Love lost poem lost and found...

I posted a poem here a couple of weeks ago but then decided better of it as it was a bit too personal. Here's a revised version...

A drunken eulogy to lost love:

You left me alone with unanswered lust.
You gave yourself up to the selfish night,
I was still aquiver with our passion
Body burning, set alight by your touch.
But still I head home without you, alone.

All those past men who used and abused me
Whisper sweet threats into my shrinking ear
Each dark, dank alleyway growling at me,
Promising my undoing at unseen hand,
Staggering home through the grey neon night.

I will dream that you are with me tonight,
I will feel the weight of your hungry hands
Grasping, seeking my sensual beauty.
I will feel your soft lips pressed against mine
Devouring my impatient devotion.

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A bit random

The last few posts have been swept up from other blogs where I've posted for poetry challenges. This one was based on random search engine terms. I just thought it was a little bit cute...


A cartoon little girl
With a frail paper heart,
Caught out in the night,
Glaring eyes in the dark.
Bright angel in the rain
Slowly soaking away.





(Picture from www.bhakti-yoga-meditation.com)

The Angel's Waltz

Now, ladies and gentlemen, please squeeze in,
There's not much room on the head of this pin,
I pray you all, please take up your partners,
For the Grand Waltz is about to begin.

You at the back there, cut out those high flings,
Straighten your halos and smooth down your wings,
Stop making a fuss and get into place,
We'll start the dance when the cherabim sings.

Oh please be careful, treat each other well -
Remember that last time Lucifer fell?
He says he misses our heavenly throng,
And said to say there's no dancing in hell.

It might be crazy and well you may jest,
I'm sure it seems a peculiar quest,
But believing in things they cannot see
Is a gift with which mankind is not blessed.

It is all beyond their power of thought
That the world may not be quite as was taught,
That beings exist without any form
That an infinite mass can equal nought.





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Devil's eggs

In three minutes' time,
Enjoyment sublime,
I'm hoping to beg
From this little egg,
Its fanfare proudly
Rattling loudly
Against the pan side,
As bubbles collide.

As keenly I wait,
Neat Soldiers on plate,
Two minutes to go
A crack starts to show.
The web starts to spread,
And with it my dread,
The breaches are burst,
This breakfast is cursed!
















(Picture from http://graphics8.nytimes.com/images/2008/04/11/dining/diners_041108_egg.jpg)

Poetry about cake...

Pink Fairy's last wish:

When the time comes, I'd like you all to know,
Death by chocolate is my chosen demise.
Face down in the chocolate fountain I'll go!
Just make sure that I don't caramelise,
Until you embalm me in creme brulee.
Then cloak me in chocolate truffle roulade,
Crowning me with a raspberry souffle,
And bury me in pavlova set hard.




Bring on the black-iced, chest-beating mourners
And realms of Angel cakes singing my praise.
Weep for my death in all the world's corners
Oh you Viennese whirls and Creme Anglaise.
The Devil's food cake banished should he be,
For he has no place at this lavish wake!
A burial fit for the pink fairy
Floating on high on her lemon cloud cake.


(Picture: http://zencupcake.com)

The man from the city:

"Why is there a dog in that field?"
The man from the city said,
"Eating grass like he were a sheep?
Shouldn't he chase them instead?"

"Where is this dog you say you see?"
The girl from the country pled,
"I can see only grazing sheep,
Has the fresh air turned your head?"

"There he is chewing on that shrub,"
The city dweller exclaimed,
"You call yourself a country girl?
Do you need it all explained?"

"Yes, I do need explanation,"
Was the girl's bemused reply,
"How in a field with nought but sheep
You a ghostly dog espy?"

"I know what a sheep should look like,"
The city man did retort,
"A fleece of white and jet black face -
This is nothing of the sort!"

"Ah Sir, I see"..."I see the truth!"
As with laughter she did weep,
"That grazing dog you swear you saw
Is"... "Is really a black sheep."




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Go ahead ...

I found this poem, I've not written it, I read it on the facebook page of the local miscarriage support group I've just joined. I think they are people who will understand what I'm feeling and this poem says what I'd wish all my friends to know.


Go ahead and mention my child,
The one who died you know.
Don't worry about hurting me further,
The depth of my pain doesn't show.
Don't worry about making me cry.
I'm already crying inside.
Help me to heal by releasing
The tears that I try to hide.
I'm hurt when you just keep silent,
Pretending she didn't exist.
I'd rather you mention my child,
Knowing that she has been missed.
You asked me how I was doing.
I say "pretty good" or "fine."
But healing is something ongoing.
I feel it will take a lifetime.
~anon

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Not waving, but drowning...

"Not waving but drowning."

It's my favourite line from a poem. Ever.

Four small, ordinary words. A simple sentence. But it says so much about how much we can mistake the actions which we see, how wrongly we can perceive situations and how much we take for granted in imagining we know what other people are trying to say to us. But it's so easy for someone to be lost when we could see that they need help if we just stopped to really understand what it is that they are trying to make us see.

I'm not quite drowning. I'm too strong to drown, I know this now. A year ago I wasn't too sure, I felt overwhelmed and unable to ask for help from those who could see me if I waved my arms. That was part of my problem, being unable to tell people how I really felt, being unable to tell people when I was upset, and what I was upset about. I would just go and lick my wounds in private and keep on wearing my shiny mask. Like I said, I'm strong. I'm not about to drown. I won't let myself drown. I know what it's like to see someone waving who you just can't help, who you just can't reach, and I'm not about to become that person. I don't need to become that person, because I can now blog about it.

The magic about this is that you readers can all choose whether to be burdened by my feelings or not. You can just ignore it all, you can walk away and I'll never even know you've been here. That makes me feel so relieved already. I'm not forcing anybody to listen to me and to deal with my issues. You can comment if you want, or not. It's a totally free relationship, no-one feels beholden and it's so good for me. So, here goes...

I feel a bit lost right now. I've tried a number of times to tell people how I feel. My husband, my family, my friends. Yet none of them can see that I need their help or what it is that I'm really upset about. Now I can finally tell people how I feel they don't seem to want to listen. I don't know why I keep on failing, why the fact that I'm struggling so much with one part of myself is so hard for anyone to see when they seem to be noticing all the rest and all the other things which we talk about. I feel like I am waving madly and no-one can see.

For once in my life I could say I had a quiet Christmas. That's because my head was quiet. It was elsewhere, switched off. I went through the motions and I'm still going through them. To be fair Christmas is always like a play to me. I know the lines, I've played it many times, so that's no different. But this year I truly felt vacant.

I am vacant.

I am empty.

That's the truth of it. I should have been seven months pregnant by now. I should have been enjoying our last Christmas before it all changed forever, I should have been excitedly chatting to my sister and my Mum about my pregnancy, about my plans, I should have been glowing, I shouldn't have been thinking about myself any more and what presents I might like. We would have been crowing over presents for the baby and Christmas would have felt a little bit magical again, how it used to feel.

But instead I feel like I'm missing a vital part of me and I can't understand why no-one can see the gaping hole. Every day I tend to my scars from two operations in fairly quick succession and I still feel twinges in those wounds, so there is no escaping it physically. Much more than that though I feel like every day is empty, like all my social interactions are just trying to take my mind off the hurt that I want to feel. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to be morose and miserable and I want people to understand how I feel.

Yet I seem unable to get anyone to stop and really listen, to really appreciate what I feel and not just presume that they know. My friends without children, who don't want children, don't understand what all the fuss is about: just try again and have another one. My friends with children just tell me that it will happen soon, that they managed it so it will happen for me too. Maybe they've forgotten how difficult it was, or maybe it wasn't difficult at all for them. The only people I think who might understand are those who can't have children, but do want them. Then again they say to me that at least I can get pregnant. That's no comfort to me though.

I'm not sure I can even articulate my feelings properly. I can't seem to get across how wretched I feel. I suspect that people think that it's not healthy for me to dwell on it, that I need cheering up. But I don't. I need to share my pain. I'm grieving and no-one seems to want to acknowledge that it's happening.

I feel completely alone. No-one is right here, right now, in the same position as me and I can't seem to be able to communicate how I feel so that people can truly comprehend. Maybe someone who reads this might know?

Anyway, here's the poem in full...


Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

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Winter's fall

The day has scarcely blossomed, when its glow
Is obscured from us, lost, as wilting bloom,
Midst curves of hillsides, draped in drifting snow,
Leaving only an opalescent gloom
Bleeding through the line between land and sky,
No longer day, but not yet fully night.
Mute snowflakes faintly glisten as they fly,
Reflecting the last of this sinking light,
Enchanting ribbons squalling through the grey
Should herald for us a silent warning
That a dark hunger soon will swallow day,
Leaving us with a long path to morning.
Instead we are mesmerised by the scene
Of the winter's fall, silent and serene.


This is my first ever sonnet - it's a bit like hard work!!!

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Come be my monster

Come be my monster,
Lay your black heart bare,
Show me your darkness,
Your sorrow, your pain.
I'll sooth it away,
For you I will dare.
Come be my monster,
Live freely again.

Come be my villain,
I'll show you the way
To harness your wrath,
Your terror I’ll tame.
I'll teach you to know
The part you should play.
Come be my villain
And live free from shame.

Come be my darling,
Learn to be my pet.
No more be ugly,
Your beauty I see!
Speak me your secrets,
Feed me your upset.
Come be my darling
And live free with me.

Come be my meaning,
My goodness make glow,
Mirrored in your black,
My worth now I see!
I cannot love you.
So monster please go!
No more torment me!
You must set me free.

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An historic poem

Well it's "historic" in so far as it's one which I added to the Guardian Poster Poems for the "History" topic, although I did always mean to go back and write something more. I'll probably never get round to it, so here it is in its original form for now...

Your history:

History weighs heavy on your eyelids
Now almost lacking the strength to unblink.
Caught in the wrinkles of your sunken face
Memories long lost, but never replaced.
We know your past better than you do now,
Gently steering your familiar tales.
But still we know so little of your life.
Your hopes and dreams, the sights which you have seen,
Are fading in the flickering twilight
Of your once vibrant eyes, now turned to grey.
History that once gave such sweet escape
Now lurks, an unknown beast in your shadow.

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The fish know best

The fish know best this river blue,
Which deep shrouded currents renew
Under the surface, smooth as glass,
Its secret heart, a writhing mass,
An ever-changing underclass.

Each step I take cannot break through,
Solidity forever true,
To piscine realm where I trespass,
The fish know best.

Their shiny rainbow scales imbue
The depths with iridescent hue,
Taunting me around me they pass
As I fail to catch them, alas!
Old lessons here I learn anew –
The fish know best.


(apologies to those of you who have seen this one from me elsewhere, but I just thought I'd plump my own blog up a bit)

Oops, I did it again!

It was quite by accident that I've ended up with another poem in an anthology. I decided I'd take a chance and submit the poem that I'm most proud of (so far) to a poetry competition a few months back. Recently I got a letter saying that I hadn't won, but they were asking permission to print some of the entries into an anthology, to be called Whispers in the Wind I think, I've misplaced the letter. Anyway here's the poem (which I've published at Zeph's lovely Other Stuff blog previously).

Scent of the Rose:

Sorrow masks the scent of the rose
Pulsating in my clenched fist
Crushed like a strangled artery.
Velvet petals, laid layer on layer
Curl tightly to its sweet core
In intricate simplicity.
Its beauty threatening to fade,
Now plucked from its source of life,
Blood red congealing into black.
Its silky skin soothing and cool,
As cold to touch as the stone
Under which you lie. Withering.
And as I place it on you its
Shape springs back immaculate
And unspoilt, as if never touched.


To enter a competition go to United Press - they are always running at least one competition and the prize is £1000...

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An empty heart

Here's my very rough attempt at an idea which was a lot grander than my abilities seemed to allow, but I was pushed for time to meet the Guardian Poster Poem deadline and thought I'd post it anyway. In time I hope to revise it. I think the second stanza probably needs to be made into two stanzas as it changes too suddenly in the middle. The thought behind it was the thought that a person could have paid the price for taking every opportunity to live the experiences which life offers, the price being losing the ability to hold love in their heart, through the loss of innocence. Any thoughts on what works and what doesn't would be welcomed...

An empty heart, a bitter pill:

The night had swallowed my heart whole,
A sugar-coated dust-filled shell
And faint placebo for its ills.
Hungering for solace and cure,
Darkness kneaded vacuous depths,
Moulding dull flesh in bony fists,
Dredging deep for those connections
Which once held my heart at its core -
Rich sinews of the loved and lost
It thought would form emotion's web.

But the gloom could not gain control,
Could not stir sorrow and yearning,
To feed itself on my despair
And sustain its halt upon dawn.
As the sun's light did not burn me,
Nor wake painful rememberings.
For I danced in bleakest shadows,
Had sworn myself without repent
To lustful hedonistic gods -
My heart's blood as the recompense.

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Forward to normal?

Today has been a tough day. My first day back at work for three and a half weeks. I was dreading it, but I hadn't quite worked out why beforehand. Three weeks is long enough to notice a colleague's absence, even if you don't work with them very much, so I knew there would be questions. I suspected the source of my dread was the prospect of being asked where I'd been, what had been wrong and whether I was well again, from the people who didn't know. I imagined myself telling them in a detached manner what had happened to me, because I would feel like I was ok again if I'd returned to work. But I suspected that perhaps the other option of everyone knowing and sympathetic looks and gestures might be equally difficult to handle.

I didn't know what to expect from the people who I was going to have to see and interact with, but probably more importantly I didn't know what to expect from me. No idea! No idea if I'd be up or down, friendly or defensive, happy or sad. It was beyond what I could predict or contemplate. I made plans of course: getting there early to avoid running the gauntlet down a full office; telling a couple of people there I was feeling wierd about it so I could call them from the door if I needed help; deciding what work I was going to do to ease me back in; and planning other aspects of the day.

Most people left me to my own devices, which was probably the best option I could have hoped for. A couple of people asked and were a bit put out by the curt answer they got. I was perhaps more put out than them though, as I was shocked at the curt answer I gave. We'd decided as soon as we knew what was really happening that we wouldn't hedge from giving the real answer if people asked, but somehow in a room full of people who didn't know and some of whom I didn't really know well enough to expect them to want to be involved, it became a vast truth to speak out loud, it became an impossible task, the words just wouldn't leave my mouth. Maybe I didn't really know what to say. Should I have told them that I'd had an ectopic pregnancy but it's all fine now, panic over, and after all we could try again and be nice and positive, or would that have sounded too much like I didn't really care about my loss? Should I have said I'd lost a baby and left them feeling that I was melodramatic and enjoyed creating awkward silences? By the time you try to work all these things out you get so exhausted that you just go for the easiest option which is to just say you've been ill and leave it at that.

I've been defensive all day... Yes I'm fine, yes I'm over it now, yes I have been away for a long time but it's best to make sure that I was fully recovered to be able to come back and hit the ground running...

That's all complete rubbish.

I'm not over it.

Right now, this minute, I'm less "over it" than I've been for weeks. Some friends have just had babies, some friends are expecting babies, most people are telling me that the worst is over, but I just don't see how it can be. Yes I'm getting fitter again, I can sit at a computer again and do normal things, but I don't feel like I will ever be the same again. What level of "normal" am I returning to? What am I getting back to? I just don't know.

The person who's been sharing this with me has tried to understand, but he just can't. He can't understand what it's like to be a mother and then not a mother. To have a child physically removed from you. What it's like to be reassured that all you lost was a bundle of cells, yet to know in your heart that if the bundle of cells had been in the right place that you'd be allowing the nurturing feelings to grow and you'd be already seeing it as your baby. How can it be something one minute and a nothing the next minute? I know there are lots of people out there who do know what it's like and I know a lot of you have left me messages already, which I have really appreciated. But just now in the maudlin state that my first day back at work has reduced me to, I can't see how anyone knows exactly what it's like to live my life and understand my battles. I'd only just been picking myself up in life, learning to unfurl my painful truths, only just starting to appreciate how the events of my life shaped me into the emotionally stunted person I am in real life, only just learning how to be selfish in demanding support from other people.

Then suddenly I get thrown into a situation I can no longer handle on my own, one in which it is essential that I trust other people and one which I don't have the ability to process mentally on my own or deal with physically without help. I've been absent from my normal way of life, been thrown off the path and I've been fighting my way through the darkness and the elements to get back again. But where do I return to? Which version of myself? That person who was yet to be a mother no longer exists, at least if she does she's still very lost and confused. In the end do I want to be that same person anyway? I've learnt so much from these past few weeks that the positives which have come from this experience will be lost if I go backwards to the person who I was. So who do I now become?

Getting back to normal is a fallacy and an impossibility. I need to get forward to normal. A new version of normal. How do I do that?

I need to say goodbye to my baby, whether it's the real little ball of cells or the imaginary baby which now lives in my head, the one which this pregnancy would have become in different circumstances, I'm just not sure how I'm going to do it.

Say "Goodbye" to goodbye:

A brown envelope, plain and small,
Screams its importance in dischord
Within its nest of birthday cheers.
Mirroring that happier time,
Where sunrise of benign relief
Rose positive from negative.
This time doomed to herald bad news
Whatever the results may be,
The final outlet for our grief.
"Sadly no official remains"...
Nothing which they need to dispose,
Nothing human we need to mourn.
All moments of existence wiped
By faceless official decree.
The time for forgetting has come.
Tell it to my body, my heart,
My soul and my maternal urge
That they are misplaced, mistaken,
That they are just not viable
That a life did not truly start
Because it could not reach its end.

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Are you ok yet??

Am I ok yet? That's a good question...

I'm not far off physically. I can do most of the things I want to do now, although sleeping is still a bit of a problem as I can't get comfy, so I'm still very tired. I'm having a couple of naps during the day, so I'm not sure how that would go down in the office. Actually I have had a quick nap there once or twice before balancing on my hands, elbows on desk, looking like I was concentrating on something complicated. So maybe it wouldn't matter? Also I'm still not able to do all the things which I used to do which involved bending in the middle, but then again who actually wants to do laundry, unstack the dishwasher, or sweep the floor??

One answer to the question is how can I not be ok with these gorgeous flowers beaming at me?:



I still have most of the five bunches of flowers I received (although the chocolate is nearly gone and a fresh supply is being brought this lunchtime). Strangely the biggest and most impressive display died off first. I'm hoping that the sunflowers last for a while as they really do say what I need a bunch of flowers to say. They bring happiness and sunshine, which is sadly lacking with this miserable summer.

Nature has such restorative qualities. Just a simple ten-minute walk down the canal which runs along the bottom of the valley was enough to bring some perspective. There are ducks and quite large ducklings now, sort of teenagers in duck terms, still slightly fluffy round the edges though. The valley sides rise into imposing jutting hillsides, covered in sheep and cows gently calling, and it doesn't matter that it's not good weather, the whole scene is peaceful and makes me realise that life goes on.


(This is the view from my sofa - utter tranquility)

Someone once said, when explaining how devastated they were at their father's death, that they couldn't believe that the buses were still running that day. It's true that you have such a life-changing day and that you can't quite believe that it's just a normal day for everyone else and that things keep on going on regardless, but being in the midst of nature can really bring back to you the sense of insignificance you need to get cracking with life again. Of course now my head is raring to go but my body is still letting me down and I know it will for a few weeks yet.

I suppose really the question of "Are you ok?" doesn't mean what people think it means. To me OK means are you sound? are you ready to carry on? are you managing?. It doesn't mean that you're on top of the world, a hundred per cent happy. In a previous post I talked about visiting my family and seeing that they were ok, that they weren't going to burn out and that they had enough strength and mettle to fight the good fight. That's how I feel now, so as far as I'm concerned I'm ok.

At the moment I'm still in the section of my life where I'm getting special dispensation, I'm not expected to do my share of the housework, I'm not expected to be thinking about complicated situations or legal concepts because I'm off work, I'm not expected to be the best friend listening to other people's troubles (although I don't mind), I'm not expected to be "normal" yet. This makes me feel alright though. I'm as ok as people are expecting me to be. What I need now is to go back to normal life. People keep on saying "don't go back to doing normal things until you're ready", but I don't agree. Doing normal things, finding them scary or traumatic and then getting over them or finding a way to do them differently is what I need now. I need to go to the supermarket and feel overwhelmed and lost, I need to get on the train and fall asleep and get off at the wrong stop, I need to go back to work and find it impossible for a while, I'd rather get thrown off the horse again than get used to not having to ride it at all.

I suppose this is precisely when you are ready, when you can't stand waiting to be ready any longer. No-one is ever fully prepared for what life is going to throw at them next, but knowing that you're ready to stand up tall and face its next challenge is probably as far towards ok as you are ever going to get. At the moment I'm in the house, surrounded by reminders of the fact that a small tragedy has happened and I think it's easy to get pulled into dwelling on that tragedy when you'd really like to move on. I suppose I feel like I should be miserable for a bit as a tribute to the lost baby, but then again the best tribute to him would be to try again, to create the next life and to put the experiences to positive effect. We've had our first lesson in parenting, and it's a very important lesson, how to cope with loss and how to stick together. Actually that's two lessons... there are probably many lessons!

People think that you getting on with life means that you're over the tragedy. That's not the case. It's a hard little stone which you'll always have - you just smooth down the corners until it's not harmful to the touch anymore and you stow it neatly away to be carried around with you. You know it's there and you'll take it out and have a look at it or a feel of it sometimes when something in life reminds you of it. You don't ever let go of it, because it's part of you.


WHEN?
When will this be a distant and dusty recollection?
A set back, not an ending, a hiccup in the process.
When will I awake without the ache in my belly
And a hole in my heart where my nurturing love had swelled?
When will I awake without sorrow falling from my eyes?
When will this just be history, part of the family story,
Told to the grandchild wriggling on my knee?
When will I no longer have to swim up to gasp awake
Through the dark blue sea on which I am drifting?
When will this be a distant memory of a sad time,
Which makes the good times all the sweeter?

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A full turn of the circle: back to five-minute poetry

It's how I started, not worrying about whether I'd used the right form, just letting the words pour out. I thought it was wise to revisit this to get myself started up again. I wrote this on the way to work in a spare five minutes on the train. Maybe I'll use it as a base for a later more considered version, or maybe I'll just leave it as a little slice of the much deeper longing it represents...


Will there ever be someone?

There's a chink in the wall,
But will anyone ever burn
With the unceasing desire
To need to force through?
Will I ever be that damsel
In need of rescue?
Will there be someone
Who can't live without me,
Who must defend me
Whether right or wrong?
Will I ever course
through anyone's veins?
Will there be a heartbeat
Which speaks my name,
And only mine.
Will I ever become
Unwaivering obsession?
An essential possession?
Will anyone give his dreams
For me to tread upon?

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In an anthology

So it's finally been decided which poems will make it into the first print anthology of the Poster Poems series that has been running for the last year on the Guardian book blog, and Billy Mills has kindly included one of mine. It's not one of my best, it was posted in my first few weeks here, when I was just getting started writing the poetry and I was determined to rise to the Poster Poem challenge every week, regardless of the quality of the poem that I'd written.

I hope that I'll be able to add some better ones when the challenge starts up again. Watch that space! (I've added the link to the Poster Poems into my bloglist so you can browse there to see what it's all about).

Thanks to Billy for my inclusion! It's an inspiration for me to improve on my work (hopefully!) in the future.


Dreaming...

Whilst dreaming of you
I slept through the rain
And I woke up to
glorious sunshine,
Only to find that
you were just a dream.

You passed in the night
In a moment I
thought everlasting.
And as rain returns,
I drift back to sleep
to dream once again.


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Poems on tour

Those of you with eagle eyes might have spotted a link in my bloglist to a poetry site, which has just posted a new poem for me.

I'll not post here because, well, I've posted it there.

But feel free to browse... warning it's a bit miserable!

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Another light-hearted poem, this time about bank robbery

All he was good at...

When Robin Banks were nought but a small boy,
In short-leg trousers and public school cap,
They pondered what source of gainful employ
There could be for such a talentless chap.
Assiduously able to destroy
Any project on which his hand did clap,
His genius often would they deploy
To chores they'd not mind when he caused mishap.



He tried his hand at countless professions
But somehow he lacked the requisite nous
To make any kind of good impressions,
Successive bosses their ardour he'd douse
Through incompetence and indiscretions.
He chopped the wrong trees and milked the wrong cows,
He'd clear the wrong house in repossessions -
He seemed clearly destined for the workhouse.

One day a gent in sharp suit and cravate
Rode into town on a shiny black steed,
Burst in the saloon and took off his hat
And with his stashed cash "Free bar!" he decreed.
He worked round the punters, charming with chat.
When Robin he met his long face queried,
"I'm Robin Banks," Rob said, "All I'm good at..."
"What luck!" the gent exclaimed, "Just what I need."



Rob listened with awe as the gent relayed
Tales which were surely pure fabrication,
Of adventure and crime, handsomely paid,
which he soon was to find weren't invention.
Reckless natured, a good gangster he made,
So hungry to get retaliation,
The town's folk who'd scorned him were now afraid.
He'd finally found his true vocation.

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