‘Around the rugged rocks,
the ragged rascal ran,’ was meant to be nothing more than an introduction to
alliteration in the course of an English lesson when I was about 12 years-old.
Yet, even as my teacher spoke those words, an image was forming in my mind of
some unfortunate lad dressed in rags, bare feet bleeding after running round
rugged rocks for no reason other than it was something to do, better perhaps
than…well, whatever. (Being in school on a lovely summer’s day perhaps?)
That image will always haunt
me. If childhood was no bed of roses, it was no bed of thorns either, but there were times when the going would get rough, not least because I had a hearing problem (perceptive deafness) that would not be properly diagnosed until I was 20 years-old. I’d
find myself running round and round various rugged, metaphorical rocks unable
to break whatever vicious circle of existence pursued me. Break it, though, I
did, time and again if only by exercising mind over matter, a strategy that has
served me well throughout my adult life.
Don't get me wrong, there was plenty of love in my childhood, fun times too, but that old adage
'Children should be seen and not heard' was applied by just about everyone just about everywhere in those days, and having a voice to which people may well lend an ear but without actually listening is a tough nut to crack at any age, especially for a child still very much a novice in the art of language and communication skills. Most children and young people, though, are not only better able to adapt to circumstances than many adults give them credit for, but also have a much better idea of who they are, articulation or not. I know, I did.
RASCALS ON THE RUN or THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME
Around rugged rocks, ragged rascals
run …into a story-poem as
(gradually)
mind and spirit start homing
in
on artful shadows penetrating
a mist,
outline of a child chasing
shadows,
doing battle with hidden
fears, taking
a pride of sorts in wiping
away the first
of, oh, so many tears
Sea sounds, music to the child’s
ears,
fun waves splashing on dream
holidays,
TV family laughing, applauding…
till time to wake, give
wishful thinking
the elbow, start climbing up
walls
where giant spiders have
ears, tell tales
enough on cry-baby bed-wettings
to give
even a rascal the shakes
One times one is one, two
times two,
(time to tie a shoelace, heading
for a fall)
distant voices jeering,
clapping a rascal
made to stand in front of
the class, object
of pretend martyrdom,
subject of abuse,
taking a pride or sorts in
refusing to shed
a solitary tear, allying
with artful shadows
dampening red hot coals
One times one is one, two
times two
(shoelace a sloppy bow,
heading for a fall)
dispassionate voices,
chasing a rascal
through the streets of town
for truanting,
preferring to get high with
crack-heads
than some bottomless pit of
name-calling
created especially for those
unable to keep up
a semblance of appearances
One times one is one, two
times two
(best designer gear,
evidence of a fall)
no character references for
the court,
gets twelve months, no
surprises there
for a rascal despatched to learn
(or teach?)
a trick or two about climbing
walls
where giant spiders with ears
and eyes
make short work of flies
Sea sounds, in young-old
ears,
fun waves splashing on dream
holidays,
TV family laughing,
applauding…
till time to wake, give
wishful thinking
the elbow, start climbing up
walls
where giant spiders have
ears, tell tales,
carry knives or guns, and not
to kill flies
or give rascals the shakes
Around rugged rocks, ragged
rascals
run…into a story-poem likely
to haunt
generations of children
weaving
fictions around lives unfit
for purpose,
branded liars and tantrum
throwers
for a want of articulation
on an absence
of real understanding in a
world obsessed
with its own worldliness
Copyright R. N. Taber 2014
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home