Foodie poetry

Introduction
The following is a set of four interconnected poems. Interconnected poetry is known as a pamphlet (and, in life-writing may be described as having a 'through-line'), though there are usually more than four poems in a pamphlet in my experience.

The four poems are:

1. The Black Plant (five quatrains following a scheme of XAXA, XBXB, etc);
2. Orange Squash (a single quatrain with an ABAB scheme); 
3. The Green Stuff (a sonnet in iambic pentameter - though neither Shaespearean nor Petrachan); and
4. The Crown (a couplet mean to top off the lot).

The through-line is food but there are other themes too. I've used several techniques including slant-rhyme and different rhyming schemas. Comments much appreciated.

1: The Black Plant

It’s still used as currency

for paying the rent

in St George’s, Bermuda

and Sevenoaks, Kent[1]

An industrial machine

that blasts through blockades

and marches through continents;

a Dark Gold parade.

Oh, there's trouble at mill

when the grinding blade breaks,

stealing the soot

away from our plates.

Though once the preserve

of the wealthy upper-classes,

you’re now less to serve

than rich, black, molasses.

Black is the drupe

and white is its seed,

with the Black Plant we spice up

mouths that we feed.

(20 lines)

---

[1] In Bermuda, today, a single peppercorn is paid by the island’s masonic lodge to the island’s governor for the rental of the Old State House as their lodge. In Sevenoaks, Kent, two peppercorns are paid each year to the council by the Vine Cricket Club: one for the rental of the grounds and one for the rental of the clubhouse.

2: Orange Squash

Orange, all hollowed, with Cheshire cat cheeks.

Pulp all the flesh for sweet pies and hot soups.

Cut demonic faces for kids’ trick or treats;

this gourd that lights monsters? A multi seed fruit.

(4 lines)

3: The Green Stuff

Pulled from the ground, all covered in soil,

tear off the leaves and wash in a spinner

then dry all the blades so I don't spoil

chlorophyll fibres served up with my dinner.

Green is the colour that’ll track though my tract;

but green on its own? I need more than that.

Mix in more colours to entice the palate

then garnish with seeds and dark vinaigrette,

to take the edge off the dullness of salad.

A feast incomplete that my fork rejects,

where are the carbs and the protein I crave?

Bare salad alone, today I must brave.

I’m not vegetarian or anything like that

It’s just that I don’t want to remain fat.

(14 lines)

 

4: The Crown

All good food deserves a fine liquid crown.

A glass of Sancerre, to wash the lot down.

(2 lines)

© 2012 Toby Corballis

Getting back to normal

Preface
This is a fictionalised Life Writing piece based on the true story of a girl I was at school with (and with whom I was good friends at the time) who committed suicide in 1997 after being released into the community by her psychiatric doctors. She was diagnosed with severe mental illness (schizophrenia, I believe) at some point after we left school, though I am not certain of the year.

At school, she would sometimes have stand-up fights with the teachers. At the time we put it down to her being an over angsty teenager but with hindsight she could well have been displaying early signs of mental illness. How would we know? We were, after all, just 17 / 18 years old.

I lost touch with her after school, in the way one does, but heard various updates over the years through mutual friends.

Care in the community was a controversial piece of legislation when it was introduced in 1990 (though it could be argued that it really built on many other pieces of legislation starting with the 1959 Mental Health Act). It undoubtedly led to some good - removing the isoltaion of some with less severe mental health issues, for example - but there are some who think it has led to other patients not receiving the help and assistance they require due to politically motivated targets needing to be met. I suspect there are elements of truth in both sides but the core belief I want to explore here is that some patitents should never be released... and sometimes, even the patient knows, nay craves, that).

The story that follows is based loosely, then, on her story: perhaps 'inspired' is a better word. Some may find it a difficult subject and may think that it is overly violent. I make no apologies. It is done to illustrate a point and I believe is in context. That said, I'd be very interested in hearing what people think of the piece.

Note, a version of this also appears on my OU blog which can be found at: http://learn.open.ac.uk/mod/oublog/view.php?user=792360

Getting back to normal

Sharon rocked back and forth on her bed eyeing the fragments of glass on the ensuite bathroom floor. It seemed no one had heard the mirror smash. She went over and picked up a fragment, thumbing it in agitated half-sweeps, closed the bathroom door, and resumed rocking.
She looked at the clock. 11:55. Only five minutes 'til drug time. God, she hated those numbing drugs, almost as much as she hated being at the Manor. At least the pills offered some release, today's in particular.

Billed as a halfway house, a stepping stone to a normal life, the Manor was a twilight zone between sanity and insanity, stability and chaos.

'We're preparing you for normal life, Sharon,' the board of doctors had said in their collective antiseptic voice. What the fuck did they know? Normal life? Normal life? She wanted to scream at the fat pricks: Yeah, I want a normal life: my normal life.

The life she wanted, the life she craved, was that safe, warm, institutional, uncomplicated life.

A creaking floorboard in the hall broke through her thoughts causing her heart to race. Pill time, pill time she chanted to herself. My problems will be solved at pill time.

The Manor had its pluses, of course: the grounds being the main one she'd miss. Here she could wander unseen, idling away hours, hiding amongst the trees on a foggy spring day: invisible and safe.

If she felt alone and confident she'd undress and lie naked on the grass soaking up the wetness of the morning dew. Then she'd roll around like an alligator stripping the skin off its prey; feeling the dirt claw its way across her body, and tasting the musky earth. She wouldn't be able do that back in Reading; they'd bang her up in solitary: sweet, safe, solitary, where other people's normal life was securely locked out.

She yearned for Reading: the pills, the straight-jackets, the TV room, her bed. Her normal. But here she was, in an intolerable dark nightmare, being drugged and 'prepared' for her release into the 'real' world: a specially-bred, near-extinct, wild animal about to be unleashed and released into the wild.

Hah... she'd give them wild.

There was a tap at the door. She slid the mirror fragment up her sleeve as nurse Jennings entered.

'Time for your drugs, Sharon.'

'I'm fine,' said Sharon getting up and walking to the end of the bed.

'Come on, Sharon. You know how it works.'

The glass sliced into nurse Jennings's jugular spraying blood in pulsing spurts over Sharon's face and shoulders.

'Yes, I know the fucking system,' she screamed.

She hit the emergency button and sat down beside the nurse's corpse in the pooling blood, smiling.