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My Godmother's Shack

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Gyppo
Posts: 1338
Joined: Sat Mar 31, 2018 3:28 pm
Location: UK

My Godmother's Shack

Post by Gyppo » Sun Oct 27, 2019 4:38 pm

My Godmother's Shack

My Godmother lived in a shack,
out in The New Forest.
To a child it was a magical place,
taking 'lived in' to a whole new level.

Originally a wooden seaside chalet,
bought just after the war
when housing was in short supply.
Dismantled, and relocated,
reassembled with an extra room added.

Only a few miles away there were boxes,
originally used for shipping bomber parts, 
reworked into homes.
The wartime slogan  'waste not - want not', 
was a necessity, not a trendy mantra.

Hidden behind a hedge, 
the tussocked ground
pockmarked with rabbit burrows,
a miniature copy of nearby Southampton
with its residual bomb craters.

There was an abandoned car in the garden
which always fascinated me.
An AC Cobra, the name meant nothing.
I sometimes sat on the weathered seat
and dreamed a child's dreams.

I asked about it once and she laughed.
"A man asked if he could leave it there,
because the engine blew up. 
Before he could get the parts he went mad.
They locked him up, and no-one ever came back for it."

Cooking on bottled gas,
boiling her kettle on a paraffin Primus,
door always unlocked.
As sparse as the life she lived,
no spare fat and damned near feral.

Her estranged husband lived in a shed,
an even more ramshackle structure,
hidden away in blackberry bushes
at the bottom of her garden.

Much despised he worked nearby,
but came 'home' for dinner each evening.
A white haired 'mad prophet' type figure.
Physically capable but 'walking wounded'.

She usually treated him with silence 
but hissed and spat like a feral cat,
brandishing her kitchen knife
- which was never far from hand -
if he got too close.

I never doubted she'd stab him
if he pushed his luck.
More importantly, neither did he.
On 'jumpy' days she wore the knife,
tucked through her belt.
It never worried me.  I wasn't a target

I sometimes wondered if she missed his earlier self,
the smart young man in uniform she married.
I've seen the photograph.
Or if he ever wondered what had gone wrong,
how the peace he'd fought for slipped away.

They must have been close at least once,
to produce their daughter, 
born in the mid fifties.
But by the time I noticed these things
the battle lines were clearly drawn 

He sometimes growled and bristled at me,
male territorial stuff,
but whatever he'd left behind in the Pacific
never emerged enough to feel like a threat.
My dad had warned me he was 'war-damaged'.
So I stepped politely, but not fearfully.

I must say I never heard him swear.
He used 'red-eyed' as a substitute,
such as when their cat, a huge beast, 
stole food from his fork if he ate too slowly, 
or paused to talk.  But never from his plate.

That cat understood the unspoken rules,
the tenuous strands, the unspoken boundaries, 
binding the family together.
When things were tense it slunk out to hunt rabbits, 
because they no longer needed to feed it.

To a fifteen year old lad it was a labyrinth,
but one I never feared to enter.
A tattered wonderland, filled with interest, 
and half spoken secrets.

Some I understand better now.

Gyppo
I've been writing ever since I realised I could.  Storytelling since I started talking.  Poetry however comes and goes  ;-)

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Colm Roe
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Joined: Sun Jan 07, 2018 12:45 am

Re: My Godmother's Shack

Post by Colm Roe » Sun Oct 27, 2019 9:28 pm

Wonderful (and sad) stuff Gyppo. 
Loved it!

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Gyppo
Posts: 1338
Joined: Sat Mar 31, 2018 3:28 pm
Location: UK

Re: My Godmother's Shack

Post by Gyppo » Mon Oct 28, 2019 6:02 am

Cheers, Colm.  It was sitting in the back of my brain for the last month or so, slowly edging towards the light of day.  I've written about specific incidents before, but this was an attempt at an overview.  As Mum's 'slightly crazy' wartime workmate she was just 'around' when we lived fairly close.

There's a row of million pound houses around that little corner now, a rich person's enclave.  Still tucked away, because in 60  plus years the hedge has become mature trees.  I went to look a while back and there's nothing left but memories.  I spoke with two old ladies in the pub, around my age, they were semi-local and they remembered it as being a 'corner where the people kept themselves to themselves'.  The fact that was even noteworthy by Forest standards, and still memorable, tells a lot.

Gyppo
Last edited by Gyppo on Thu Nov 07, 2019 2:57 pm, edited 1 time in total.
I've been writing ever since I realised I could.  Storytelling since I started talking.  Poetry however comes and goes  ;-)

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Colm Roe
Posts: 2697
Joined: Sun Jan 07, 2018 12:45 am

Re: My Godmother's Shack

Post by Colm Roe » Mon Oct 28, 2019 8:09 pm

I'm glad it 'found the light of day'...they don't make them like that anymore.
Life will always tough for some people, but they survive better (and happier I think) the less they expect to be handed everything.
I grew up on a mountain where granite quarries provided most of the employment. Many generations of my family were stonemasons.
It was a hard life that 'created' many unusual characters. It was a small community, so I was exposed to them all as a child. Thinking about it (after reading your poem) I realised that my children never got the chance to experience that. What you don't know you won't miss...but their lives are a bit more monochrome because of it. 
Anywho, I'm glad that even though their dwellings have dissolved you've permanently recorded them...warts and all! If I'm ever remembered I hope people just remember the warts  :)  

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Tracy Mitchell
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Joined: Sun Jan 07, 2018 3:58 pm

Re: My Godmother's Shack

Post by Tracy Mitchell » Sun Nov 03, 2019 9:22 pm

Very nice, Gyp.  I really like reading your stuff.  This has the story, the sentiment, and a wonderfully warm presentation.  You should be a writer.   :D :D

T

Matty11
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Joined: Thu Jan 11, 2018 7:58 pm

Re: My Godmother's Shack

Post by Matty11 » Fri Nov 08, 2019 2:08 am

I found this write very readable, fluent, with details that made it feel authentic. At times I felt there was material here to focus on in several poems, but then I enjoyed the whole.
The wartime slogan  'waste not - want not', 
was a necessity, not a trendy mantra.
With the growth of food banks, I'm not sure that judgement is valid.

all the best

Phil

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