eazee tastee snax had,

Cadbury's hated as a  swallowed bait;

Loss leaders layd to make the taker mad.

I think Will's puns were mostly sex'd male*, so,

Laydees, gents, to undignified extreme -

Maybe morbid I know but it's our woe:

Flight weight will soon be  birdsong in a dream.

    All this the world well knows yet none knows well

     To shun the junk that leads us to this hell.


*"Spirit"...(line 1)

14th April 2014

Sonnet 128

...let your country and western favourites playst

In preference to more devotional sounds,

Sheer force of personality's what swayst 

When pure political theory confounds.

Should I emulate fans whose nimble leap

Of faith in you gets broadcast hand to hand,

Propagating the crop I won't reap?

No - self-independence is my last stand.

Kissing-off corpse make-up (laid out in state:

Petal pink face,  fingers frozen like chips,

Will I inherit XL coffin's gait?)

Rubbing poetic logic on my lips:

     Ingrate not to be grateful for all this,

     Feed  them the image; I knew who I kiss.