INVENTION

The greatest invention since sliced bread is:
Rock and roll music, word processing
And personal computers;
Theories of relativity, or dynamite;
Rockets to the moon.
Or liberation in literature
Since Lady Chatterley`s trial.
All things we value, we declare
Are the best since bread was sliced
So nothing can compare with bread itself
That`s ready sliced.
Sliced bread for toasting
Or for cucumbers
Or if stale, for puddings;
It comes in mighty white or natural brown
Conveniently in slices.
Not fifty years ago
Only the loaf unsliced could be obtained
Which tested skill and patience equally
And the sharpness of the knife.
The slices thick and thin by turns
With bigger on one side ;
Sliced bread`s the standard
To adduce
When something new`s invented.

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

A VISION

Looking out over the now quiet river
I can barely see the opposite shores
Which fold the huge metropolis.
Pier Head is somnolent now but behind
Great buildings , busy streets, lie hidden
From my gaze, except for giant structures
In the foreground, symbolic of another era
When cities such as this were hub of empire.
Dominant on their twin towers , the mythical birds
Seemed poised, ready for flight.
To a new world? To a new future?
Emblems of industry and prosperity
They guard the threshold of the city
Which will endure as long as they endure.
No need for flight. Perched on their towers
They will not leave their posts as long as
Citizens have need of them.
They have seen many changes:
Planners` dreams (and nightmares) realised.
No longer do the birds gaze down on tracks
Which trams, packed with people, used,
Bringing day-trippers to the ferries.
The tunnels take their place.
Swallowed in their cavernous maws,
The cars rush madly , as if hell bent,
Crossing their personal Styx.
No ferries now; their clientele has gone.
The gulls no longer wheel and chatter
Round the boats, seeking food among the crowded decks.
These bands of pilgrims to their promised land
Where sandy beaches, cafes, fairgrounds lie
On this side of the river;
Deserted the ships, preferring to be car-cocooned.
But as I look for what has gone,
I see the present:
Docks stretching like some great snake
Encircling and protecting;
I see the fort, still vibrant,
Trading with a distant world.
The city`s heart beats strongly yet
Among its people.
Older than mine, the eyes of the city guardians
See truer. Omniscient , they know the past
And see into the future. They know the heady
Days of empire; accept the present,
And anticipating the future
They will not leave their vigils
Watching like sentinels over their city.

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

FACE LIFT

“Why don`t I have a face lift?”
I asked aloud. while looking at the mirror…..
hoping it wouldn`t answer back
As in the faery tale!.
A few more years is all we want –
But must be “at the top” –
You rightly state. And I agree:
Improve on nature, where we can;
Avoid all graceful growing old –
Our dream…reality, I should say
In this our age of miracles.

(My passport photo said it all –
ten years confirmed my fears;
the face HAD dropped) …
no doubt, as well, .the bosoms flopped!

And as I gazed, it seemed
The eyes grew bags, the mouth grew lines,
The neck more turkey textured;
…..a Dorian Gray reversely pictured.

Expensive, sometimes painful, operations later
My face renewed,
Again I scan the mirror…what would have been
Is gone – for good?
No vision now of future horrors
But only present alterations:
taught skin; no lines or wrinkles
round the mouth and neck
surpass my expectations.

But….I pause awhile….
Afraid to laugh, I`d rather frown
A disapproval than concur;
In case my whole new edifice
Might soon come crashing down!

“The recompense?”, you ask?
“The future limelight “ : my reply;
“The price is small to pay:
I`ve taken off ten years.”
“A future ten? “

“It will be time again!”

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

OLD SHIPS IN HAMBURG HARBOUR

Black and sombre on dark water
The old boats ride at anchor
Living out their final days.
Upon the bridge , the biting wind of March
Seems fitting setting in late afternoon
For ghostly crews who sailed the seas
In small and fragile ships like these.
No flags fly now and no bells ring;
No coloured paint now shines.
Left to wind and weather
They measure their existence by the tides
Which rise in Hamburg harbour.
Museum of naval history! a mausoleum –
But redolent of spacious days
when sails and steam were all
This graveyard of proud boats
Once latest of their line.
spend now a turgid life, like undead zombies,
with impressive and astounding power
To make us wonder.
Looking down, I seem to see the long dead men
who haunt the decks,
move soundlessly along the passages,
ascend the silent stairs -
their corporeal bodies an age
beneath salt or soil.
Sacred ships! Spiritual life is yours!
Alone with memories, they gather in a corner
of the harbour, like sentinels
still bold and living testimony
to their noble past.
Relics of old glories!
Creating a remembrance of former ages
when after years` long voyages
they scoured the oceans
sloughing into troughs and climbing crests –
happy to see the land.
Embodied souls, how often did they then rejoice?
How often “Land Ahoy”?
From the undiscovered country these travellers return;
they surely with the stars look down: see tempests rage
and becalmed seas, where pleasure in the task well done
is mixed with daily toil.
A vanished world but not forgotten!
when discipline was harsh, but tempered
by the recompense of comradeship: shared pai and joy
when God was in his heaven.
The shadows of the setting sun grow longer;
down there, amid the shadows, are some other shades
of men unaging, tried and tested by the elements,
who knew no other life (or death)
who hear still the sea-wind call
who, while their boats yet float,
attend , in dedication to their ancient tasks.”

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

BODYBUILDING

“It`s a Way of Life.” he told me.
“Prepared to sweat and strain?
Then it`s for you!
You`d rather miss a meal
than miss a workout?
--Then you`ve arrived!

Once bitten by the bug,
life will revolve
around your training;
a moth attracted by the light –
in your case, pumping iron.

The commitment of the zelot,
the spirit of the seer – imagine these:
….eschew the ample table.

The muscle mag you`re looking at
Is full of “stars” who “made it big”
But only after years of dedication….
self-disciplined
In diet and duration.

You must be realistic; no Mr Universe
In a week or two. This way of life
Demands a long apprenticeship.
You ask: a new, strong body?
You have the baton in your kitbag;
The future`s in your hands.
But much pain`s yet to come!

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

THE TITANIC EXHIBITION AT GREENWICH

Eighty years on , the sea disgorges treasures –
Once mundane and purely functional
But now a richness, redolent of a long gone
lifestyle of white spats , long dresses and pince-nez.
A vanished world is seen inside these cabinets,
pathetic reminders of man`s transience.

From profound sea depths rescued
out of black water into the sunlight
from their cold and lonely grave
two miles down, where they lay
disfunctional and dead so long
like ornaments on their users` final resting place,

They speak to us, who come to gaze upon
these holy relics from the corpse
and tell of days when people knew their place.
Still coruscate the jewels and still shine the rings
surviving the swift dive to disaster
scattered on the sea bed like open oyster shells.

Decorated dinner plates, cracked and broken,
but eloquent testimony to a sudden shattering
of the even tenor, bear silent, anguished witness
to the dark night`s encounter.
cups, elegant yet, once raised to eager lips
reminders of brief hours upon the stage.

A steward`s jacket discoloured by the sea,
the White Star insignia still discernible
remains a sad memorial to a life in prime
struggling in a freezing sea, alone in spirit
helpless against malevolent forces
intent on wreaking havoc.

Vanished from sight for eighty years
the mighty ship lay in caverns of perpetual night.
two miles down! But now seen again
upon the screen – gigantic like a floating mountain
in its dock and still gigantic in its grave,
a ghostly witness to a style before its time.

Artefacts, equipment from the hulk surviving
the ravening hunger of the salt
appear again: a bell, a lamp, a clock,
symbols of an ordered world that ended
with the headlong plunge which took
so many happy, optimistic people.

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

WHO`S TO BLAME?

Picasso, it said. (for several years)
Upon the toilet walls, is balls. He has arrived!
Explicit criticism from the common man –
No fooling him: he sees things as they are :
Confidence tricks, to lure the “experts”
Who daren't affirm they do not like
Or do not comprehend.
Trad art,
Where one can see the form and shape
Is life-like
Is people's preference.
Side-eyed monsters,
With mis-shapen limbs and bodies
(what many painters see
or rather make pretence to see
do not convince the paying public
of cubism or pop.
To shock`s the aim of modern art
With abstracts and impressionism.
It`s different , experts say;
Let`s have it on display;
Blow the expense!
Dead pickled sheep and piles of bricks
Are art; as is an unmade bed.
Beauty`s in beholders.
But for the public
Seeing`s not believing. No pretence here.
The avant-guarde`s the sacred cow
That draws the people, out of curiosity
While cognoscenti in crowds
Pretend an understanding
They don`t really have.
It is expectedof them to defend –
Attempt an explanation , if they can,
What basically is non-art.
The honest critics of our time
It seems , frequent the loos of night clubs,
Unfazed to write upon the walls
What many people think.

Last week some literary criticism appeared
Upon the wall: T.S. Eliot is also balls.
There`s hope for British education yet!

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

APOLOGIES TO ROBERT BROWNING

Oh, not to be in England
Now that April`s here,
For whoever wakes in England
Sees some morning too aware
The office-blocks and high-rise flats
And workers in hard-hats
Where no birds sing , and no tree grows
- except in concrete rows!

And after April when May follows
When roads are up , bulldozers wallow
In the mud, and hammer and drill offend
The senses, where once the green trees grew
Now thundering lorries rend
The former peace so that the thrush
- one left , his rapture rushes!
Defeated by the noise, he sings song one.
Blossom and dewdrop – all are gone
Replaced by iron stake and plastic fence
Much brighter here – the orchids dense!

Here`s to Chamberlain`s memory!
Now time has passed, one can see
Right off Cote d`Azur here
How right he was not to fear!
The foreign threat in Europe.
Encouraged by the hope
Of promised non-aggression
People have the wrong impression
Of Chamberlain the statesman
A leader in the van
Of progress for our country!
He waved in London as our bounty
That scanty piece of paper
“Peace in our time” : to each distrusting gaper;
which would curtail our little wartime caper.

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

SCADBURY MOATED MANOR HOUSE

I stand at evening and look upon the Manor House
with only ghosts for company
Who flit about the ruined walls
Like the shadows of the trees
The remains of once proud orchards
Where silently once more
Fruit gatherers fill their baskets
For their lords` and ladies` tables
Now derelict, unkempt and desolate
The site retains a magic,
An atmosphere both eerie and majestic
Redolent of ancient days of ceremony
When common people knew their place
And law was given from a master`s voice.
Now by moonlight casting broken shadows
Across the stagnant moat
Unnaturally I see more clearly
The life of long ago.
The tower once more reaches skywards
The floors now mystically restored
Again hold people splendidly robed
Who ruled the land and gave commands.
The maids and servants mere minions
Of their lord, hastening to do his bidding
Scurry to the stables or the kennels
Through portals restored to ancient glory.
The House envisioned, as it was,
Impresses itself upon the landscape.
A backcloth of extensive fields and trees
Surrounded by the moat, a great black snake
That winds itself about the House.
A dark cloud passes and illumination gone ,
Imagination withers with the hidden moon;
The splendour of the site all gone:
The gardens and the fountains,
The bridges and the boats
Now overgrown, neglected
Down the years, unloved
Through many generations
But brought to life
Through eyes that see the past.

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE – TODAY!

I wish I could hear a nightingale
Amid the shouts of boozy drinkers in the fields ,
The slamming of car doors
And roar of traffic round the narrow streets.
Here in my Hampstead garden, once a haven
From the busy modern world, I find no peace;
The song birds long since fled – the nightingale,
Keats` Dryad of the trees, cannot compete
With aircraft noise and neon lighting.
The Heath`s melodious plots have vanished
And left the barking dogs, the flashers and the perverts
To commandeer the field.
Few trees remain from Keats` time of beechen green
Providing sanctuary for the summer singer;
Now replaced by roads and housing blocks
And lights on poles. MY heart aches for the long ago
When one might hear birds sing.

Time was when drink could drive away the present;
Now drugs are more effective.
Youth still grows pale and spectre-thin – AIDS positive
With eyes unnaturally lustrous,
While you sing unendingly of summers now
And long ago.
Symbol of everlasting joy and beauty
Contrasting with our earthly transience,
Your melody scarce heard fades.
Wishing I could leave this dark unhappy world
In my imagination joining you in moon-light
Far above the earth.

Few flowers are at my feet.
No incense hangs upon the long gone boughs
And even the flies no longer murmur
Choked by fumes from car exhausts and barbecues.
Garish lighting accentuates the gloomy patches
And half in the dark and light
I try to listen to your ethereal song .
A symbol of another sphere of joy and ecstasy
You make my world a dull and mortal place
Which I could leave for ever
To join you in your rapture.

Your life is everlasting while you sing
Of beauty, love and hope.
Here we humans die in fever and despair
And live a little life that nothing signifies.
Above the traffic`s noise at midnight
I stop and listen to your voice
That few can hear and even fewer care.
Listening, your joyful world I enter
If only for a moment.

A moment`s happiness! So soon lost
In present life`s distractions;
The blaring radio from one side ;
The noisy tv from the other.
No longer can I hear you in imagination;
Even the poetic mind is useless
To maintain illusion of your music
Which fading over the heath
Leaves me dejected and dispirited
- one of the common herd once more.

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

FAVOURITE CREATURE

Hidden in the valley folds
You cannot see them. You have to climb the hill
And view them from afar.

Silently they graze
A Constable picture framed by trees
In Canaletto`s light.

Golden brown coats gleam in the heat
Of the afternoon. The silent fawns
Evoke Debussy`s haunting music.

Graceful and demure
They seem ethereal, as distancing themselves from man
They inhabit the mystic world of Blake.

Beguiling creatures
Redolent of other, spacious times;
A paean to peace and freedom

They do not kill or injure;
Anachronistic in this world
Their dwelling is the light of setting suns
An everlasting childhood vision
Of mists and mellow fruitfulness.

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

UNTITLED

Dying from the acid rain
Some trees are marked by crosses
Painted on their boles.
The trees will perish long before their time;
Few leaves will grow
And will prematurely brown …and fall
Before due season.
Memorials, like epitaphs on graves
These trees! Symbolic of man`s folly
They stand in misery .
Death is air-borne, long before the Fall,
B poisoned wind and rain.
A stunted growth and aspect miserable …
Instead they should be glorious, green, luxuriantly leaved;
Broad boughed and sturdy; shaped by no man.
A travesty of nature – they hang their heads
Suffocating from the smoke and fumes
Of rushing traffic.
Even the light`s polluted…
Darkened and deprived of oxygen
Their sunlight`s harmful through the ozone gap.
In them I see….
The struggle of the sea birds, immobile in the slick;
Fish choking in dead rivers
Aquatic plants expiring in the filth

A thousand year life
of nuclear waste
For evanescent profit

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

NOSTALGIA

“Let`s recreate the world of art and artists.”
Said Dante Gabriel Rossetti,
“by looking at the glories of the past .
We are the unacknowledged legislators
As Shelley said, because we have a vision….
And a duty to the past of re-interpretation.”
“Great artists stand the test of time
perenially alive; let`s draw from them
our inspiration and our force.
The Renaissance! Time of flowering genius
And achievement unsurpassed in every art.”
“Itself a rebirth,” said his friend Millais
“a looking back : the glory that was Greece
and the grandeur that was Rome.”
“How high is aspiration? When Angelo, da Vinci
and Raphael beckon. The age produced its genius
from Golden Ages past. Cervantes, Dante, Shakespeare
will be our icons. With Ruskin, Hunt and Morris
we can renew and rescue from degeneracy
the creative arts. Since Raphael nothing shines.
Before, supremacy was reached through worthy
subjects, a moral lesson pointed.
Let this be our way too. The subject is all…
In architecture as in painting,
If art fulfills its mission.”
“Dedication`s needed for allegiance
to this cause, Gabriel, if….”
“We are to succeed? We`ll call ourselves
Pre-Raphaelites, a Brotherhood
Devoted to things past.”

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

UNTER DEN LINDEN

Now you can walk through Brandenburg Gate;
You couldn’t last time I was in Berlin.
Once a symbol of a divided city
It`s now a gateway to another style
Of living; a drab reflection of
Its pre-war life.
Unter Den Linden still has its wide street
And central reservation which no-one uses.
From the Gate I walked the uninspiring length
Of office blocks and embassies, alleviated
By the beautiful, but dark church, about half way.
One or two cafes remain as memories
Of a happy time, redolent of things past.
The former palace on the right seems
Strangely new, undamaged,
Until approaching near, I saw
A huge façade draped over
Showing how it used to be .
The building is a museum now,
Of Berlin through the ages.
Great statues rescued from long gone buildings
Impress with magnitude and artistry.
Outside the lindens droop and straggle,
Even in high summer. Few risk their lives
To reach the central seats where once many
Lingered. It was the place to be.
Society beauties and their beaux walked here
Their gaiety and laughter now all gone.
For ever?
As I walk back, I seem to see their ghosts
Unaged and happy still

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

NEW YEAR AT PICCADILLY

What a way to treat a god, especially of love:
Boarded up, Eros cannot shoot his arrows
To mark his victims.
He cannot even see the crowds below
And fly among them to infect with friendship.
A dark, unnatural world is his on New Year`s Eve
Protected from humanity who would do him harm
It is supposed. Ironical to incarcerate a god
Whose mission is to love.
Impatient for the night to pass, he balances,
Poised ready to shoot another arrow.
His quiver`s full for victims whose new year
Destiny he decides. He cannot wound till morning,
Until the prison`s gone….with all the joyful horde.
Pity he could not fire when so many gathered,
Optimistic, receptive to the future
And celebrating with ebullience a new beginning.
No doubt the hope of some new friendships
Caused some to gather; he could have had a field day
Targeting his darts. Mainly the young are his intended
Who celebrate around his pedestal the old year`s death,
The new year`s birth.
Symbol of youth and expectation, he seems to see the future
With a confidence his votaries share.
Symbol of hope and confidence, he rises from their midst
Hidden though felt. Protected but pervasive,
He presides over their festivities – the young at heart
Who recognise in the statue a sympathetic emblem.
Midnight will toll another day for them.
Another year; another start.
Baffled in the darkness like their totem,
They await the dawn of day
When once more, sight restored, they look into the future
With their god, clear –eyed.

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

SANDIE SMITH: FEMALE BODYBUILDER

After the line-up of contestants
In the Landesmeisterschaften
Comes the individual posing.
The International Federation
Of Body Building meet`s attracted
The world`s best female physiques.
Comparative posing`s over;
Personal displays must now be given.
Upon the stage stands Sandie
waiting for her music to begin
Rhythmically and smoothly she
Displays her muscles, singly or in groups.
No bathing beauty contest this,
The non-traditional female body`s
what the speccies want to see.
Shouts and whistles encourage her
In her endeavours. Many hours training
Have gone into this moment.
Black hair, brown eyes, attractive smile,
A lovely tan – great advert for the sport
And model for others. She shows
What can be achieved.
Muscles bulge beneath the skin but all
Are in proportion: a perfect blend
Of symmetry and size.
No part`s neglected: legs, shoulders
Arms, waist developed equally.
Such combination cannot be denied;
To much acclaim she wins the title:
Damenlandeschaften Siegerin

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

IN THE SPIRIT OF WILFRED OWEN

In this house lay five girls dead of fright
From ceaseless shelling by our guns.
“It`s progress,” said our leader, “it`s all right.
It does not matter as we`ve won.”

Only villagers lost their lives, civilians
Who do not count on battlefields;
Part solely of the tragic millions
Whose destined fate war sealed.

Five bodies carried out and buried
Without a headstone, just a mound;
Tomorrow`s fighting`s got us worried,
More dead to cover yet more ground.

Acceptable casualties of the war?
They had a right to Life and Love –
Destroyed by military law –
We were commanded from above.

Or so we say. “Think of the trenches yet
Of Flanders fields, of Pascendaele,
Our country`s triumph first, do not forget.
Think of the dead – the way to fail!”

The living`s our concern we`re told by our
Commanders. Hard luck on people
Caught between the hell of arms and firepower:
Victims we`ve no time to weep for.

Above their graves the sky is scarred by smoke trails.
Still scream the shells, the bullets whizz
Over the pulped earth and ghost-like trees wail
Into the wind their obsequies.

“Fight the good fight; God`s on our side,” we`re told.
Did He decree the bayonet charge
That ravaged flesh and left it cold?
Did He destruction so enlarge

That nations could not wait to try it out
And send young men to fight each other
Hoping they would never have a doubt
That beneath the skin they`re really brothers?

They were our sisters too, the ones we buried
Victims of aggression,
Dead comrades from the battle carried –
Acceptable; but murder`s not our mission

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

ARM WRESTLING CONTEST

Called to their places the arm wrestlers emerge
From the crowd. Some go on walkabout
Strutting their stuff, conducting their own brand
Of psychological warfare. Others wait eagerly
Like greyhounds, for the off.
The combatants grip the coloured pegs, holding tight
As pincers, maintaining posture for the battle.
An outward calm descends upon them
And the crowd, as attitudes are revealed.
Subdued but watchful like hunting tigers
The wrestlers shake hands perfunctorily
Awaiting the signal.
Those who smile, smile grimly; some hardly look.
Others in boxer fashion eye-ball their opponents
Hoping snake-like to mesmerise.
Gripping hands is all important;
(no hand shake this) and much play is made
of getting this aright.
“Go” says the ref , and biceps bulge as battle
is begun. Lat muscles strain under the skin
taut as a drum.
Scenario of controlled aggression!
Nerve and sinew pitched to the utmost
The contest wavers or a temporary stalemate reached.
A hand is down; the winner is magnanimous
In victory. The loser`s not disgraced,
Shakes hands again, and disappears in the crowd.
The winner gets his trophy for the contest
Thinking of the next.

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

U.F.O.

Last night I saw a green effulgence
With central flashing fire.
Something gleamed bronze; the likeness of three men appeared
Who sparkled like burnished silver.
Now lion-like, now eagle, now humanoid – their faces changed
In my distorting mirror.
The only light upon the moor shone from them brilliantly
Otherwise there was nothing.
They held what looked like burning coals of fire, torches
That scattered lightning.
Their clothing shone like crystal and sparkled as they flew
not walked, the ground
I could not speak, nor move; in my petrifaction I could hear
The sound of many waters
Like thunder now, then like the sound of battle.
I looked up and shining like a sapphire was a space ship
Or so I thought.
The strange effulgence changed into a spectrum, the colours
Of the rainbow.
Terrified, I heard a voice addressing me in cultured English tones,
“Earthman , we wish to speak with you.”
They spoke of: plans to colonise the world but live in harmony;
And of many more to come,
Whose advent I would herald from my pulpit, informing an
Astounded race.
Blinded by the light and terrified , I tried to speak
But was unable.
As quickly as they came they left the scene, the earth
Which they had visited,
Till all I saw was like a star, a point of light , vanishing
Into the universe.
I cannot speak of my encounter with these ex-terrestrials
And expect belief.
A man of God…they must have known; why chose me otherwise?
The Cloth has its conventions, too weak to disregard,
I must keep my word however
To beings of another, wiser world in the divine creation
But conscious of a delphic utterance
I swear that what I saw and heard that night
Is true.

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

PARTIES

Parties can be boring but this one wasn`t.
Better when nobody knows anybody
So no cliques are formed and no “in” talk develops
Round shared experiences and mutual acquaintances.

Nothing`s worse than this. Except a gathering of relations.
Then expect to be an outsider looking in
As sibling talks to sibling and babbles on of family matters
Inconsequential and meaningless to you.

No, the best`s when all are strangers; in this way there is an
Equal chance of making friends for the occasion.
Of course the hosts are known whose duty is to introduce
And ease converse; each guest can then relate.

This social gathering was on New Year`s Eve; some dozen people.
Couples help: you don’t feel then obliged to talk with odd ones out
To make them feel included.
But people on their own are more expansive.

Pleasant faces rather than pretty; proportioned figures than
Attractive; well-dressed rather than fetching; long skirts
Rather than short; high necklines than low: do not excite the gender
Urge and qbviate attention on attracting.

That`s not to say that thoughts are always on an elevated plane
What price dressing-up and hair-do`s then?
I`ve often wondered what is the woman`s view: how THEY regard
The men? Exchange of pleasantries is all?

Maybe the sexual aspect does not enter (it does with most men)
And males are thus regarded: tall or short; fat or thin;
Old/er or young’ dark or fair ; amusing or dull; and so on
Along these lines.

“Chatting-up”: the male domain?
Perhaps women are more shy – reserved, I should say;
Maybe “circumspect” is the better word. On second thoughts
The quality of SUBTLETY is distinctive of the female.

“Read the signs” is the message, overt or understood, for
telling how you stand. An interest in what you do is an
encouraging sign ; conversely, no interest or no query is
equally a sign, but not encouraging.

Discovering mutual activities, enlisting aid, is promising.
None of which I managed. But as I say , the the party was not boring.
The eats and drinks were very good.
The music even better.

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D

CRYSTAL PALACE

The Palace burnt out within the hour.
Molten glass in rivers ran down steps ablaze.
No-one could save it.
A giant Guy Fawkes whose framework only remained;
Its glassy eyes melted. Like a funeral pyre
Where only the bones can be seen.
Sixty years later the unburied skeleton remains.
Neglected, there is no peace in death.
Cannibalised and graffitied.
There are no gardens and no fountains now.
Way off, one headless statue breaks up the field;
Nearer , two lions, remnants of the past, dominate.
Walking up the steps you must imagine
Huge domes, great rooms, gigantic structures –
And not a corpse , unburied, which now it is.
Some walls like shattered ramparts, some alcoves
Like sentry boxes long deserted, surmount the steps.
You raise your eyes and see a shapeless mound of earth;
No stately pleasure dome. Hundred year old ghosts silently
Climb with you , visiting the treasures of their Crystal Palace.
The concerts, the exhibitions…long gone:
Symbols of an Empire; epitome of greatness.
A hundred years of triumph celebrated in glass.
The mighty body`s accoutrements have gone,
The vestments vanished in fire, consuming the corpse.
Flame reclaimed the hill as cremating fire reclaims its own.
I walk the steps with the ghosts unseen, unheard,
Of happier times, who never knew in life
The hellish heat, destruction`s awesome roars.
I see the winter sky illumined, hear
The crash of transepts. England`s most tragic fire.
I am a spiritual witness.
I reach the top and look round at desolation.
I see the streets, with people packed, crowds on the lawns
That November night. This vision of the past appals
For time does not have a stop.
I am alone with the green mound, now zig-zag pathed,
With decaying lions and headless Romans
except for Paxton, the creator, who gazes down from elevated pedestal
with sad expression, upon his ruined masterpiece.

© A.B. Finlay Ph.D.