What!? You haven’t read Stalky & Co. Max?
Sure it’s imperial lit, but it’s such fun. I read it while still in school (I think; hard to remember exactly when back then). Reread it recently & saw all the ‘politics’ I’m note really on with, but still enjoyed it, Kipling can manage that, somehow.
Doug
> On Sep 8, 2016, at 9:44 AM, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
> 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.
>>>>>
>>>>
>>>
Douglas Barbour
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https://eclecticruckus.wordpress.com/
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