Sunday, 10 November 2013

TMA 01 - Babyccino

Hard work pays off (and a love of blank verse - am smitten) ... this piece received a much-prized Distinction. At this academic level, it is my proudest poetic moment yet. Celebrating, unsurprisingly, with quality loose tea. Now to dramatically adapt it - a very big challenge indeed. Wish me luck!

P.S. The original contains a double-line literary caesura (strong pause) in the final stanza but formatting here prevents it, so have indicated it in-text.

Coiffured disdain, her icy glare as my

blonde frizz - now plastered black like otter fur

burst through the Starbucks door with meltdown kid,

jeans soaked from puddle jumps - he can’t hear No!

This field of dreams, where iPhone sheep wore Fitch

and Bugaboos corralled, looked up then down;

silk blouse once white, now fifty shades of grey

showed off the bra I’d chose to wear today

(and yesterday as well), my troubled stay

unravelling amongst the flat white chic,

smart cookies dipped in bourgeois froth.

With nine behind my Rooney in the queue,

I swear I saw him smile before the kick
auditioning to bend it like a baby Becks

against the freckly shins; both fair and game

in Kyle’s ‘act first, think later’ quirky world.

Considering the blood, the man just smiled,

‘It’s fine, though would you like a hand?’ he said,  

‘No, thanks,’ my flaked reply borne of fatigue;

my child had worn me out - Haribo bribes

no help to me this time - his prize instead

as I bent for my purse a roundhouse slap;

supposedly I swore when on the floor,

they did not know it was at me; yes, me.

She only called me ‘Dear’ as I got up,

all Hunter boots and reeking of Dior

(I recognised the smell from trying it in Boots),

‘Get your hands off!’  I snatched Kyle’s arm and turned

to pull him close, to hear Miss Botox spit

He needs his Dad.'  CAESURA   It flicked the fucking switch,
cold soul ignited to its scalding point

where lava cracks appeared and drove me here
to go to town on her clipped tones; as cups
went down, heads turned to feel my heat until
behind my incandescent rant I heard:
'Under arrest - abduction of a child.’

36 lines

© Nigel Pamenter 2013
The right of Nigel Pamenter to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.