For max
CLEAR OUT
when he
her ancient
doddering
pensioner husband
actually got it together
to clear out his old junk
all his effects of years
she was impressed
but less so
when he ran off
on a motor bike
with that blonde
from down the road
without even
saying goodbye
pmcmanus
q301
-----Original Message-----
From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On
Behalf Of Patrick McManus
Sent: 30 July 2008 07:53
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: Re: snap 30 July 08: tidying myself away
Max enjoyed this tied in with my two years or so continuous spring clean -hm
some more poems material here
Cheers Patrick
Ps don't take it too far -no nice coffin smartly laid out in the garage in
readiness (with screws etc
-----Original Message-----
From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On
Behalf Of Max Richards
Sent: 29 July 2008 23:47
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: snap 30 July 08: tidying myself away
Tidying myself away
Actuarially, the paper says,
I should live another ten years or so,
my wife a further twenty or thirty.
Therefore it is befitting
I should consider her future
and prepare to . tidy myself away.
No woman wants to come home
from her man's funeral
to a house empty of him
but chocker with the clutter
of the person just disposed of.
We all know widows choking still
over the old boy's shoes, hats,
trousers, jackets and coats.
They can't face meeting them
on some codger kitted-out
at the local op-shop.
Best if I prune my wardrobe now
to some bare necessities.
When at retirement I packed up
my old office, I trashed - well,
as much as I could bear to:
quite a few files, unsorted clippings,
unread publishers' catalogues.
I called in three book-dealers:
one by one they scanned the shelves,
made their slim selections -
'most of this stuff's unsellable -
nothing's deader than old critics',
paid me chickenfeed, trundled away.
Browsing in their shops these days,
I'm often drawn to familiar book-spines,
check the prices - unsellable, these too?
So far I've held back from rescuing them.
At home in the garage, meanwhile,
stand grim metal cabinets I said I'd sift,
once I'd reconciled to their deadness -
old lecture scripts, 'research' ingredients
gathered from afar, never baked.
More unsorted notes and clippings,
from which once I thought to analyse,
anatomise, synthesise
where culture was drifting.
It was me that was drifting.
Have I stopped clipping?
And printing out clues from websites?
I'm not that retired.
In my little office off the garage
the dogs have just enough space to snooze;
the rest - cartons of once necessary
items, yet to be sorted,
like the boxes the op-shop workers find
on Mondays on the pavement.
Classics on cheap paper that long waited
my freedom - Proust, late James
still expecting in fine my late nod.
Tapes of great portent
for superseded tape-players.
Signed copies of books by five decades
of half-talented acquaintances.
My own unsold books.
If a fire swept through here,
what a mercy. But first,
I'd better do some sorting,
trashing. Ideally, all will be dispersed
the day this old body is tidied away.
Max Richards
Doncaster, Victoria
Wednesday 30 July 2008
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