Open Writing

I love words. I've used them all my life. Well, not quite, not yet, if you know what I mean.

At one time I had secret aspirations to become the world's second most famous poet after William McGonagall but as I knew he would be a hard act to follow I started going to poetry readings to see what I could learn, listening attentively to a selection of minor masterpieces being read out by their creators, together with short (or longer) discourses on their inspiration and interpretation.

One day, the poet who held the floor went on just a little too long and I began to ask, 'Why can't he let the words speak for themselves?' I didn't go again after that.

Names are words, too, and some of us have some pretty crazy ways of naming our children and pets. I was careful not to fall into that trap, and gave the matter some careful thought when I, Arthur, and my wife, Beryl created a little miracle to whom we gave the name Clive, and then another who became Dawn.

Get my drift?

Alphabetically speaking, all was OK until the arrival of number three, another boy.

There was some family pressure to name him after my father, who felt miffed at being missed out first time around, but his given names were Ernest Edward, and as our new little bundle of joy had not been found in a handbag at a railway station and the 'Teddy Boys' era was still painfully fresh in the memory, both names had to be rejected. (My mother and grandmother were both Elizabeths, by the way, but let's not be silly about it!)

The problem was solved by naming him Eden, but we had always liked the name, Simon, and that is what number two son has been called, to this day.

Next, we acquired a dog .....

The letter 'F' was vacant, so why not Fred?

'Because I want him to be Timmy, like the dog I had when I was a little girl', Beryl insisted.

Timmy? What a ridiculous name for a dog!

After much discussion we reached a compromise and agreed to name him Timothy Frederick.

'He's a handsome animal,' a friend remarked, 'and deserves something more classy.' The name St John (pronounced 'Sinjon') was suggested and it sounded good, so he became Timothy Frederick St John, but as none of these names sounded at all dog-like, we added 'Rover' to avoid any identity problems.

Now, I seem to have digressed somewhat because what I really wanted to tell you about was our lovely garden. The children enjoyed playing there, and so did Fred. It was a blaze of colour and they especially loved the snapdragons, which brings me to this little poem what I wrote:

Clive and Dawn and Eden Simon's
Garden bloomed with antirrhinums
'til Timothy Frederick St John Rover
Saw the flowers and dug them over.

Good poetry speaks for itself, don't you agree? Why waste words explaining it?