Children Never Say Goodbye

This is my last blog post for November. For this one, I have chosen an easy poem to understand – this is because I think some of our students here in Japan are also interested in reading some of my writing.

This poem is inspired by my friend Lily, the last time I saw her this summer. She’s four (nearly five now), and when I came to Japan, I didn’t see her for four or five months. When I came back, she didn’t hug me, or kiss me, or even say anything special. She just wanted me to play a game with her. For her, it was easier to imagine I’d never left. But then, after 3 days, I left again:

Children Never Say Goodbye

Children hate to say goodbye,
They think that if they don’t,
the leaving friend will have to stay,
but (by and large) they won’t.

Perhaps their attitude is right
for other reasons though,
for if you never say “Goodbye”,
or “Sad to see you go”;

don’t mark the change from here to there
from near to far to gone,
just “see ya” is enough for me,
“I’ll see you later on,”

this may sometimes feel like a lie,
but then, you wait and see,
sometimes the days and months just fly
before more you and me.

It’s not my best poem, but it is simple, and it rhymes, and I like it.

Also, here’s my last haiku for the month. It’s getting cold here (though of course not as cold as England), and sometimes I see the big plastic ice cream cones outside shops:

Funny now to think
of those hot summer days when
I lived for ice cream.

Aunt Wendy’s New Home

Every break from class
I rush to the computer
and pray for wickets.

 

Hey all. It’s getting towards the end of the month and there’s only two posts up. Why? Well, excuses are lovely things, but the only one worth spouting is it’s the dreaded time of year where I have to write reports, and while they’re not too onerous a task, they’re mind-sapping.

courtesy of bbc.co.uk/sport

The above haiku was a silly one I threw together about today. For the first time, well, ever, I’m making the effort and paying attention to the Ashes (giant up-to-25-day cricket competition between the best two teams, England and Australia). This was written during a day of Australia batting, of course.

Before we get to the story, I’m making a new Category in the side called “Haiku”. I know Haiku are poems too, but I’m going to class them differently so it’s easier to find the haiku if you’re looking for them.

So, I’ve got some Flash Fiction for you today. It is, strangely, a sequel to Tomatoes, although that’s not apparent by any character names, or by the narrative voice, or location…. or anything. It has the same source material; my grandmother, telling me stories from when her grandchildren were just little. She has a natural gift for storytelling, and perhaps this has something to do with her being born a Ridgwell (there, the “original” spelling of my pen name). It’s called:

Aunt Wendy’s New Home

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You don’t remember? Well, this story is the type you always liked the best – it’s one about you.

Continue reading “Aunt Wendy’s New Home”

(Things Left Unsaid)

I was running out of the house to work the other day, but couldn’t find my notebook. Turned out later, that I’d actually managed to leave it at work the day before, but at the time, I needed something to write on. If I don’t have paper, I’ll need it, so I try never to go out without some. Also, I can read back through my old stuff.

“I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read on a train.”

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So I picked up one of my old notebooks, hoping for a blank page or two, and came across an old half-finished poem that I’ve attacked.

This one is inspired by two Young Learner teachers at my school. The style is like the notes that Claire makes on the language she aims to elicit from children – she makes the most ridiculously complete notes, which are useful when you want to steal ideas. And the idea and concept come from Kirsten, who hates to teach anything related to family, because for some children, herself included, talking too much about your family can reopen some painful wounds.

As you’ll see in a sec, it’s kind of an experimental style. I’ve actually written three or four more verses of dubious quality, so for now, they’re cut. Here’s the poem:

(Things Left Unsaid)

This is my (sister),
(her) name is (Claire)
(She) works as a (teacher)
with (long curly) hair.

“Are you good friends?”
“Yes we are.” / “No we’re not.”
(She) (always) wears (hats)
when the weather is (hot).

(She) likes (over-ripe) peaches,
(sweet ooze down her chin,
that she wipes with her finger
and sucks it back in)

(she) (laughs) when (she)’s happy,
and (hides) when (she)’s sad
(the truth from her family,
the troubles she’s had).

(She) hates (stormy nights),
that’s one of (her) fears
(though the lines on the window
are raindrops, not tears).

(She)’s (older) than me,
and her birthday is (missed,
when she once ran away
for a man she had kissed)

I love to (remember)
my (sister)’s (blue) eyes,
(the look that she) gives me
when (she rolls them and sighs).

(She) (died) last year,
and now (don’t you see),
now (she)’s (whoever)
I want (her) to be.