Poetry

Epic and Autobiographical (A Versified Finale) An Autobiographical Narrative: 1960s 2

by Carl Halling
08/29/14
For Sale
Author requests article critique

  Message Writer
  Hire Writer

Tweet

A Perfectly Foolish Young Man I Wanted Part Two Book Five Epic and Autobiographical (A Versified Finale) An Autobiographical Narrative: 1960s 2

An Autobiographical Narrative: 1960s

In its most primordial form,

Snapshots knew life as spidery writings

Filling four and a half pages

Of a school notebook

In what is likely to have been 1977.

And these were edited in 2006,

Before being tendered a new title,

Subjected to alterations in punctuation,

And then finally published at Blogster

On the 10th of March of that year.

Some grammatical corrections took place,

Which were suitably mild

So as not to excessively alter the original work,

From which certain sentences were composed

By fusing two or more sections together.

Ultimately, parts of it were incorporated

Into the memoir, Rescue of a Rock and Roll Child,

And thence into the first chapter

Of the definitive autobiographical piece,

Seven Chapters from a Sad Sack Loser's Life.

But recently, it was newly versified,

With a fresh set of minor corrections,

Although as ever with these memoir-based writings

The majority of names have been changed,

And they are faithful to the truth to the best of my ability.

Snapshots from a Child's West London

I remember my cherished Wolf Cub pack,

How I loved those Wednesday evenings,

The games, the pomp and seriousness of the camps,

The different coloured scarves, sweaters and hair

During the mass meetings,

The solemnity of my enrolment,

Being helped up a tree by an older boy,

Baloo, or Kim, or someone,

To win my Athletics badge,

Winning my first star, my two year badge,

And my swimming badge

With its frog symbol, the kindness of the older boys.

I remember a child's West London.

One Saturday afternoon, after a football match

During which I dirtied my boots

By standing around as a sub in the mud,

And my elbow by tripping over a loose shoelace,

An older boy offered to take me home.

We walked along streets,

Through subways crammed with rowdies,

White or West Indian, in black gym shoes.

"Shuddup!" my friend would cheerfully yell,

And they did.

"We go' a ge' yer 'oame, ain' we mite, ay?"

"Yes. Where exactly are you taking me?" I asked.

"The bus stop at Chiswick 'Oigh Stree'

Is the best plice, oi reck'n."

"Yes, but not on Chiswick High Street,"

I said, starting to sniff.

"You be oroight theah, me lil' mite."

I was not convinced.

The uncertainty of my ever getting home

Caused me to start to bawl,

And I was still hollering

As we mounted the bus.

I remember the sudden turning of heads.

It must have been quite astonishing

For a peaceful busload of passengers

To have their everyday lives

Suddenly intruded upon

By a group of distressed looking Wolf Cubs,

One of whom, the smallest,

Was howling red-faced with anguish

For some undetermined reason.

After some moments, my friend,

His brow furrowed with regret,

As if he had done me some wrong, said:

"I'm gonna drop you off

Where your dad put you on."

Within seconds, the clouds dispersed,

And my damp cheeks beamed.

Then, I spied a street I recognised

From the bus window, and got up,

Grinning with all my might:

"This'll do," I said.

"Wai', Carl," cried my friend,

Are you shoa vis is 'oroigh'?"

"Yup!" I said. I was still grinning

As I spied my friend's anxious face

In the glinting window of the bus

As it moved down the street.

I remember a child's West London.

One Wednesday evening,

When the Pops was being broadcast

Instead of on Thursday,

I was rather reluctant to go to Cubs,

And was more than usually uncooperative

With my father as he tried

To help me find my cap,

Which had disappeared.

Frustrated, he put on his coat

And quietly opened the door.

I stepped outside into the icy atmosphere

Wearing only a pair of underpants,

And to my horror, he got into his black Citroen

And drove off. I darted down Esmond Road,

Crying and shouting.

My tearful howling was heard by Margaret,

19 year old daughter of Mrs Helena Jacobs,

Whom my mother used to help

With the care and entertainment

Of Thalidomide children.

Helena Jacobs expended so much energy

On feeling for others,

That when my mother tried to get in touch

In the mid '70s, she seemed exhausted,

And quite understandably,

For Mrs O'Keefe, her cleaning lady

And friend for the main part

Of her married life

Had recently been killed in a road accident.

I remember that kind

And beautiful Irish lady,

Her charm, happiness and sweetness,

She was the salt of the earth.

She threatened to ca-rrown me

When I went away to school...

If I wrote her not.

Margaret picked me up

And carried me back to my house.

I put on my uniform

As soon as she had gone home,

Left a note for my Pa,

And went myself to Cubs.

When Pa arrived to pick me up,

The whole ridiculous story

Was told to Akela,

Baloo and Kim,

Much, much, much to my shame.

I remember a child's West London.

The year was 1963, the year of the Beatles,

Of singing yeah, yeah, yeah in the car,

Of twisting in the playground,

Of "I'm a Beatlemaniac, are you?"

That year, I was very prejudiced

Against an American boy, Raymond,

Who later became my friend.

I used to attack him for no reason,

Like a dog, just to assert my superiority.

One day, he gave me a rabbit punch in the stomach

And I made such a fuss that my little girlfriend, Nina,

Wanted to escort me to the safety of our teacher,

Hugging me, and kissing me intermittently

On my forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks.

She forced me to see her:

"Carl didn't do a thing," said Nina,

"And Raymond came up and gave him

Four rabbit punches in the stomach."

Raymond was not penalized,

For Mademoiselle knew

What a little demon I was,

No matter how hurt

And innocent I looked,

Tearful, with my tail between my legs.

I remember a child's West London.