Impossible to Park

(with Apologies to Henry Reed)

In season it’s impossible to park. Yesterday
The sun was shining. And tomorrow morning
It might be overcast or raining. But today -
And all season - it’s impossible to park. Visitors,
Like brightly coloured bees swarm through Penlee and Morrab
Gardens. It’s high season. It’s impossible to park.

This is the Market Jew Street snarl-up. And this
Is the A30 snarl-up, the true extent of which you will see
Only when, eventually, you get out of town. And this,
This is all the time in the world -
Which in our case we have not got. The visitors,
Sweaty in their four by fours make silent, eloquent gestures.
They worry about scratching their shiny new doors
Which we, the cash-strapped locals, have not got.

This is the car park at the Green Market which fills up
Early with shoppers. Please do not bother after half-past nine.
But instead try the one next-door to Penlee Park, which is
Bigger and just around the corner. It is , of course, expensive and
usually full. This is Cornwall. It’s impossible to park.

And this you can see is the Prom. The purpose of this
Is to take you to the beach. It is pleasanter to walk than to drive.
But you will need to get down there before the commuters
Who come into town for their day’s work. (We call this
Earning a living.) But the gaily-garbed holidaymakers, the would-be
morning strollers, find their places in Disabled spaces.
They call it, with a smile, ‘squeezing in'.

They call it squeezing in. For them it is perfectly easy.

(They have the neck and the nerve.) They can park on
The pavement or in front of someone’s driveway
(Which in my case I have not got). Or they ‘squeeze’ their off-road
Vehicles into residential roads - which are narrow - obstructing
The pavement. This is Cornwall. It’s impossible to park.

© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

Cornwall is overrun in places but the streets of St Ives prove it can cope

Visit Cornwall stops promoting Kynance Cove and Porthcurno because of overcrowding

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance where the sea air and beautiful scenery keep her mostly on the right side of sanity.

A Question of Convenience

A Question of Convenience

What Edward Lord OBE
declares himself non-binary.
Biology is for the birds -
and consultation's just a word.
I'll hear your views - if you'll agree.
Another word's hypocrisy.

© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

Freemasons to allow women members for first time - if they joined as men

Small Change

We didn’t fight for freedom and
a land fit for homecoming heroes.
We didn’t survive rationing, air raids,
fire bombs, dog fights, death camps, the Blitz.
We didn’t wake up to the stars above us
and shards of splintered glass in our slippers.
We didn’t see the ghastly dust that hung
on the morning like a shroud.

We didn’t fight it but the war was as real to us
as our fathers and our grateful mothers.
We grew up in the sunlight of their great relief,
heard their terror in the telling of their tales.
We sucked it in with our National Health milk
and we learned that we were the future.
At school, we bought poppies for the fallen dead
and wore them with innocent pride.

We were – we are – the baby boomers:
though now we are a nuisance and a burden
then we were the tender young
for the sake of whom thousands had died.
When we were still in our nappies we were
plagued by doubt, and pregnant
with our parents’ expectations.
To be happy was our daily task.
Our business was to make things make sense.

Now as we grow older close in our hearts
we confront the grey ghost of our failures.
Did we douse the flame, drop the ball,
turn our backs on the fight?
We dared a while but then we slept.
When we woke we found our shiny new world broken.
Now hope spills out like so much small change -
and our pockets are bereft of our dreams.

© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

Millennials are struggling. Is it the fault of the baby boomers?

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance where the sea air and beautiful scenery keep her mostly on the right side of sanity.

This plane has no engine

Silent as dreaming it pushes its nose

through banks of low cloud, shadow-glides

between the next world and this,

grazes the town's sleeping rooftops.

Through the last threads of daylight it tries

to limp home to a fireside long grown cold.

This plane has no engine.

This plane is a shadow.

Without roar or thrum it comes hurtling

towards a smudged horizon.

Its pilot, its crew, are those whose cheeks

were drained of their rosy, young blood.

This plane has no engine.

This plane is a memory,

the imprint of a war fought for

reasons few people can remember.

Daylight is failing as this engine once failed.

Our world falls through the dark like a stone.

This plane perhaps has a ghost of a chance.

But this plane has no engine.

© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

Independent witnesses report silent ghost plane which 'turned the sky dark'

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance where the sea air and beautiful scenery keep her mostly on the right side of sanity.

That Was the MUSE That Was

The Motorcade Was Travelling Slowly

Nights were drawing in and the bonfire had burned down.

We were counting down the days left till Christmas.

When the news came through it was late afternoon -

we were toying with our homework before tea.

After Mum talked to Dot over our backyard fence

she came in and switched on the telly.

While we gathered in the warm round our black and white TV

our sausages and mash went uncooked.

Our world dimmed that night like before the power went.

Dad laid aside his evening paper.

On the BBC News a man dressed in black

spoke words that seemed to rumble like stones.

Mum dabbed her eyes and said he died too young

but we thought he looked older than our father.

The motorcade was travelling quite slowly they said.

Mrs Kennedy was heard to cry, ‘Oh, no!'

© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

President Kennedy Assassinated

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance where the sea air and beautiful scenery keep her mostly on the right side of sanity.

It's always good to talk -

The first time I mentioned self-id

I was talking to a male Party colleague.

It was a social thing, really, but the subject came up

and this guy happened to be there.

He admitted he didn't knew much about it.

He didn't even know the terminology.

He didn't know what cis gender was

or the requirements of the current GRA.

I expected maybe not complete understanding

but surely a sympathetic hearing.

We were comrades, weren't we, after all?

We shared the same ideals.

But I was wrong about this man.

He rounded on me fiercely.

WHY couldn't a man be a woman -

if he had a strong 'feeling' - in spite of his penis -

that this was in truth what he was?

These people, they are oppressed, he blustered.

Women are oppressed, I responded.

How can it be right to safeguard

the position of one oppressed minority

via the erasure of the legal category 'women' -

and by taking away without consultation

women's hard won rights?

It's a matter of policy, my comrade insisted.

But he couldn't tell me when this had happened.

What about the promise that 'impact assessment'

for all legislation would be made?

Policies have to be formulated, surely?

When was the membership consulted?

I am a member. I don't recall that happening.

Wasn't it worth mentioning at least?

Exactly when did the party in its infinite wisdom

overrule the facts of human biology?

What about democracy? Wasn't this a test?

He said that all he knew for sure was

'trans women are women'.

How this came about, however,

it really wasn't up to him to say.

If you women don't like it then it's up to you, he said.

You'll have to fight for your rights like in the old days.

He meant it, too. It's OK for the Party

to pull the rug out from under us -

and OK for some men to hang on to their genitals

but call themselves women instead.

© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

Women are a vital part of the socialist movement – they must be consulted over changes to the Gender Recognition Act

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance where the sea air and beautiful scenery keep her mostly on the right side of sanity.

Graham Says It’s OK

Graham says he always

knew this would be

the next big thing.

People might criticise

the concept

he smiles

but many of my

customers are

women

and for as little as £100

it is possible to

try before you buy.

Graham who

is forty and gives

no other name

runs his manufacturing business

from an industrial estate

in Felling in Gateshead.

He believes these things

have now been

‘normalised’

A lot of the time he says with

disarming modesty it’s more

fantasy than reality.

Most customers will invent

a personality similar

to the customer’s own.

Men are falling in love

with themselves and paying me

for the privilege.

Of course some of them

sell the dolls back but others

go on to get married.

It’s ok, though.This is

after all a celebration of

womanhood.

© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

UK Opens Its First Sex Doll Brothel And It’s As Weird As You’d Expect

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance where the sea air and beautiful scenery keep her mostly on the right side of sanity.

Conversation with a rival

Did you come in pieces by special delivery

with instructions for easy assembly?

Or laid out like a bride on a bed of polystyrene

with DO NOT BEND emblazoned on the box?

How was he about that? Scissors or knife?

Was he careful when he opened your packaging?

Were there instructions? Did he follow the instructions?

How many times did he swear?

Ok, so then what? So he put you on charge.

Did he hold your plastic hand and wait with you?

Or did he take a snack to the TV room

and stay there for the whole of the game?

How was he with you, would you say?

Was he in a hurry to get started?

What does he call you? Did he get to choose?

Or are you all pre-programmed with a name?

He used to call me nice things once.

I was his bunny-wunny-boo-boo.

That was years ago, of course.

Things have changed since then.

But it’s not my fault. He’s told me that

And he’s told me he still loves me.

It’s just a man has certain needs.

And a man, unlike a woman, can’t pretend.

So you and I must rub along.

Mostly I keep to the kitchen.

I’ve made up the bed in the small back room

but I’ve put you in with him.

He’s not the man he thinks he is.

It's sad to see it really.

Best to grit your teeth and try

to bear it with a grin.

© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

The Sex Robots Are Coming: seedy, sordid – but mainly just sad

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance in Cornwall.

Suffer The Little Children

(a poem for Penzance)

In the co-op on Sunday just after five o'clock
three not-quite-children steal beer.

On the pavement outside they are casing the joint.
He a little older takes the lead.

She is blonde and pretty, so obviously
besotted she will do whatever he wants.

The younger boy is younger,
underfed, not at all good-looking.

He knows no matter how much alcohol he steals
she will never look that way at him.

They saunter in together. She goes first.
To her left and right they make a screen.

She shoves the bottle between her small breasts
and zips up her jacket in flash.

Now they turn smartly and exit the store.
They do not attempt to make a purchase.

On the pavement again their eyes meet mine.
An afternoon drunk stirs in his sleep.

© Abigail Elizabeth Rowland

Anti-social behaviour crackdown in Penzance

Abigail Elizabeth Rowland lives in Redruth in Cornwall where she writes poetry and short fiction and does her best to remain positive.

No Arborist

They are planting young trees in the park.

They are not a few but many these trees, being

different in colour and kind and, since I am no arborist,

their names are beyond my poor knowing.

They are spaced apart to grow into shade

where presently the sun burns the grass,

those places where the earth now splits in fissures

and the slithering earthworm shrivels.

And each tender sapling has its own plastic sleeve

like a parent to protect and support it;

though the wind may blow still and dogs may come

and, at night, eager creatures with sharp teeth.

And it is right not to question or quibble over this

but to invest in the green shoots to come.

Only small patience and the gardener's good care,

a little sunshine and sweet rain are needed.

We are wise in such things. We tend to our trees.

Our parks, our gardens, our civic spaces, all these enrich us.

Our children, though, we do not nurture well.

How then shall they flourish and grow tall?

© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

David Cameron’s legacy is soaring child poverty – with worse to come

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley (formerly Wyatt) writes poetry and short fiction from her home in Penzance. She is presently involved in a project that aims to brighten up the town with street art and poetry. In this she will be assisted by artist, Stella Rose Benson and fellow Penzance poet, Gray Lightfoot.

Guys (For Heather Heyer)

Guys

(for Heather Heyer)

First the fat thing, let's deal with that one.

To be fat is to be human and fallible.
I was fat once. I'm not proud of that fact
but, from your point of view, at least I suffered.
Yes, I know I had choices, yes I knew what they were.
Yes, I suppose you could say that.
Like it says in the proverb, I made my bed.
I made the decision to be fat.

And then there's this 'drain on society' business.
I'm not childless - but I only have one daughter.
I was an elderly prima gravida, not quite thirty-seven.
I guess you'd have to say I wasted time.
For years, therefore, I was a 'burden'
on the state, without much use or value.
You guys would say that I chose that too -
but, hey, I was working and still in my prime.

Now you've explained and made clear to me
the extent of my lazy, selfish thinking,
I can see how I was 'a black hole vortex'
'leeching' on the work of you fine men.
I failed in my duty - as you say my only duty -
and I've wasted half my life in denial.
I guess I'd do things differently
if I had my time again.

One thing, though, I didn't do: I didn't murder my babies.
When I fell pregnant it never crossed my mind
that I actually might kill my own child.
You guys must see some hope in that, yes?
Although, of course, it's really only instinct.
It's not like ethics are something we do,
we who are stupid and fat and reviled.

But listen, you guys, although you know I'm grateful,
there are things I can't help thinking,
just details really but things I think
might help you understand if you knew.
Like the reason I got so fat that time
was because some nice man raped me,
a fine, upstanding man he was.
He talked a lot like you.

© Abigail Elizabeth Ottley

White-Supremacist Site Daily Stormer Booted by Hosting Provider

Abigail Elizabeth Ottley writes from her home in Penzance. Many things beyond her power to change continue to make her angry. Nevertheless, she tries to remember that, for all its imperfections, life is good.

The Outcome

When I was a child a man took my body 
and used it to gratify his own.
He knew I was a child but it did not matter
when it came to attributing blame.
The guilt was his, the pleasure was his;
mine was the guilt and the lasting shame,
mine were the marks of the scars he left
where he hurt me in ways I could not name.
Now, a whole long lifetime on, I weep
to see how little things have changed:
murder is not murder and rape is not rape;
the power play goes on 
and the outcome is the same.

Abigail Wyatt

http://viralwomen.com/post/delhi_court_finds_yearold_woman_was_not_rped_to_death_as_she_was_menopausal_didnt_fight_back

‘The world’s going crazy… (nobody gives a damn anymore’ – from Brother by Ray Davies)

The world’s gone mad, it seems to me.

We’ve lost our heads and cannot see

it makes no sense when those in need

must bear the blame for corporate greed;

and how can it be right that some,

a few, have much, the many none?

The world has truly lost the thread:

it honours those a century dead;

yet, even as that silence palls,

somewhere, another ‘hero’ falls;

as men fall dead are widows made;

yet still we love to dig a grave.

In this is not our madness clear?

Were it not so, then we would hear

the words of those who went before

and, fighting, spoke the truth of war;

and then, I think, we might despise

the adman’s specious, mawkish lies

and those hawk their souls for gain

by selling chocolate in the name

of all those men who shed their blood

for love and peace and not for goods;

and then, perhaps, we’d plainly see

the lie they call de-mock-krassy:

the world is now as it was then;

if we must fight, it’s us and them.

Abigail Wyatt

Nothing says 'Merry Christmas' like trench warfare

dangerous and disrespectful master piece

https://www.youtube.com/user/Sainsburys

Abigail Wyatt writes poetry and short fiction from her home near Redruth in Cornwall. After a lifetime of sticking her neck out, sometimes she grows weary of the fight. 

'One Percent'

What we need is Jesus with his fishes and loaves,

or some other untainted modern miracle.

I can’t believe that GM crops can ever be the way to go.

Here in the West, for example, we eat too much meat.

Why do we when we know we don’t need to?

Why don’t we just stop and think about it properly?

There has to be a way to put these things right.

There has to be something we can do.

The plain fact is there are too many of us

and some of us are living that much longer.

Not all of us, mind. It’s a bit of a lottery,

but, that said, it’s still pretty much true

so long as you are PLU,

wealthy and, preferably, white.

Nevertheless, it’s time to get a grip

and pay attention to over-population.

While Marx blusters and Engels weeps,

the spectre of Malthus just grins.

Meanwhile, the wealthy 1%

get richer by the minute

while those at the bottom get

all the shit and, also, most of the blame.

Did you know, for example, half the world’s people

own less than 1% of the good stuff?

Why don’t we just stopand think about it, properly?

There has to be a way to put things right.

But, then again, there are those who would say

there are other ways to solve this problem.

Wars and plagues control populations:

hasn't that been Nature’s way?

I heard today on the radio 

how somewhere far away

a mother feared to nurse her sick children.

While Marx blusters and Engels weeps,

Malthus capers and grins.

Abigail Wyatt

Ebola 'a form of population control'? 

One percent of the global population owns half the world's wealth

http://www.independent.co.uk/voices/comment/population-growth-is-as-potentially-catastrophic-as-climate-change-so-why-arent-we-talking-about-it-9763228.html

Abigail Wyatt writes poetry and short fiction. She lives in the shadow of Carn Brea near Redruth in Cornwall. You can find out more here

'The Up and Up'

Now things are on the up and up

we’ve no cause to complain.

Our cup it runneth over;

so let’s vote them in again.

Let’s vote for cutting welfare

and for demonising need.

Let’s vote against humanity –

and for intemperate greed.

And let’s pretend that Zero

Hours Contracts are OK,

that Workfare really is a job,

and MP’s earn their pay.

And then let’s lay the blame

for all at someone else’s door.

Let’s say the sick are shiftless –

and let’s criticise the working poor.

Let’s say they live on junk food

and that’s why their kids get fat.

(If they’d only shop at Waitrose

there’d be so much less of that.)

And, if a person wants to work,

let’s say the jobs are there.

We’ll sanction those who sleep in late

and will not do their share.

We’ll target the disabled, too:

we’ll keep them – occupied.

(We’re sure there’s something they can do –

until it can be proved they’ve died.)

And we’ll applaud the policies

of those who work for our good ends.

We’ll forgive their little foibles

and their handsome dividends.

And we won’t dwell on taxes dodged

or politicians’ perks.

The fact is, like or lump it,

that is how the system works.

Abigail Wyatt

Osborne announces further cuts to welfare spending

Abigail Wyatt lives and writes at Druids Lodge near Redruth in Cornwall. 

'I heard the man on the radio say'

Everyone is talking about

Rotherham

but no one much is

asking why

the spotlight has fallen on

this council at just

this time.

Or why

these public servants

must be brought to account

while some other

public servants,

in higher circles,

still have nothing

to fear.

Are we really

supposed to believe

it is not happening

elsewhere,

and that it hasn’t happened

and been covered up,

over and over

again?

Everyone is talking about

Rotherham –

and I,

I am the last

person to defend

the bastards

who did it,

who have escaped justice,

got away scot free,

and yet ruined

so many young lives –

but I cannot help thinking

there is something up

and something else

is going on here –

and also that someone

has missed the point

which is surely

the victims in this case.

Yet no one has had much

to say about how to help

the people

who have suffered

who continue to suffer

and may do

all their lives

while, yesterday,

I heard the man on the radio say

(by way of explanation)

that the police had seen

some ‘silly young girls’

who were involved

with alcohol and drugs

and seemed almost to deserve’

what happened  

to them.

I heard the man

on the radio

say –

© Abigail Wyatt

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2737234/The-childrens-chief-clinging-115-000-job-despite-mounting-evidence-complacency-period-child-abuse.html

Council knew many were at risk

'12th August, 2014'

Tugged skyward by a swollen moon,
your closet heart crammed full of stuff
grown shabby over years, your
leaving shocks us all awake
who stumble into day,
strip off the comfort of dull sleep,
and, plodding, labour on.
Over breakfast coffee so much
is said, written, tweeted,
posted on Facebook and yet
there is so little left to say.
A star burned out and fell today -
and we are of such stuff.

Abigail Wyatt

Photograph by David Rowland


http://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/aug/12/robin-williams


Based at her home at Druids Lodge in the shadow of Carn Brea, Abigail Wyatt writes poetry and short fiction. Website here

'Terminal' and 'A Real Fighter'

My dog was 14 when his back legs collapsed.

Helpless, he whimpered and moaned.

The vet delivered him with a syringe.

In Belgium, the Netherlands, Luxembourg,

the terminally ill are helped to a good

death, dignified by family goodbyes.

Here, the grim reaper can wait at the bedside

sharpening his unholy scythe for weeks,

shaving life slowly, agonisingly. Hollow-eyed.

Sue Norton

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-28282323

Sue lives and writes in York

Sadie in happier days

A Real Fighter

'A real fighter,' she told me afterwards.

It was, I think, a kind of apology,

rueful recognition of a duty discharged,

a job not done well but well done.

I felt some sympathy. It was not her fault:

fierceness and resilience were bred into you;

where I looked for peace and the slipping of a leash,

you bared your teeth and fought on.

For my part, though, I could only wring my hands

and surrender to the fury of my impotence

till, when all was done, nothing remained

but the memory of the soft press of your muzzle,

grizzled now but still quick and warm,

searching out the hollow of my palm.

Abigail Wyatt

'Even if'

It’s not hard to be objective.

I don’t want to be objective.

I don’t want sympathy or justice.

Sympathy just crawls on my skin

and justice, well, justice is bloodless.

Revenge tastes better and is more substantial.

Justice is too clean and too cool.

What I would like best,

and I’m sorry if this shocks you,

is to know that he has suffered;

and not just a little bit,

not just a twinge or a pang

at the odd time or two he remembers,

but real suffering, the kind

that eats away at you and, sometimes,

in the end, makes you grow.

But it will never happen.

It cannot happen. Because he

has lived his life un-blighted.

He does not, even now, wake at night

to live again, and again, and again,

the fear and the loss and the shame.

And even if he trembles in his well-heeled boots,

at the thought that he might at last be outed;

and, even if he is, and even if he’s jailed,

his suffering can never be enough.

Abigail Wyatt

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2682593/New-fears-cover-calls-inquiry-Westminster-sex-scandal-grow.html?ITO=1490&ns_mchannel=rss&ns_campaign=1490

Abigail Wyatt writes poetry and short fiction. She lives near Redruth in Cornwall. She has lived the whole of her adult life in the shadow cast by childhood sexual abuse. 

'On This Day'

On this day when the nation wakes
to the news of its own undoing
and the media, who gave us celebrity politics,
are capering and squealing with delight, absurdly,
I find myself in an over-heated classroom
invigilating History: British Society, GCSE , Foundation,
when, forty minutes in to this ninety minute paper,
a boy with dyed red hair breaks the silence;
and, shifting the bones of his whippet-like arse
in his regulation blue plastic seat,
throws one arm over his tousled curls,
whimpers like a  puppy - and snores.

 Abigail Wyatt

Nigerl Farage: UKIP to be serious players at the next general election