Writings

11. Jan, 2021

'Tears Before Bedtime'

The Bake Off contestants have long since dried their tears.  Enter that master of emotional meltdown, the Sobbing Potter.  Yes, judge Keith has honed his method acting to such perfection that the glimpse of a pouting spout fresh from the kiln just breaks his heart.  It's passion, you see.  What, you don't?  Then you are not a Jane Eyre of the ceramic, with as much soul and full as much heart as Josiah Wedgewood himself.  This year's contestants all are, let me tell you, to a man, woman, LGBTQ or non gender person alike.  Of course, they have been in a several weeks' long bubble with Keith, which must of itself have been such an emotional hothouse that they've come to the contest as wrung out and teetering on the brink as family members in a Tennessee Williams play.  There must have been some long, dark nights of the soul in those bottle kilns.  From what I see of this show's judges and entrants, pottery must be among the most joyfully inclusive and diverse of the art forms.  Grayson Perry has not trailblazed for nothing.  The pieces made really are beautiful and imaginative and it all looks great, messy, friendly fun.  I'm looking forward to more of the cheese domes and port goblets and Keith's odes of joy as the little remaining tufts of his rockabilly quiff are set tearfully all aquiver.

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Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall 

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And  my own ted  must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds, 

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.