Yes… thanks Bill, Andrew, Doug.
[I began with the calf-implant nonsense, then school memories intervened as an intro,
but without melding, unfortunately. I really must read ‘Stalky and Co.’]
Max
On Sep 8, 2016, at 8:41, Douglas Barbour <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> I’d agree, Max, generally. But the sudden appearance of ‘Calf implants’ is a neat little violation of a story that kept me thinking of Stalky & Co.
>
> Doug
>> On Sep 7, 2016, at 8:38 PM, Andrew Burke <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>>
>> Well, both streams (as defined by Bill) can be made to plait together to
>> arrive at greater strength for the narrative. And the young man's interest
>> in breasts could be set up earlier, coming to the only interest in 'old'
>> age being telling the fake ones from the youthful natural ones!
>>
>> I think it is a draft of a very good poem, one to be worked on somewhat
>> objectively.
>>
>> Andrew
>>
>> On 8 September 2016 at 09:19, Bill Wootton <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>>
>>> Interesting, Max, if overly meanderful I think. I liked the opening five
>>> stanzas best and the dawning Fascist moment at assembly. The
>>> goofy classmate fight loses its way for me and the beach stuff at the end
>>> sounds like a rambling postscript. Maybe there are two poems here: one on
>>> calves or lack thereof and one on surprising military acumen, aspiration,
>>> disappointment.
>>>
>>> Bill
>>>
>>> On Thursday, 8 September 2016, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]>
>>> wrote:
>>>
>>>> School Socks and Calves
>>>>
>>>> Calf-high socks in the ’fifties
>>>> were Auckland school uniform.
>>>> The socks on short strong Chris Brown
>>>> stayed up while mine slipped down.
>>>>
>>>> He aspired to lead, became
>>>> Regimental Sergeant Major
>>>> of our Cadet Battalion -
>>>> on then to Duntroon,
>>>>
>>>> Sandhurst of our region.
>>>> I liked Cadets - not so much
>>>> the drill as the weapons,
>>>> old rifles, and Bren Guns.
>>>>
>>>> Firing twenty-twos on
>>>> the school rifle range was
>>>> the only sport I did well in.
>>>> I even won a prize -
>>>>
>>>> for coming third:
>>>> Tom Brown’s Schooldays.
>>>> Rugby School! - long pants
>>>> and facing up to bullies.
>>>>
>>>> Of which we had our share.
>>>> I bring to mind M.A.G.Bell
>>>> spoiling for an unfair fight
>>>> during the lunch-hour
>>>>
>>>> with my goofy classmate,
>>>> John, Christian, splayed feet,
>>>> turning the other cheek -
>>>> he'd not, provoked, hit back.
>>>>
>>>> Bell’s socks flopped below
>>>> his sturdy calves to show
>>>> defiance of rules -
>>>> rules policed by prefects
>>>>
>>>> selected each year from
>>>> those senior boys who
>>>> had a bossy streak or
>>>> excelled at sport.
>>>>
>>>> Brown, you’re one!
>>>> To my surprise I also
>>>> got the silver badge.
>>>> Should have said no.
>>>>
>>>> It was my keenness
>>>> on Cadets, always
>>>> wearing my cap straight,
>>>> and my socks up,
>>>>
>>>> thanks to Mum’s elastic.
>>>> My calves alone never
>>>> achieved the trick.
>>>> Bossiness I was bad at,
>>>>
>>>> but liked morning assembly,
>>>> standing on a box up front,
>>>> towering over third-formers,
>>>> themselves still boy sopranos,
>>>>
>>>> baritone-bellowing ‘School, stand!’
>>>> as the Head in black gown
>>>> swept in with a train
>>>> of black-gowned masters
>>>>
>>>> to sit on stage behind him.
>>>> ‘School, sit!’ Restlessness
>>>> quelled by my voice!
>>>> It was my Fascist moment.
>>>>
>>>> Luckily the Army, needing
>>>> for Anzac Day a squad
>>>> of those proven good
>>>> at drill, looked at a line of us
>>>>
>>>> for military bearing,
>>>> and de-selected me,
>>>> thanks to my skinniness.
>>>> A painful moment overdue.
>>>>
>>>> Chris. standing as tall as he
>>>> could, consoled me, smugly.
>>>> For years I stayed away
>>>> from every Anzac Day.
>>>>
>>>> Conscripted at eighteen
>>>> we weren’t issued shorts.
>>>> We bruised our shoulders
>>>> on Enfield three-o-threes;
>>>>
>>>> graduating in due course
>>>> to Army Reserve in years
>>>> of my lucky generation’s
>>>> rose-spectacled peace.
>>>>
>>>> My friends liked shorts,
>>>> I shielded my shy
>>>> calves from sunburn
>>>> and condescension
>>>>
>>>> and satirical snorts
>>>> till stiff senescence.
>>>> Now belated reports
>>>> reach me: Calf implants! -
>>>>
>>>> on men? Since when? Decades?
>>>> Too late for me, even back then.
>>>> The year I could see
>>>> I was growing up skinny -
>>>>
>>>> finding 'body-building’
>>>> quite beyond me -
>>>> was when I might have
>>>> dreamed of ‘surgery’,
>>>>
>>>> but for the expense.
>>>> The word now is ‘enhance’ -
>>>> Don’t even say ‘cosmetic’,
>>>> just: ‘had them enhanced’.
>>>>
>>>> How many fine calves
>>>> strutting the beach
>>>> now and in future years
>>>> are as false as the smiles
>>>>
>>>> stretching their face?
>>>> Or the reshaped chests
>>>> on their female friends?
>>>> Many? Not that nowadays
>>>>
>>>> I’m much on the beach
>>>> spying on bikini breasts -
>>>> or not that anyone - much -
>>>> can notice, I trust.
>>>>
>>>
>>
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