The words Dog. Banana. Wooden. Metaphysical. Andrew. Gesticulate were texted to me by James Bruce, and accidentally inspired a sequel to last Saturday’s Puppy poem. Weird…

He was a funny little boy, our Andrew,
Unique, you could say. Or else sulky, wooden.
He wouldn’t speak for days: I’d go bananas.
And he’d do nothing but gesticulate.
Though, when he talked, he’d get all metaphysical
He’d ask what Jesus looks like to a dog.

He was determined, then, to have a dog.
And very single minded was our Andrew,
When I’d say no, he’d wax all metaphysical:
He asked me, once, if grown-up souls were wooden
To not love puppies. He’d gesticulate
His rage, till we all thought he’d gone bananas

For weeks he would eat nothing but bananas
“I’ll eat my carrots when we’ve got a dog”
What could I do except gesticulate
And dust my knick-knacks and ignore poor Andrew?
He’d got to learn, although my heart’s not wooden,
Sometimes the answer’s “No.” so metaphysical

That boy, he’d always get so metaphysical!
Just six years old and munching on bananas
His sullen face as stiff as any wooden
Mask. And all he wanted was a dog.
It broke my heart to disappoint poor Andrew,
But how his father would gesticulate!

(Like Dad, like son: they’d both gesticulate
When angry) If the metaphysical
Had become physical, and little Andrew
Had got his puppy: he’d have gone bananas!
My husband never could abide a dog.
And I preferred my pets polished and wooden.

I see now why he thought of us as wooden,
Why he would sulk, and then gesticulate:
We could have made him happy with a dog.
Instead, our household never met a physical
And vital life, and so we bought bananas
And slowly crushed the dreams of little Andrew.

A dog just might have made us act less wooden
And Andrew might have stopped Gesticulat-
Ing. Metaphysically, we’re bananas.

The little boy is staring at the clouds
His body warm against the stony granite
He wants to beg his parents for a puppy
But dad would never let it in his car
And mummy’s often told him that her keepsakes
And collectibles would always be in danger.

If they brought in a dog. There’s not much danger
He knows, of them relenting, so he clouds
Over. Blank and glazed as any keepsake
On mummy’s shelf, his eyes as hard as granite.
Dad shouts. It’s time to go back to the car.
He sets his jaw. Don’t think about the puppy.

He’d love to ask them: can we get a puppy?
And then hear, not a lecture on the danger
Of what could happen to the precious car,
But shared enthusiasm. Now the clouds
Are darkening. “don’t dawdle!” Hard as granite,
He sullenly straps in but his heart keeps ach-

Ing. Mummy has bought another keepsake
From the little shop. A small ceramic puppy.
He stares at it and then the mask of granite
Starts to crumble, and he knows he is in danger
Of crying, so he stares out at the clouds,
And watches as the trees rush past the car.

His dad’s so proud and happy with his car.
Like mummy with her pretty little keepsakes
It gives him so much pleasure. Hot breath clouds
The window in the back. A little puppy
He couldn’t mind. There’d not be any danger.
But no. He knows his dad’s last word is granite.

He looks back at the shrinking cliffs of granite
Out of the window of the gleaming car
Seatbelted and protected from all danger
All neat and tidy, mummy’s little keepsake.
Out on the cliffs, a boy plays with a puppy
As dad drives on, beneath the looming clouds.

No danger in a life as dull as granite:
But sadness clouds his face, as in the car,
He grips mum’s keepsake: cold, ceramic puppy.

A soppy bit of whimsy about all the unicorns leaving Sheffield and going to Manchester.

All of the unicorns are leaving Sheffield
Snorting and stamping, now they’re on their way.
Just look, and make a wish, and you’ll see
Out on the hills today, a little magic:
A flash of silver horn, a rainbow mane
The sound of golden hoofbeats on Snake Pass.

If you don’t pay attention, you could pass
And never see the unicorns of Sheffield
One of them might be showing off her mane
And she could stand directly in your way,
But if your eyes aren’t open to the magic
You’ll sigh and walk around, and never see.

It took a little time for me to see
The unicorns of Sheffield. I would pass
Them, unaware, oblivious to magic
I thought there could be no such thing in Sheffield
I’d see the sparkles and I’d turn away
And think “just stay aloof, and in the main

You’ll seem mature” I’d shun the gleaming manes
and tails and sparkling horns. I wouldn’t see
The magic if I turned my head away.
But unicorns don’t quit. It came to pass
That I could see the unicorns in Sheffield.
And, after all, I still believed in magic.

And when they’ve vanished, will there still be magic?
Will there be rainbows here, without their manes?
For all the unicorns are leaving Sheffield.
Go out and look this weekend and you’ll see
Them galloping along the Pennine Way
And grazing in the woodland at Snake Pass.

And if you see them, call out, as you pass:
“Sheffield will miss you. We will miss your magic.
We know it’s time for you to go away,
But still we wish, so much, that you’d remain
With us forever more. When will we see
You all again? When will you come to Sheffield?”

Just maybe, unicorns will pass this way
Again. And maybe Sheffield will be magic.
But now it’s mainstream. Nothing more to see.

This poem is NOT for Tony Walsh’s birthday. Apparently he didn’t want one, because sestinas are “posh poetry”. Fine, then.

I understand you’re here because you’re interested
In learning more about posh poetry
The high flown forms unsuited to performance
No cheap and tawdry jokes or laughter here!
My poetry is serious, not rude
We’ll start of with the sestina or sextain.

I hope you do not think that I’ll let sex tain-
T my poetry! No! I’m not interested
In anything that’s untoward or rude.
Quite intellectual is my poetry
You’ll find none of your innuendoes here!
Mine is a pure, enlightening performance!

Although it may well hinder my performance
To use, more than six times, a word like “sextain”
And hope that there’s no smutty pun to hear
When vulgar listeners are interested
In sullying my noble poetry –
Implying that the word I chose is rude

I know that when you hear it, it is rude.
I know that when you come to a performance
You’re hoping for a kind of poetry
More “carry on” than “carol-ann” – and “sextain”
‘s the sort of word to get you interested
But really, I can’t help it if you hear

Exactly what you all expect to hear.
Some cheap and tasteless poem, low and rude,
About some lady who is interested
In locating a partner whose performance
Will leave upon her sheets a sticky sex stain.
Well fine, if that’s what you call poetry!

But sextain is a form of poetry!
Who’s interested in innuendo here?
Oh. All of you prefer a rude performance!

This is for The Venns.

If you like the feeling of being a winner
Of knowing the answer and getting things right,
Then gather some friends and head off to the pub!
If you’re lucky, you’ll find that they’re having a quiz
Giving you a great chance to display all your knowledge.
Remember: it’s all about finding the Venn.

Now wait, let me go back a bit: clever John Venn
Invented a diagram. He was a winner
With all of his cool mathematical knowledge.
And he knew common ground would make everything right.
You can use his discovery down at the quiz
Become local celebrities down at the pub.

I don’t know if he spent lots of time in the pub
But I have a feeling that clever John Venn
Would have done very well if he’d been on a quiz
Team. But all on his own he’d have not been a winner.
He’d have known all the diagram questions alright,
But how is his Hollywood trivia knowledge?

Each team member has their own circle of knowledge.
They should intersect, so when down at the pub
You can all help each other to get it all right
Nobody can do it alone: Not John
Venn,
Margaret Atwood, Gok Wan, Emma Freud, Michael Winner,
But put them together, they’d win every quiz!

There’s something amazing ’bout winning the quiz,
Of both having a drink and displaying your knowledge,
Cause it’s not every day you can feel like a winner.
And there’s no fun in sitting alone at the pub.
Bring a disparate group and you’ll soon find the Venn,
The more varied you are then the more you’ll get right!

If you’re thinking “this sounds like a plug”, you’d be right!
Down the Greystones tonight, there’s an excellent quiz.
Presented to you by a team called the Venns
Bring a circle of friends and your circle of knowledge!
Get the 81 bus up the hill to the pub
With a bit of good luck, you will soon be a winner!

Old John Venn and his diagrams got something right:
You can’t be a winner alone at a quiz*
If you’ve knowledge and friends, then get down to the pub!

*well, sometimes you can, but where’s the fun in it?