Cack-Handed
If you were born after me
and born left-handed,
you write no doubt
left-handed. I, wartime
child, was shifted
from left to right.
My poor brain, rewired
roughly between
VE and VJ Days.
Was it the emergency?
Peter Fraser's
New Zealand Labour
King George the Sixth
and Mr Churchill
all wanted me
right-handed right then.
No, in that era
of strict discipline,
I blame Omata School, Miss
Giddy, infant mistress, Arthur,
my head-teacher father!
Well, I obliged,
like a good pupil.
To this I assign
my life-long twisted
character, my
being cack-handed.
I look it up:
'awkward, from
cack = excrement -
makes a mess'.
Isn't that me?
writing badly
with my right,
kicking left-
footed badly.
And so on. Last
to be chosen
in the playground
when team captains
picked up. Sent
to a boundary to field
where no ball fell.
That sport I retired from
at thirteen, much relieved.
Only on the school
rifle-range did
I score - Bull's-eye!
balanced on elbows,
squinting, briefly in
equilibrium.
Southpaw I might
have been, had I
nerved myself
for the annual school
boxing tournament.
From a safe distance
with clenched fists
I watched gloves
make blood spurt
from school-fellows' noses.
Mentally sparring
I punished rivals
and enemies
without their knowing.
Or, drafted, pen in fist,
killing insults
for hated masters
in my crabbed hand.
Double-crossed,
my twisted world would
never be put to rights.
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