Magazine

All English poems nominated in full

Departures by GenneRose Nethercott

You get a lovely surprise every time the ski girls take off their helmets after crossing the finish line during the Olympic Winter Games. Someone somewhere must have decided that only models can take part in Alpine skiing events.

Instalment 9: From the schoolyard, made up of 400 by 300 concrete tiles around a bare
chestnut tree, Axel & Co. march in an orderly queue, swimming gear
in their bags, towards the municipal swimming pool, or numicipal
swimming pool according to one of the gang.

The anthology was prominently displayed in the bookshop. Quickly, I scanned the contents pages under J for Jansen op de Haar. Damn it, I wasn’t in it. Yet, at the same time, I realised that this could provide opportunities. Appearances as ‘The Poet They Left Out’ on radio and TV. Enough to make me break into a celebratory dance.

Instalment 8: For days Axel scooters himself into a sweat, leaving the others behind, to collect as many autographs as possible.

Congratulations to the English & Dutch shortlisted poets!

Don’t worry, I’m fully dressed, in my own clothes. Unlike Gerrit Zalm, CEO of ABN AMRO bank, who during his bank’s New Year receptions appeared as Priscilla, his sister, clad in a blue dress and sporting Dame Edna glasses.

Instalment 7: The walls of the waiting room are painted mint green. Axel mechanically thumbs Red Knight magazine until a door opens and six children are carried in by the same number of nurses.

It’s actually quite hard to be consistent. Boris Johnson has been thinking up various nicknames for Deputy Prime Minister Nick Clegg. He’s not doing this in an entirely consistent way. According to London’s Mayor, Clegg is a yellow albatross around the collective Tory neck, a radio DJ, a lapdog, a wobbling jelly of indecision and vacillation, very, very decorative and a condom (although Boris used a rather more involved description). So what is he, then?

Instalment 6: One summer afternoon, tempted by the heavy air dancing above the tarmac
he has spotted in the distance, at the end of Lindbergh Street, Axel
crosses the main road on his red scooter.

So Nigella can’t cook, according to her former assistants, the Grillo sisters. This made me think about the members of the Royal Family. Actually, members of any royal family. They aren’t good at anything either. Well, Nigella can lick a spoon in a most sensual way, and the Royal Family is good at cutting ribbons. I think I’ll have to explain this first.

This week a hacker published some doodles by Bill Clinton. It transpired that the American ex-president had drawn, not only a large limousine, but also a penis in classified documents, the latter item next to a sentence about Bob Dole. Was this related to Bob Dole, or was it a selfie? Monica Lewinsky would say: ‘Not a good likeness: it was bent. I’ve seen it myself.’

5th instalment: Hidden under his father’s overcoat on the bike’s back seat, Axel has entered a different world.

When I was a child I owned a cowboy outfit, which I wore until it burst at the seams. Later, when I was in the army, I would, in a similar way, burst out of my gala uniform.

19 Dec, 18.15in the Great Western Studios

I’m rather quick to show compassion. For example, you walk past a school playground just when it’s break time. Obviously, there’s always a child that’s separate from the group. This one is trudging all alone through the fallen leaves in a corner. That’s when I take pity. Not that I was a child to be pitied. I was quite popular at school. So what brings this on?

4th instalment: When grandma’s warmed up salad oil no longer does the job, the wide
brown bottle with the red rubber stopper makes an appearance.

Last week I visited an exhibition in London. The house was located in Mayfair and nothing showed on the outside. My female companion and I stood on the doorstep in the pouring rain. The door opened before we had managed to ring the bell.

3rd instalment: They’re after Liesje Loverman who takes no notice of the floor tiles rule.