"Splice the mainbrace!"

As someone who enjoys a drink, I found this answer to a query in an old Boy's Own Paper of interest and thought I'd share it.

W. A. BOOTHROYD. – To splice the mainbrace is a long job that does not require doing very often and is generally thought worthy of an extra drink – hence the phrase. In a big ship the mainbrace, where it runs through the block and is worn, is generally turned end for end, and used till another bit of it is worn before it is thought worth while to splice it.
(SATURDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1892)

Well, now I know!

The Friday Night Movie

I've just been reading on facebook a discussion by some friends about favourite Horror Movie stars. Some time ago I wrote a jokey little poem about the old Friday night horrors I would watch as a young teenager on the TV at about half-past-ten at night. I dedicate this poem to Chris and Tonya.

The Friday Night Movie (for Chris and Tonya)

Essssh!! Lee's teeth and the flame in his eyes.

Flesh pastures of breast as an innocent dies

To the bleating of lambs, and the torment of flex

Cutting into the strands of a weakened sex.

Pictures of infamy, horror and shame

In England's sweet gardens of lusty game.

Vampire circuses, the occasional dud,

Arboreal acting and theatres of blood.

Long shot of mansion, then cut to a coach

The lashing of horses, a cliched approach.

Interior showing the lead, photogenic.

A wintry landscape in long shot scenic.

Compendium stories of journeys to hell,

On a train with Roy Castle is that sulphur we smell.

A gaunt Peter Cushing reminds us to be wary,

As the ten-year-old boy finds his Friday nights scary.

...in my head...

Just popped in to say whatever is in my head.

Racing my visibility and letting streams of typisment urge down through cascades of thought that fall like soft bubbles upon these keys as slow fingers reluctantly haul there way about the board to my wordless command.

Let the snow fall from our eyes as we set forth on our ego free expedition...taking, changing, bending and placing ourselves at the mercy of our unknown futures . Can let flat work say let flat work go when flat lay the land blow down the walls of our sensitive selves work free the syncopation of our inner beat flee the fallen felling purpose of the none candid remedies of logic.

birthdays

oh yes...and if you didn't know, I turned 46 today. 'nuff said!

Darwin, Science and other...

I believe it is approaching the 150th anniversary of the publication of Darwin's Origins of Species. Many people have argued over Mr D.'s findings. Many have quoted him or the bible to justify their points. Here I present a poem that I wrote following an exhibition at my local museum in Plymouth, UK, which displayed pickled marine specimens collected by Victorian natural historians. I'd be interested to know what people think, feel free to comment or contact me.

Reflections On A Collection of Pickled Specimens

Part 1

Men of affairs, scientists, gentlemen collectors,

Researchers, technicians, plankton detectors.

Ladies, when permitted, provided manful help

Wading shorelines intrepidly for variegated kelp.

Knowing their names, seeking their protection.

Categorised, specified, a literal dissection.

Must each specimen elders plucked, and carefully selected,

be hidden forever, politically corrected?

Part 2

Bewhiskered men off charted shores their Science to be applied.

From blindest depths defy stern jaws to reveal a great divide.

Thus predate all faith - shift their cores – expecting the spring tide.

Dead-eyed and soaked, lost in each jar. Pickled in formaldehyde.

Forgotten lives compressed and bizarre

pinned on Time's lantern-slide.

Gentlemen? Killers? The choice is yours,

Think well before you decide.

Happy Birthday Marie 100

I've just been reading thread on twitter called HappyBirthdayIvy. At 104 today, Ivy Bean is reckoned to be the oldest tweeter. I hope she is still active and alert, unlike this unfortunately lost person I read about in a local paper a few years back.

Happy Birthday Marie 100

Happy Birthday Marie, 100,
splashed across the evening news.
Replete with colour photograph
and wearing another girl's shoes.

Happy Birthday Marie, not knowing.
In meltdown, fused in your chair.
Your family, it says, loved the telegram,
and look, there's the Deputy Mayor!

Happy Birthday Marie, not hearing.
The paper describes you, past tense.
You dream of a cat that sits on your lap,
While none of this makes any sense.

Happy Birthday Marie - demented -
alone with your family 'round.
Long suffering daughter with crucifixed grin,
aware that you're already drowned.

I'm sorry this is so bitter, but I felt angry at a newspaper article.

...which way does the wind blow?

Got a mixture of things tonight. Done a library rhymetime today, very good, cute babies I guess. Went to Home Park and listened to a fantastic storyteller called Pat Ryan. Worked this evening with teenagers at Library. A busy day like today should make me feel really good and positive. I somehow don't, I feel a bit empty and directionless tonight. Very down.

A Self-Reflecting: Anglo-Saxon Church

pale hearts deny the sound
of the living underground
can view not the dead
as morsels of new bread

Gravestones lean
With age.
Crooked,
Derelict church.

Cragged ragged slate,
Windows broken,
Is nature breaking in,
Or a relinquished God
Breaking out?

A stubborn piece of stone
Worn letters resisting the lichen,
Sacred
To the Memory of
My Beloved Wife, Mary.
At the head of her grave, perhaps.

Great parentheses of stone
Proud lines now overgrown
Sacred to the memory...The memory?
The tired steps, the dead,
Returning to the earth.