barnet recycling area to be removed 09.07.18

praise to the lord
the drop of penny
will all locals applaud
the green brigade is not many.
the fly tip is leaving
now a clean street will parade
storing waste indoors will leave you heaving
getting you at it was easy to persuade.
all *******
from cardboard to food
weekly bin collections did vanish
are you putting together to conclude.
less services are mental
especially when we are doing all the work
next for recycling i'm expecting rental
are any tempted to go berserk.
cleaner clearer streets
very much like barnet borough
the government to all local councils send tweets
this recycling plan or lack is thorough.

On the eve of whatever day it was, I awoke with the thought of sand jazzing its way through me like a joggers rush of blood to the head. Not a lot of fun, but fun enough to smile at the prospect of a working vehicle now clamouring its way seamlessly into my life and out through the front door to shake the post-mans hand and ask him his name for a Friday drink session because he's more than a postman, he's Michael Thurney Barnet of 5864 Quesnel Street, Powell River, BC, V8A 6H5.

Summer Finn is the charming, elusive love interest of protagonist Tom Hansen in 500 Days of Summer. From her playful personality to her cutesy hair ribbons, actress Zooey Deschanel's 500 Days of Summer style is irresistible. IMO, the overall look of her character is not a far cry from Jess Day's style (the leading lady of New Girl, also played by Deschanel). However, Jess' style is on the kooky side of whimsical while Summer's errs on the feminine side.

Summer's style could be described as girly, quirky, and ethereal. The ethereal factor probably has more to do with her attitude and personality, as she tends to keep Joseph Gordon-Levitt's character Tom at arm's length. (I know, who in their right mind would do that?)

The baby blue clothing that she wears throughout the movie also reflects this sentiment, since blue is regularly associated with sadness. It is almost as though Tom knows subconsciously that his relationship with Summer will not end well. This makes perfect sense in filmography terms because the movie is shot in a non-linear narrative. Right at the start, the narrator even informs the audience, "This is a story of boy meets girl but you should know up front, this is not a love story."

So here's how to channel Summer Finn's charmingly tempting style, because looking like a modern day femme fatale is one of my personal favorite things.

1. The Summery Tea Dress

Channel Summer's vintage style of decades past by with a lovely, feminine tea dress. Summer's has cute, capped sleeves, a magical swirly pattern, and it appears semi-sheer (adding a touch of naughtiness to her outfit). Whichever style you choose, make it a modest length with flirty details, whether that be sheer material or cheeky cut outs.

With its sheer sleeves, cutesy Peter Pan collar, and adorable buttons, this darling pale blue dress is just the ticket and is available in sizes S to 4X.

2. The Cat Eye Makeup

Cat-eye makeup gives off a vintage vibe while also adding a sassy feel to your beauty look. To tone down the sass and keep it less Catwoman and more Brigitte Bardot, keep the rest of your look super natural. Think dewy skin and rosy cheeks.

This vegan eyeliner has a super thin brush so you can create your cat-eye flick with ease. If you're feeling funky, you can even pick an alternative color such as white or purple to really make a statement.

3. The Alternative Workwear

Summer proves that workwear needn't be boring. Put a youthful spin on the classic, white shirt by wearing a sleeveless style and pairing it with high-waisted, tailored trousers.

This classic white shirt is a style steal and can be paired with a multitude of garments. It'll make choosing your work outfit much easier when you're bleary eyed and you've not yet had your morning coffee.If you wish to wear a more feminine style and channel Summer's gleefully girlish side, then why not wear a mini dress? As long as it's tailored in some way (like Summer's stiff short sleeves) and sports a formal flourish (like the lace hemline of her dress) then you should totally be able to get away with wearing it for work. If in doubt, throw on a blazer. Blazers make any outfit look formal.

This pencil skirt dress with its stripe detailing and capped sleeves is sure to have you looking like the best dressed in the office.

4. Up Your Hair Accessory Game

Ms. Finn is often seen sporting some kind of adorable hair accessory. She changes it up from powder blue ribbons to strappy, modern headbands to suit her different ensembles. A ribbon worn as a bow in your hair has connotations of Sandy from Grease and in turn adds a youthful naivety to your outfit.

If you're short for time on a morning, throw your hair into a high ponytail and clip this cute bow into your barnet for instant vintage vibes.

A strappy headband is nostalgic of retro Alice bands. However, the straps keep it modern and elegant. IMO, Summer has nailed hair accessories. She wears the pretty bow in her free time and the grown up headband at the office.

I could totally imagine Summer wearing this simple yet feminine headband. Plus, the pearl design will add an air of sophistication to your outfit, helping you to appear oh so ladylike and mature.

5. The Off-The-Shoulder Chiffon Dress

Seen in a completely different look, Ms. Finn looks stunning in an off-the-shoulder chiffon gown that juxtaposes hilariously with the "*****" game she plays with Tom. To me, the décolletage is one of the most sensual parts of a woman's body and exposing it can sometimes feel sexier than showing off your cleavage or wearing a tight dress. The addition of the chiffon plays on Summer's ethereal, magical side and she reminds me of A Midsummer Night's Dream characters. The key to this look is picking a flowing, fairy-like gown.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses

A GARLAND FOR NATIONAL POETRY DAY 2014

My Once and Only Garden

It’s no longer mine
But I pass it
Nearly every morning.
It’s untended,
Overgrown, autumned,
The camellia needs a prune,
The irises have gone;
The garden needs
A good seeing to.
A sad garden to pass
Nearly every morning.



The Chestnut Avenue

I came back to fallen chestnut
Shells, conkers, everywhere,
But the leaves are still
Thinking about falling.
No wind you see.
On other trees I pass,
The lime,the white-beam,
There’s a crinkly brownness
Scattered across the path.
So dry, no wind,
September sun.
The chestnut avenue
Has some way to go.
Wind, rain, frost perhaps
And the leaves will fall.


******* a Boat

There’s this girl,
A young woman really,
On a boat.
Not living on it yet
But plans are afoot,
Along with essential repairs.
It’s not ‘Offshore’
Like Penelope Fitzgerald’s
Boat on the Thames.
But in a quiet and placid mooring
On the River Lea instead.
I thought of sending her this book,
But it’s all about liminality,
People somewhere in between,
People who don’t belong on land or sea
. . . And the boat (eventually) sinks.


Still Waiting

We sat on the seat
Under a bower of roses
In the herb garden
And she talked in that singing
Way of talking that she does;
Such a tessitura she commands
Between the high and the low
With a falling off portamento
Glide - from the high to the low.
Her hair stills falls
Across serious freckles, auburn hair,
Gold with a touch of red
Like her mother’s only softer,
Like mine once was, and my mother’s too.
She has a slighter frame though,
and is still waiting, waiting
For a real life, a woman’s life.


Cyclamen Restored

I went away and left it
On a saucer, watered,
In a north light
Near a window sill.
Its pink flowers were *****
And nodded a little
When I moved about the room.

On my return it had drooped,
Its leaves yellowed.
There were tiny pink petals
Scattered on the floor.
I put the plant in the sink
For half an hour.
It revived,
And the next day
Seemed quite restored.


Driving South

Driving south through
Dalton, Shoreditch,
Hackney and Hoxteth,
The Hasidic community
Garnished the Sunday street.
Driving down the A10
South towards the city:
The Gleaming Gerkin,
the Walkie Talkie,
and further still,
a Misty Shard.

As a child, the buildings here
Were so much slighter
And a grimy black;
The highest then, the spires
Of Wren’s city churches.

Sundays to sing at ‘Temple’,
With lunch at the BBC,
Driving south from New Barnet
In my Great Uncle’s Morris,
Great Aunt Violet dozing in the back.


Gallery

Small but beautifully right
For her London show,
Good to see her surrounded
By tide marks from the shore,
Those neutral surfaces,
Colours of sand and stone,
Rust (of course) from the beaches
Treasured trove, metal
Waiting to become wet
And stain those marks with colour.


Ascemic Sewing

Having no semantic content
These ‘words’ appear on the back
Of a chequered cloth of leaves
Backed all black
Stitched white,
A script of a garden
Receding into
Trans-linguistical memory.


September Dreaming

Facing the morning
Above a barrier of trees,
Oaked, foxed, hardly birded,
I would  wonder while she slept
About the richness of her dreams,
Dreams she had spoken of
(Yesterday, and out of the blue)
And, for the first time, in all
These precious but frustrating
years we’d slept together,
shared together.
I had always thought her dreamless;
Too fast asleep to experience
Envisioned images,
Sounds and sensations.


Think of a Poem

She told me in a text about
Think of a Poem
On National Poetry Day
Just a week away.
That’s easy, I thought,
There’s always that poem
Safe and sure in my memory store
Once spoken nervously,
under a rose garden walk,
but there, there
for evermore . . .

Who says it’s by my desire
This separation, this living so far from you. . .


Missing Music

Today I read a poem
Called The Lute: a Rhapsody.
‘From the days of my youth
I have loved music,
So have practised it ever since,’
Says Xi Kung.

In his exquisite language
He then describes its mysterious virtues,
And all the materials from which it’s made.

How I miss my lute, its music,
And the voice that once sang to its song.


Drawing

I wonder if she’s drawn today,
And what? I wonder.
John Berger says:
Drawing goes on every day.
It is that rare thing
That gives you a chance
Of a very close identification
With something, or somebody
Who is not you.
I wonder if she’s drawn today,
And what? I wonder.

I’ll only say this once, and once a ******* lone.
There’s a problem to address, and yes, there’s a reason for my tone.
You’ve been prancing around me blissfully, and in a few seconds’ time,
you’ll think of someplace else wishfully. Once I say. Just once.
It’s certainly not fair when I’m the one removing the hair from that hole.
I’m a sick ******* but I have no lust for disgust.
After my mind is perused, I’m angry and confused. The possibility
dawns on me that it could well be your *****.
Or the gel ridden, straw-like hair on your head.
That image fills me with a different kind of dread.
With this in mind, I’ll be shuddering with repulsion,
Trapped later in life with memories of physically indulging
my hand your slimy Barnet. Believe me, that’s not normal hair,
so don’t start telling me to calm it.
Or no…perhaps…

It’s sent my mind searing, it’s ever so weird
to, for one moment, consider that you have the ability of growing a beard.
You’re baby-faced, commonplace, and don’t have a thought worth hearing.
You’re still a child, a mental ******, and to top it off, a beard is now appearing.
Well that’s great. Another thing I have to deal with.
Can you not take care of your own affairs?
If I were you I’d encase all the little hairs
in a purse of some kind, so you’ll always pay mind
to the fact that you now look like a man
despite being a ****. Miraculous. I must say, I’m a fan.
Well I guess now it doesn’t even matter,
your face is bare and the bath tub is spattered. I’m shattered.
This isn’t how I pictured my early years, wasting furious tears over beards.
If only early on I had been told, that eventually I would end up
staring in outrage daily at your beard in the plughole.

biler kører stærkt forbi ude på Ringvejen
barn cykler rundt og råber på et fremmed sprog
flere biler kører forbi
computertasterne siger de velkendte klik’s, når jeg skriver dette
barnet cykler frem og tilbage
jeg kan høre cykelhjulets tikken
der bremses hård op på cyklen
en motorcykel i det fjerne gasser op
og en bil kører forbi ude ved blokkens gade
et andet barn i det fjerne råber: ”Papa, papa…”
der er fuglesang af fuglearter jeg ikke kender
og efterårsvinden suser i de gule trækroner
der er fodtrin nedenfor mit vindue
tunge skridt der bliver slæbt hen ad jorden
trafikken står aldrig stille
der vil altid være lyde at høre

*(Marolle)

Jeg kan høre det milde havskummet,
Det berører bakken så nær hjemmet sitt.
Skjønnhet vevd i sitt rustne gylne hår,
Jeg har ikke kjent henne lenge, men *** lar meg gå på lufta.
Det er noe *** har, en slags nåde,
Det skinner som en gemstone gjennom ansiktet hennes.
Hennes øyne kan være gjennomsnittlig på noen andre,
Men i hennes ser jeg himmelen, et hjerte smelter meg.
*** har barnslig lurer og jeg elsker det så,
Og *** gir av det mest lunefullt lys.
Selv når vi står på den kalde betongen,
Jeg kan se blomster spring opp rundt føttene hennes.
Jeg tror jeg elsker henne, ja, det gjør jeg!
Nei jeg gjør det ikke, det kan ikke være sant.

-Det tynne barnet bak deg.

Der står en kvinde
over for mig.
Måske er ***
barn. Jeg
danser efteraber
hendes bevægelser. Pludselig
smadrer *** hånden
mod mit ansigt.
Jeg mærker min krop
slippe taget.
Den er ikke længere min;
danser slår vrider sig
uhæmmet
Jeg ser korpus
i skår.
Og skårene danser
i takt med barnet

What if I’d never been called Martin?

If I’d been called Malcom or Syed or Fred?

Would I have been treated any differently, would the thoughts be different in my head?

Would I have been adopted by a different couple, maybe by ones who really loved me instead?

Would I be living in a bungalow in Barnet or a thatched cottage in Hay upon Wye?

Be a scientist obsessed by nuclear fusion or a pilot spending hours in the sky.

Would I be a murderous tyrant, leaving fear, dread and bloodshed in my wake or a devotee of the divine Mary Berry, perfecting the ultimate bake?  

Would stories be written about me or songs sung about me by the fire or would journalists interview my loved ones and dear ones, desperate to expose me as a liar.

What if I’d been created a monster, not even given a name at all?

Just left where my life had started. Curled up and quivering in a ball.

No one to tell me they loved me, no one to give me a hug. Just treat like a thing to recoil from, like an odious, hideous bug.

But what if someone noticed me, to whom the outside didn’t matter at all.

Who looked at the deepest core of my being and saw secrets and delights to enthral.

Who coached and nurtured and loved me and treat me with no fear or no shame and decided to call me Isaac, as
that
would
be
my
perfect
name.

She put on a lilac ‘rinse’
And left it for only 10 mins
It went a deep shade of violet
She wished she hadn’t tried it

So she attempted to wash it out
But it was stuck fast there was no doubt
Then it faded to all colours of the spectrum
Now it’s green and matches her plectrum

It wasn’t her intention to have green hair
She wishes she’d resisted the urge
To dye it and make a right flaming mess
Now it seems in her head someone’s purged

So every day she scrubs and scrubs
With all manner of paint strippers
But the green in her barnet
just won’t budge
So she’s stuck with this colour it figures

Trying to match her clothes with her hair
Is proving quite a task
There’s only so much teal in her closet
And she’s bored with the situation though it lasts

Sick of the sight
When she looks in the mirror
She feels like shaving it all off

Grotbags would be thrilled
That she had an impersonator
Oh if only this girl could laugh

But it’s no laughing matter
When your hair’s in tatters
And no amount of effort sorts it out

All she wants to do
Is vanquish this colour
But she can’t and it’s stressing her out!

i once heard a very astute observation
about nations,
  from a mind that only reached
the age of 18...
Anthony, a gay, from Barnet in
north london, when we shared a flat
at our first year at Edinburgh...
he said, and to this very day his
words burn in my mind -
(he was the first student i had a beer
with, and he gave me
the manic street preacher's magnum opus
album: generation terrorists...
huge fan, and a music buff in general)...
then there was bruce who
was in corny ****, like nina simone,
ella fitzgerald, sam cooke, queen,
                     marvin ******* gay?
seriously?!
                  the ****'s this: a motown
convention?
                              i like the music,
but i prefer making fun of it more,
with one exception: -
                  don't know much about history,
don't know much biology,
don't know much about a science book,
   don't know much about the french
i took,
             but i do know that i love you,
and that i know that you love me too,
        what a wonderful world this would be:
neil armstrong had hide and
            use his horn to hide skittles.
who was that other guy?
     i just remember he cycled,
  and one time he shaved his head in the bath
and the bath was filled - tom! - vacuum cleaners! -
dyson! yeah, that guy -
  shaved his head in the bath, and didn't
clean it up, so i says to the rest of them:
i'm not his mama, ******* if you
think i'm going to clean this **** up...
the same guy (tom) who found
white vinegar strange...
      sure, the label had written on it
the word ocet - slavic, which is used to
dilute and invigorate a mizeria, no,
not misery - cucumber salad,
     onion, dill, white vinegar, salt, pepper,
cucumbers, mayo and crème fraîche...
what, only seen the brown stuff?
funny though, i remember the first
meal anthony made for himself,
  salted pasta...
      he looked so helpless...
yeah, that's what it was, you heard me:
boiled pasta, with some salt sprinkled
over it.
reference to bruce from derby?
        catchphrase ding, ****! -
and that one night he came back from
drinking on the town with the guy
that dropped out and started working
on an oil rig... the moans and screams
and puking into the toilet while we all laughed...
hey, no featherweight gets to bash up
a heavyweight... ha ha...
tom never ate on a plate, and he only cooked
pasta, and used a dolmino tomato sauce...
see, some people have a knack at being
observable, so repetitive they're as familiar
as a chair is familiar, next to a table...
   repetitively mundane and easily remembered...
aha! but was once the time he actually
figured out to put some chicken into
the sauce, so it wasn't merely pasta
  and tomato sauce...
    **** me, that year i travelled millennia -
back into the caves...
who raised these boys, wolves?!
        i have to admit i had my faux pas moment,
when i made a cinnamon rice pudding...
ugh...
   and i did call my mother most of the days,
not out of loneliness,
neither of my parents were at university,
i was the journalist.
                        so i didn't wash the bath,
i just when upstairs to where four girls
  flat and had a shower there.
- oh right, what anthony said:
   no great nation can claim currency in
the geopolitical world,
that hasn't been baptised by a civil war
(not verbatim) -
true, america, russia, england, spain, france,
      germany(?), japan (ronin wars)...
                    i agree, but then there's
the other type of nation,
  well, there are only two that i known of:
poland & israel.
                      with a spell of being non-existent
for a while,
obviously israel being non-existent
is *******
and poland is pale by comparison
  (i don't write fiction, simply because
i remember all the little details
of the people i've met) -
              these transitionally non-existent
nations have a staggering
sense of immediacy -
point to make:
            england is a nation of nostalgia...
back to the empire,
  and since remembrance day is
coming up...
  always with the ****** poppies -
you can seriously start to see that world
war II didn't even happen,
since the focus is on world war I is
remembered more...
guess it must have the stupider war of
the two...
                             but the difference between
a nation baptised by civil war,
  and a nation having a non-existence interlude
is much different...
there's no nostalgia,
     i could be nostalgic about
the 16th / 17th height of
     the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth,
the largest nation in europe,
       from the baltic to the black sea -
but i'm actually more engrossed in
the fact that poland, the football team,
  will for the first time in history be
allocated a group in the world cup,
   be first picked, allocated...
                          i admit that civil
wars create formidable nations,
                     but... i don't even know how
to call the nations which dipped into
non-existence for a while...
           perhaps it's only with there being
less nostalgia in the latter nations
  than in the former:
  managing decline vs. declining to manage -
sure, save some money,
sell the house, buy a flat...
  but there wasn't really a decline of poland,
or israel,
      it was more a disappearing act,
a magic trick, ****! gone 18th century,
****! back on the map in the 19th century
as a satellite in the form of the duchy
of warsaw...
                 and you will actually find every
living pole without a nostalgia for
the zenith...
       there's only a joke running:
   an old man will always say -
i don't even which republic this is,
                     third, fourth... fifth?!

A guilty verdict a heinous crime
the jury advised " keep your name secret "
I may see trump jailed, doing some hard time,

The boss of a crime family in his prime
Vince Gigente was jailed to pay his debt
a guilty verdict a heinous crime,

A gangster who blagged to top of the pile
with conspiracies and murderous threats,
I may see trump jailed, doing some hard time,

There's no change between these two, in my mind
except the fool's coxcomb of his barnet
(a guilty verdict a hideous crime),

who thinks when he crows the sun rise and shines
I like to think he's now started to sweat
I may see trump jailed, doing some hard time.

I've no forgiveness, let him beg for dimes,
he can share a pitch with Guilliani, yet
I may see trump jailed, doing some hard time
a guilty verdict a heinous crime...

I could always wear a shower cap to keep my 'barnet' dry
I could try to dodge the raindrops that are falling from the sky
or
I could stay at home and wonder,
where has the Summer gone?
where is the Sun and gentle breeze?
these things alone are things we
leave our homes for,

it's not the traipsing 'round the bargain store
not the crush upon the bus
not the two for one
or buy one get one free
those things alone do not do very much for me,

So,
is it in or out
do I brave the rain
or
do I stay home and
drain
the last bottle on the wall?