Lady H. M. Ainsley-Billington--A Celebratory Retrospective

Lady Hortense MacFarquhar Ainsley-Billington, grande dame of the English stage, is celebrated as much for being as pale and sweet as a blancmange as for her operatic rendering of the timeless classic "When, In Momentary Slumb'r, My Love Doth Recline."

One can scarcely hope to catalog all of Lady Hortense's triumphs in this small space. However, no one will ever forget her command performance at Buckingham Palace when she gave a fist pump upon hitting every note of the impossible five octave "Bobby, Be The Bric-A-Brac On My Curio Shelf," prompting the attending Royals to initiate an instantaneous in-the-aisles hokey pokey break dance such has never been seen before or since.

A month later, once again lucid after an unfortunate episode involving character actor and sometime companion Fredo Pastalini and "just a smidgen" of Chinese opium, Lady H. wowed 'em at the Royal Albert Hall when she sang "My Boy Lollipop" accompanied by a revue of muscular and scandalously (un)clad male dancers. Pausing for a photo-op with Lord Hampstead, Lady H. confided that she was happy all the folderol regarding her tryst with "my little Hamster man" had died down, though of course her referencing it left Lord Hampstead seething and abashed while Lady H. appeared positively smug! 

Interviewed for this article, Lady Hortense opined that, in her view, today's "slipshod copycat noise" cannot hold a candle to the "passion and derring-do" of the electric folk emo metal which first launched her into the limelight. Pontificating quite charmingly on a range of subjects, she reminded this writer time and again of why Edmund Mumzet-Pagliatano bestowed, in Your Evening Calling Card that famous sobriquet "The Sublime Hortense" on our national darling, Lady Ainsley-Billington.  There is no other like her.
____

for Get Listed.

Ever The Lady--A Shameful Confession

It is difficult, being ever the lady,
as I strive to be.

If my dog jerks the leash while I am
-very daintily--
raiding the local book kiosk,
it requires enormous restraint to say,
"My goodness!" and stay on my feet as if I'd taken years of ballet.

Besides,
~the shame!~
I've never read Jane Austen.
_____

for Friday 55 at Verse Escape.

Image at top: Naomi Watts 

Woman In A Coffee Bar

I don't look like much, but when I open my mouth, 
they send the bomb squad and a priest.

Standing there at the counter, that dress makes me both jealous and repentant
of the things I want to declare at the border of your beauty.
Does the world seem blurry,
silent-movie sped,
to you, too?
Or are you as contained as a coconut,
as cool,
as necessary and as removed

from earthbound spirits?
You'd like me, if only you'd release your carnality into my custody.
I'm nervous, but that's all the time.
I'm the girl with a locust under each eyelid;
all I have to do is look,
and everything reduces to simple appetite.

Don't condemn me, I'll pay whatever back tax you demand.
Just come over here. Soon. Admire me, too.
Tell me I'm the ladybug you've been looking for
despite the fire department,
child protective services,
and, especially, the aftermath predicted for my bedding
by the tarot card I keep in my bag to notify
handsome firefighters and lady doctors of my special conditions.

Someone sent me their heart by telegram once.
It was too slow, and they had
to use dynamite and a blowtorch to get into the crypt I was renting at the time.
I came back to life anyway, though,
just now,
when I saw you standing at the counter.

I said to myself, there's the drug I've been kept off of--
the stuff cats and deep water divers know about,
made from equal parts next year's pandemic,
mother's milk and
the smell of pussy on the pillow, one's fingers (nails trimmed short) and
a book of favorite Catholic hymns
that we'll use to prop the door

so the breeze can come in, as you should as soon as you possibly can.
_______ 

From the following word list. I did not use all of them.

carrot

soon

seducer

deepwater

condemn

blowtorch

locust

urban

coconut

fluctuation

flesh

blurry

aftermath

ladybug

decadence

crypt

 

Read This Poem

Read this poem and I'll find that girl who snobbed you
and cut her dead in mid-sentence.

Read this poem and receive 15% off any astrolabe at The Drunken Parrot.

Read this poem and lose weight fast, locate lost loves,
eliminate mosquitoes, find a bank bag just sitting there on the sidewalk.

Read this poem and grow bigger boobs, thicker hair, enormous wings, why not?

Read this poem and Donald Trump gets laryngitis.
Read this poem and Hillary Clinton gets a big honking herpes cold sore.

Read this poem and feel younger, smarter, better!

Read this poem and leave a comment--
say a lot about my brilliance. Thanks.
_______

a little bargaining for the mini challenge.

In Autumn

In Autumn, when my love, my unparticular love
with a dozen faces was leaving--as she is always leaving--
in Autumn, when my heart is forever about to fall--but never falls--
I bought the scent of the season of endings, like an acolyte believing.

Blue, blue, songs are like tattoos, as the lady said.
In Autumn I coccoon myself wrapped in pages where I hope to find
the Neruda or the Dickinson that will assuage this feeling
that seeps like leaf-smoke through my dreams, my grief, my mothy mind.

Now, it is rain-green June, and the vines climb outside my window
as if they saw God above them, or hungry devils below.
My heart is easier when the light is longer, though solitude is still solitude;
darkness waits as it always waits, though I love to fool myself just now, just so.

And my Knight in his armor, plucked from a rank of defenders
off the shelf at Target? He is still here, stoic and ready, aromatic and constant.
It is always Autumn inside him, a high wind residing unseen behind his pose.
Together we make two seasons, skeletal, but telling each other we are verdant,

Each filling the indifferent air with our manufactured ode;
me ever the lady and pregnant, hefting that bale, hauling that load.
______

Karin Gustafson over at Real Toads, urges us to write an ode to the quotidian. I can't imagine many things more quotidian than a can of air freshener. She suggested looking around at one's desk, and my eyes landed on my dear and treasured Woodside Library can of Glade scent. Leather & oak, it says on the side. So, I put my hair up in a bun so tight it makes my eyes cross, donned my glasses, and began shushing people so that i could write this poem.

The line about songs being like tattoos is from the Joni Mitchell song "Blue", written by her.

Fun fact to know and tell: women have a keener sense of smell than men. It's science!

 
 
 

Pussy Cats

Do you think crying will help?
All right, you're right, sometimes it really does.
I have wept, myself.
Often.

I have wept when I felt God in the solitude of an early morning trail.
I have stood there in my Reeboks crying like a girl,
like God--
that other Girl.

I have wept when someone hurt me
by their words,
by their fists,
by their absence.
I have wept when I have been angry and unable to change anything.

Peanut, there are idiots in this world;
people who leave the articles out of their poems--
people who chase money, abandon children, hit women--
people who enthusiastically murder themselves.

Let's forget them for an hour, babe.
Let's not cry this morning.
Let's never wear chiffon again unless it's for ourselves.
It's time to toughen up.

To help us, I have taken the liberty of making some changes.
I have added a few accents and grace notes;
things to keep us on our toes.

There is a leopard in the vestibule.
She's sneaky and quiet.
Don't come downstairs until you're really awake.

In the sun room is a pride of lions.
If we take a nap among them,
we will understand sisterhood better.
We will wake up with golden eyes and an instinct for survival.

Finally, there are cheetahs in the breakfast.
They are like us, they speak softly, almost like house cats,
but they catch everything.

Trust me on these things, sugar.
By lunch time we will know so much that was hidden before.
We will look the same, but we will have a new mantra:
Step softly.
Stick together.
Eat fast.

_______

 

My Bear

My bear
is bigger than your bullshit.

My bear
might stick his nose where it makes you real nervous;
maybe he bite your thing off, maybe he just sayin' hi.

D'joo bring honey for my bear?
Should've. 
My bear gets bored, you'll wish you'd not forgot.

My bear
got claws as long as all next week.
He lets me paint 'em and he don't care.

He's a bear, weigh um-thousand pounds.
Who's gonna say anything?
You?

You say, mind if I open a window?
I say, yeah, I mind.
You say, wut? 
You say, you were just being polite.
You say, you could just open the damn window if you want.

I say, I could just close it again.
Me and my bear.
We like the place warm and stinky, or the bear gets cranky.

How come nobody loves me for long?
Could be my big mouth or my particular ways or my hair.
Couldn't be my bear. 
_______

 
 

Gator

In my alligator dream,
there was not enough Revlon to reverse
all the signs of aging
and fighting
and staying in the bath for far too long.

Nonetheless,
I found it easier to smile.
I went through dentists like tissue paper,
because I just couldn't resist the urge
to snap my jaws 
and send them shaking down my throat, whole.

In my alligator dream,
I was too large to flush down the toilet.
As a result, I was able to occupy
any apartment I wanted.
The heating bills, however, were enormous,
and the water kept shorting out the space heaters.

I lost interest in reading,
opera,
gardening,
and all the other stupid shit I used to love.
All the wasted time!
I could have been squabbling with other alligators
over the bloated, stinking carcass of some unlucky waterside creature,
and making off with my share, triumphant.

That is what I did in my dream.
I used no fork and spoon.
I declined to chew my food.
I relieved myself in the water and made no bones about it.
Ever the lady, I laid eggs like some batshit brood hen,
and when they hatched,
I allowed them to express themselves
and raise themselves
because alligator mothers do not helicopter.

I woke up grinning.
I grabbed the inattentive lover at my side and shook the shit out of her,
then rolled.
"What the fuck?!?" she screamed, stumbling to her feet.
She grabbed her clothes--and on impulse, some Aspercreme--
and was out of there, rubbing her arm and cursing.

I liked being an alligator.
It gave me a lot of permission,
and I didn't care if people liked me or even tasted good.
I miss my powerful tail
and my short ridiculous legs that never needed shaving.

So when you disturb my bath,
coming in without knocking and asking some retarded question,
realize that I am not the same anymore.
Channel the small mammal you are built around,
and read the reply in my eyes
as they look back at you
from just above the surface.
______

Author's note: In reality, I have no desire to be an alligator; I would have to be an Aveeno-gator, and I don't go near the water unless there is foaming bath soap in it. I would get kicked right out of Alligator Finishing School.

Advice for selecting a useful male

Tell me, how is a lady to make her way in this world?
A world where men insist on paving anything they can't cleave with a power saw?
I'm telling you,
they don't care about your stylish hat.
They don't care if you can recite Amy Lowell from memory.
They are consumed with laying asphalt, tracks, odds, and yes--
pipe. Especially that.

Why do you think our shoes are designed to inhibit running?
Why do you think we are taught as little girls not to scream at the top of our lungs when, in fact,
that is precisely the thing to do?
Why are our pockets stitched too small to hold a simple Bowie knife?

Honey, let's sit out on the veranda and talk.
Pepper spray isn't going be enough anymore.
Neither is that useless MBA,
and if you think old fashioned charm is enough, then I don't even know what to say.

Listen,
keep wearing the hat.
Keep brushing up on the Lowell poems, especially the one that says
"Fate lays many springes for those with imagination".
Most importantly, bring the lion.
Properly trained,
he will still be lazy, but his mere presence is usually enough
to make the average idiot drop his projects
and treat you with the cowed amazement that a lady deserves.
______

image: The Guardian" by Alin Suciu

This is snot the way to court me

He felt called upon to improve my poetry,
and so, unsolicited, sent to me
a rewriting of my latest verse,
done over in shades from bad to worse.

Wasn't this presumption enough?
No, it was snot.

It did not seem to occur to him
that a creature such as me, so frail, so dim,
would react with anything less than gratitude--
imagine his offended surprise at my att-i-tude.

Wasn't my pointed silence enough?
No, it was snot.

Thank you, sir, for your ham-handed edit,
your testosterone hubris, and refusal to get it.
Thank you, dear dumbass, dear pencil dick fuckwit,
for trying help this mere girl be more literate.

However, I must decline future offers of assistance.  I am not worthy.


Delicately,

Fireblossom
__________

I took a swipe at writing something vaguely Sara Teasdale-ish for Real Toads, but somehow Catblossom got involved and...well, what can I say?

' Blossom

Couldn't work at the saloon
cos I always kept a derringer in my garter
and anyways I wasn't that kind of girl.

Went and bought me a fine horse,
then built a bonfire and burnt up all my hoops and corsets
cos,
you guessed it,
I wasn't that kind of girl.

Stuck around town a while,
whilst I got provisioned.
When the corner boys laughed, I invited 'em to dance
to the music of my new friend Mr. Colt .45.

Coulda stuck around town,
raising chickens and fillin' a pew every Sunday,
but I wasn't that  kind of girl, neither.

So I lit out.
Made the moon my friend and bathed in the stream,
just adding a little scent that lasted until the current took it.

Days I didn't bother getting gussied up
for the prairie dogs and critters, cos they don't care.
Whistled a tune and nobody told me "Woman, hush!"

I'd-a plugged 'em if they did.

Pulled my hat down low over my eyes,
and listened to the eagle cry the same song that lived in my soul.
Nights, a good fire and a dime novel was all I need.

Got lonely, though.
Started to pine for that blacksmith's daughter,
the one that used to half smile as I went by,
makin' my heart ring like a hammer on an iron shoe.

Finally went back into town for biscuits and rose water,
payin' no mind to the weaker sex, with their scruffy beards,
until one of 'em shouted, "Hey mister!" and slap his knee laughin'.

I started to ride by--
didn't come for no trouble,
and I was dusty from the trail and not feelin' my very best,

but then I straightened my back
and brought my horse around as the afternoon sun went behind a cloud.
"Better step out in the street," I told that man.

I hadn't used the Colt in a month of Sundays,
but as my fingers flexed just touching the handle,
it all came back to me just like makin' a pie crust.

Sam Colt got a way of sobering up a loud man,
and he just looked down at his boots and mumbled,
"Sorry Ma'am."

I still had half a mind to put one between his eyes, just for the practice,
but then that blacksmith's daughter was at my side, saying,
"C'mon honey. Let's fetch some sweet tea."

She give me that half smile,
and said she knew a place where I could shake out my hair
and get fresh.

That's when I remembered what kind of girl I am,
and it put the dip back in my hip
and the glide back in my stride.

'Blossom's back in town,
and y'all had better 
show a lady a little respect.
________ 

My Delicate Sensibilities

i yam a girl
of deli-cat sensibilities.
not just enny trash can
can make my bed--
not just enny edition
can pillow my hed.

in another life,
i wuz cleopatra.
and that, sir or madam as the case may be,
means you should have deli-cat manners
around such as me.

if you wave some pastrami,
it's possible you may charm me,
but if you're cagey
you will fish up for me
something dumb and scaly from the sea.

I yam a girl
of deli-cat sensibilities
and a fine poetic naychur,
so you probly want to make sure
to bring sardines and starfish--
one to eat and one to make a wish
if you want to win me.

i was an egyptian queen,
and you need to remember that.
now, thank you for your kind attenshun,
but it is noon,
and time for my royal nap!
_________

Mehitabel the cat created by Don Marquis. The artwork is his.

 
 

SHY

I'm just a bashful lady poet,
dainty if I'm anything;
so shy, so proper, so reserved,
composing my delicate renderings.

I never speak above a whisper,
a flower I am, so pale and pure;
modest, that's me, with skirts to my ankles,
fragile, obedient, slight and demure.

Brassy?
Not me.
Try Hedgewitch
or MZ!
______

55 words (including the title) for the ass-kickin' G Man!

photograph: Cristina Scabbia

Find impudent Hedgewitch HERE and brassy MZ (Mama Zen) HERE !