PAT LUDLOW
DAISY CHAIN
Let your thoughts travel to that time
when we were lovers – once long ago
we lay amongst daisies and spoke words
that fell like petals from the heart.
We split stems, garlanded our bodies
with new ideas and caresses.
Beyond our dreams, the daisies hang
tangled and wilting in despair,
their roots choke the velvet spell
of grass that couched our passion.
You have strewn my hopes like pollen
on cold earth, turned dreams to dust,
leaving me to push daisies.
THE LIFE I WISH I’D HAD
I wish I’d met a rich man
With hair all dark and curled,
I wish I’d spent a fortune
And travelled round the world,
I wish I’d bought designer clothes
And Gucci leather shoes,
I wish I’d had a Rolex watch
And booked a Caribbean cruise.
I wish that I’d seen Elvis
Before he grew too fat,
I wish that I’d been famous
And changed my name from Pat.
I wish I’d written a novel
That topped the best seller list
And won at least the Booker prize
And never ever got pissed.
I wish I’d been more holy,
I wish that pigs could fly,
I wish that I had talked much less
And never told a lie.
Apart from this, I think I’d say
I’ve had the life I chose –
Anonymous and strapped for cash,
Writing poetry not prose.
STROKE VICTIM
Mrs. Werenowska sits in the day room
and weeps for Poland and her situation.
She waits for her daughter, plots her escape,
from this final prison. Her words tangle
their chains. They spit from her lips, she lisps
in English and French, German and Polish,
mixing her words up, stuffing them together
like ingredients in the pirogi
her friend brings her. "You are young, Basia,
an economic refugee. It’s not the same."
They spoke French in those aristocratic homes
when she was young. Now she slips French words
into an explosive cocktail of frustration.
Nietsche lies open on the table with daily
papers. A conspiracy holds her captive
among these prisoners. Young and old
sit counting the hours in hope and despair.
I DON'T
I don't do tabloids
Their photos are too gory
I don't believe their story
Their celebs are not posh enough
Footballers and their bits of fluff
Good news is no news.
I don't do broadsheets
Their pages are...too broad
Their columns leave me bored
Their politics are so contorted
No wonder their sales have dived
Good news is no news.
I don't do advertising rags
Their victims are too brave
Their villains are all knaves
Their offers never cheap enough
Homes, cars, and all that other stuff
No news is good news.
SPACE
I want my own space...
space to think, to question,
to be myself...space to travel
a wider universe beyond
the mundane boundaries
of reality... space to move
out of the confines of the mind
to flirt with galaxies,
fall into black holes,
dance to the music of the spheres...
I shall fly to the depths of time,
view my tiny world through infinite space,
reduce these petty wars and quarrels
to pinpricks on a chart of time...
lights on the great wall of China,
stars on the sky's tent...
dying and regrouping,
born again...again...
METHODOLOGY
It smells of science lab –
dusty glassware, stained benches
and teenage girls in overalls –
An aim in life, strange apparatus –
equipment – to achieve what?
To prove a point, to measure results,
to seek an answer.
Observations: I think therefore I am.
I am, so why do I fail to see the point?
I’ve lost the plot
so I don’t need to prove anything –
I’m acting a part, method in my madness –
I wannabe, therefore,
probably I’m not a celebrity.
Conclusion: once I was a teenage girl in overalls,
now I am middle-aged,
a woman aiming to get a life.