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"the curled wrought iron
mangle."
by Philip Johnson
I remember one of those stood on a frame
in the back yard at Granny Bus's.
Grand dad telling me not to play with it
in case I trapped my fingers
I couldn't understand why it didn't make any music
like the record player did when you turned the handle?
His master's voice drew a clout from ma
I already had the rollers turning and was feeding in the hand
and the left arm of my Action Man doll
Sqaushed em flat.
Imagined the crunch of bone in the bully at school
making fun of me as they were so heavily
crushed
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Chase
by Barbara Philips
at end of summer Dad
armed in vigilance
daily looked
for intimations of frost
heads of marigolds
vines of beans
green tomatoes
fronds of carrot tops
buds of roses
leaves of parsley
all were inspected
touched
infused with
concern still
set in the garden
warmth tended
all summer
when late afternoons
settled into north
winds kicking
dry leaves into corners
under fence pickets
among roots of
lilacs and hydrangeas
huge bouquets landed
on the kitchen table
begged arrangements
into Flemish splendours
or Van Gogh tableaux
piles of vegetables
washed peeled
chopped for soups
lured neighbours
beckoned friends
in salon happenings
Dad stirred harvest soup
with a large wooden spoon
served it up bountifully
we feasted
became best of friends
with summer's spoils
gave frost fair warning
through cornucopias
we chased down winter
on steaming spoons
devoured it whole
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Washing day 1947
by Sally James
it was like that then
mam scrubbing mangling
boiling whites in the copper boiler
mist on the windows inside
smog on the windows outside
lobscouse cooking
on a solitary gas ring
a pint pot of strong tea
to keep her strength up
me crying with measles
her raw hands soothing me
giving me medicine
in between pegging out
damp clothes in the damp air.
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Gang Gigs
by Barbara Philips
he would come home
after gigs
with his railway gang
throw his bundle into a corner
said he would get to it
then he sat
at the kitchen table
lit up a cigarette
stared for hours
into visions
he would not share
one hot day
when the gang
was close to home in Capreol
I took a fresh thermos of hot
bitter tea
just the way
he liked it
sound of steel
on iron
beat out of time
through hammers
menacing the air
before they came
down hard
on spikes
smelling of tar
oil
despair
over the tracks
men's shoulders burned
gleamed goldbrown
hunched
burdened
prepared the way
for the iron
horse that chugged smoke
across aluminum skies
cut by paper pines
gigantic wheels
clattered thunder
set floors to shaking
until window panes trembled
china tipped into
waxed abysses
the men swung wide
sang old songs
called to each other
come on boys there's work to be done
missus needs flour for flapjacks
kids need shoes
we need a drink and some cigs
not long now to quittin’ time
voices slid along rails
for the locomotive headed
to cities where men
in smooth leather soled
shoes smoked cigars
sipped fine brandy
followed stock quotes
bragged about weekends
lived dreams
bent into backs
up the line
where spikes sun
chrome polished shone
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