The poetry of Mrs D.E.Herball-Earthworm.
I have to admit that I am rather perplexed by the work of the late Mrs Daphne Erica Herball-Earthworm. I had known her very slightly
many years ago, and then a few years later I was contacted by the executors to her estate. In her will she had stipulated that her writings should be
given to me, to use as I saw fit.
I have no idea why she chose me. In the instructions to her executors she said that I had once shown her a "very great kindness" , but I have to admit
that I do not remember the occasion, and there seem to be no further clues.
The main body of the work is arranged into two parts, each organised as a series of short verses. I first read them from a page of plain text, but there is
also a sheaf of illustrations that seem to be connected to the poems in some loose way. I think that her intention was to link the words and the illustrations
in the manner of William Blake, but the connections are obscure and it is now difficult to fit the jigsaw of ideas together. The illustrations are presented here
along with the text, and perhaps you can draw your own conclusions from them.
In later years, after the tragic death of her small dog and latterly her husband, coupled with the relentless commercial pressure to use credit cards and 'plastic'
on the high street and the loss of attendant operated petrol stations, Mrs Herball-Earthworm felt it was appropriate, with the enthusiastic support
of her doctor, to spend a short while in a sanatorium in Switzerland where she composed herself, and a number of other things.
These were difficult times as she struggled with depression and clothing that buttoned at the back. For a while she became clinically addicted to
prescription sessions of massage with Gustaf which kept her body and mind supple, and seemed to provide her with some relief. With a fortitude that is common
among women of her generation she conquered her addiction and tossed Gustaf off like her discarded heroin habit.
Her work from this unfortunate period can be quite difficult to read.
Black, black, black, I'm yearning for black.
I need to dress for dinner and floral prints look fat.
The multicoloured guests will chat and laugh at dinner
And nothing but a small black dress will make me feel thinner.
The staff are kind and caring, they're indomitably cheerful
Even when she spilled the soup, and I gave the cook an earful.
So be assured I'm getting well, there's nothing that I lack as
Even the ducks on the lake are bright and clean and plump and quackers.
A Corner from My Garden.
A brief mulch of words.
Thanks for your patronage
My darling faceless purchasor.
Your generosity I will forget
Now the money's in my pocket.
I am pleased to be able to bring you my small anthology of poems inspired in my garden and written on the kitchen table. I hope you find as much
pleasure in them as I have had in writing. All proceeds of this book are to go to the Society for Protecting British Dairy Cattle from Artificial Insemination.
Thank You.
January
Where the gardener fears to go
Across the crispy leaves and snow.
By month's end the thaw has come,
With light pressed footprints squelching down
Upon the lawn so dearly tended
By sods, with sods will soon be mended.
February
Drops of snow, once warm neck
Crocus up, sparrows peck
Seedlings grow, meet the blight
Tulips peek up, get a fright.
March
I know you sleeping daffodil,
Though you appear rather ill.
The misty rain that's beating down,
Has drawn your smile into a frown.
Though gusty wind has laid you flat,
Smiling upwards on your back.
No more close dancing hand in hand,
Lying in bed, think of England.
April
April has five letters,
And only deserves four.
Flocks of folk swap cash for culture,
And leave us feeling poor.
May
"May I have your attention,
It's a thing I hate to mention,
Exhibitors should please refrain
From sending the public quite insane
with facts about the summer,
To rip their dreams asunder."
June
June has come, the bedding's out,
Deck chairs up, from sheds a shout,
The mower's bust. To dads dismay
The dog's dug up his bright display.
July
I've spent the mornin' dead eadin'
All me glorious summer beddin'
And now I'll spend the afternoon
In water shortage induced gloom,
Watching me Petunias wilt
In the borders newly built.
Never again will muggins
Spend the winter diggin' dung in.
August
August brings the razzle-dazzle,
Fat pink bodies burnt to frazzle
Stalk around the nursery
In technicolor bikini.
"No dear, not that, I need a plant
To take back for the old man's aunt
From Cornwall would be rather nice
But a postcard would be half the price;
Is there a stationers nearby dear?"
September
Autumn brings the Composites
Bursting into bloom.
Pink and mauve with orange bits
Wove on a central loom.
I suppose there must'a
Been a body
Wanted Aster
But I'm not he!
October
The winds have come, and looking down
I see the last Geum flower frown.
She popped her head up when she wished
And looks away, feeling foolish.
November
Silly subhirtella flowers
Now summers sun replaced by showers.
It takes away from springtime Prunus
The novelty of newness.
December
Half a day of brightest sun
And perverse duty duly done
She thows a beam into our eyes 'n
Sinks beneath the grim horizon.
"...all things that are great in the world
come from the heart, or the milkman."
Copyright: The Society for Protecting British Dairy Cattle from Artificial Insemination.
The Old Barn, Regents Park Mews, London.
A Corner from My Garden.
A small collection of poems in classical styles.
Never never ask after my health.
The ghost of winter fading fast has left us with a pain that shows.
The damaged garden barely seen behind the swelled red nose.
The rising snowdrops, clean and white, from safe beneath the ground arise.
And ragged hanky, quite a fright, hovers between the nose and eyes.
The frosted ground lies hard and caked where reluctant winter footsteps fall,
And the wretched hanky's only used because there are no tissues left at all.
The cold wind whistling through the trees may seem a natural act
But its source lies in my sneezing nose, a painful bitter fact.
The winter chills that bring the 'flu may seem a work of fiction,
But real the crud shoved up my nose that has destroyed my diction.
Though sleeping trees have dropped their leaves, lying prone along the ground,
Exhausted me...just leave me be...prostrate in bed is found.
But spring has come, cast off despair, rise and greet the dawn
And see the happy chirping birds pull worms out of the lawn.
For hungry mouths need feeding now that winter's at an end,
Though in my bed the cheerful singing drives me round the bend.
For winter may have passed, the weather is no longer freezing,
But the cold remains to pester me with endless bloody sneezing.
Splat, Oh, I am sorry!
A Seagulls Lament.
Along the cliffs the lichen grows
Carpeting like winter snows
Where snows have never been.
Here there are no rustling trees.
The lonely rock-bounced breeze
Echoes across the scene.
The sky is grey, the soaring gulls
Flying through the storms and lulls
Are heard to scream.
The steep worn valley to the sea
No man created legacy
But hard edged stream.
And flowering, the mounded thrift
A blessing, some natural gift
Of clifftop green.
The clouds of grey spawned from the sky
Grey granite billows push up high.
Horizons hardly seen.
The fleeting clouds rushing past,
The lonely granite standing fast
With time to dream.
We who stand here on our way
To other places in the day
Can briefly be serene.
And minds move on to other times
While kind cream teas call up new rhymes
To capture where we've been.
A Host of Reflections.
In the Wimpy Bar I see myself as a reflection of the beefburger.
The muscle, pulped to formlessness, supported in a bun.
The cost of formlessness is money in the void, or in the cash register.
In the restaurant I see other people reflected in their own pretentions,
But of course I never see myself in that light, only in my own reflected glory,
For restaurants are very dangerous places for philosophers.
I was once served with a philosopher, dressed as a crab would be,
So I put my jacket on, crabs never wear jackets in the evening.
They took the philosopher away and served the next table instead.
The next table left a tip, but mine was already wobbly so I didn't bother.
Most often I see myself reflected in the glass door of the microwave.
That must be grease on the glass, I can't be that distorted.
I must get another mirror, perhaps a piece of polished wood could lie convincingly.
The microwave is cold and lonely so I plugged the kettle in nearby.
The swinging door yawns open, pardon belches open, pardon my mistake.
So much for fast food. Seeking to outwit time with technology.
Yet when the cooking time is done, the work unfinished.
The plate is still cold, did someone turn it down.
Will there be a more successful cooker?
Can it be fitted before dinner?
Will they take a cheque?
Mr Maud's Mistakes.
Maud, that myopic gardener has broken off the Hebe
And trodden on your Queen Bee.
Maud, that stupid gardener has dug up all the daffodils
And planted them on the mole hills.
Maud, thaty witless gardener has sawn through your Camellia
The special one from Amelia.
Maud, that degenerate gardener has spilled weedkiller on another,
This time it's on your mother.
Maud, that inhuman gardener has felled the windbreak trees,
I can already feel the breeze.
Maud, that hopeless gardener has knocked down the shed
And mown over the dogs head.
Maud, that senseless gardener has picked the mushrooms
And arranged them in the front rooms.
Maud, that brutish gardener has pulled up all your seeds
And planted extra weeds.
Maud, that hapless gardener has taken your Dahlias away
And turned them into hay.
Maud, that cretinous gardener has hoed over the French Beans
And turned them into has-beens.
Maud..
Yes my husband, thanks for your help but as you see
You should have left the gardening to me.
Sorry, Maud.
Wandering Images.
Summer sunshine drifting softly by
Leaves golden dreams upon the water
And misty images rising from them
Are not what they ought'a.
Misty mornings, soft and verdant
Greets the lonely chorist bird
Which rests upon the swaying branch
To pass a pensive turd.
Swaying lemons deign to grow
Where acid sunlight dries the land.
An arid hope the summers harvest
Never falls into the hand.
Arid mountains, cold at morning
Warm in sunlight, parching, falling
And cloven valleys slicing through them
Echo yodellers a-calling.
Slicing through the mindless maya
Comes illusions empty promise
Painted, gilded, scented of roses
But never, ever honest.
Time and Lotion.
The drowsy sand retains the form
Of bodies lying all folorn,
For though the sun attacks the eyes
It really comes as no surprise
To find the forecast offers gloom
As golden sunbeams meet their doom.
The tanning holiday conspires
Exposing all the pink spare tyres
Revealed in spite of rain.
The sunning time comes round again
The pinkness swelling from the pain
A rising rash, or rashness born
And basking too long in the morn.
By restive sea, the throbbing starts
To soften even the hardest hearts
As pink roast people hobble by
Towel wrapped against the burning eye
Alive in spite of rain.
The pharmacy dispenses potions
Pills and poultices and lotions,
All designed to meet their need
And satisfy the chemists greed.
No oil known can be applied
That will turn back the hands of time,
Though oiled bodies, who can tell
May best the falling rain repell.
Dry, in spite of rain.
Gliding by the sun stained forms
Parade, conform to all the norms.
Disport themselves in public view.
The sun can summer bronze renew.
The brown that's seen through jealous eye
From tanning tablets did arise
For though the lotion did its stuff
A week in Newquay's not enough
To tan there when it's raining.