I can remember being in my pram: children stayed in their prams much longer then than they do now. A big bouncy pram with black covers and a hood with metal clips that could trap your fingers. I was looking up at my sister who was sitting on the pram seat, with her back to me.
quote by Helen Dunmore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Showing Dolls
And Mrs Clark said
why doesn’t your son
come to tea
I’m sure Helen
would like that
she can show him
her collection of dolls
and your mother said
yes that would be nice
I’m sure he’d like that
and Helen peered at you
through her spectacles
her pupils like
two brown fish
in a glass bowl
and she smiled
one of those smiles
which frighten small boys
and Mrs Clark said
yes and you can come too
and your mother nodded
and off they went
into one of their
long conversations
and as they talked
Mrs Clark rocked the pram
with her youngest kid
wrapped up inside
and your mother stood
with you by her side
with the creeping dread
riding up in you
of tea looming
and Helen standing there
her plaits on either side
of her head
going back and forth
as she moved her head
and Mrs. Clark laughed
and the pram shook
and the kid cried
and she rocked the pram
backward and forward
and all you
could think about
was the dolls
and the baked beans
on toast
and Helen showing you
her dolls
as she had before
and taking
a secret kiss
behind a closed door.
poem by Terry Collett
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What was she doing, there?
What was she doing, there?
Like some old bag lady.
Another displaced foreigner...
Sitting in Piccadilly, gardens
Manchester, today...
“With a toy pram
and 2 clothed dollies”
“One dressed in green,
a much larger in reddish brown”.
Simply put on the fountains cobbles...
Dressed in these old linens
Her dollies lying face down.
How odd? No one is looking...?
Not one sees the child’s pram.
Only big enough for a small, cat.
How odd these two babies,
look—displaced on the ground.
One displaced to her left.
Another to her right…
It’s the 9th of October—2011
the time tomorrows date 10.10am
on a grey, wet Sunday, morning.
And, her presence questions me?
Quietly, disturbs me.
Before I catch my 101 bus…
Lord what is real…?
What is sequential in a world of madness…?
poem by Mark Heathcote
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I have always had strong maternal instincts. Even when I was still a child I cut out pictures of prams from newspapers and imagined the feeling of pushing my own pram through fresh winter snow and seeing the wheels' tracks behind me in the snow.
quote by Agnetha Faltskog
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Unexpected Father.
Your mother
had brought Helen
home for tea after school
and she had held on
to the handle
of the pram
your mother pushed
and you walked
along side
thinking of whether
to show her
your toy soldiers
and cowboys and Indians
and the guns
that fired
loud banging caps
or whether to just sit
and watch the TV
and eat your tea
and show her nothing
but once you got home
and your mother went off
to the kitchen to prepare
the tea stuff and such
Helen looked at you
and shyly smiled
and said
Can I see your sister's dolls
and pram
and does she have
a doll's house
I could play with?
you dismissed the idea
of showing her
the guns that fired caps
or your toy soldier collection
and took her
into the room
where you kept the toys
and pointed to
your sister's dolls
and the pram
and said
Take care
my sister doesn't like
people messing
with her stuff
and Helen nodded
and picked up a doll
and held it to her chest
and rocked it
to and fro
and walked up and down
murmuring there there sounds
that echoed softly
around the room
Where's your sister?
Helen asked
will she mind me
rocking the baby to sleep?
Guess not
you replied
and stood watching her
as she walked
and talked to the doll
in an undertone
and you stood there
hands in pockets
like a father
of an unexpected child
wondering what to say
or do and taking in
her thick lens glasses
and her eyes
seemingly enlarged
focusing on the doll
and the way her head
moved from side to side
so that her plaited hair
went from side to side
and up and down
and she said softly
and suddenly
We may have a baby like this
one day and you had better
say something more
than you are now
or I'll think
you didn't want it
and off she walked
up and down the room
and hoped your mother
would come soon
and save you from the fate
of being the father
of a doll with a dodgy eye
and a painted smile
but having a tender spot
for Helen
all the while.
poem by Terry Collett
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At Helen's for Tea.
After school
Helen's mother took you home to tea
and she was wheeling
the big pram along the pavement
with you on one side
and Helen on the other
and she said
hold onto the pram
while we cross the roads
I don't want anything
to happen to you
and as you crossed
the busy roads
you kept glancing over
at Helen with her plaited hair
parted in the middle
and her thin wired glasses
and her raincoat
buttoned tight
against the wind
and her small hand
clutching the pram handle tightly
and beside you
Helen's mother
short and stocky
pushing and puffing
and her eyes dark as night
and kind at the same time
and when you reached their home
and went inside
and she took off your coat
you went with Helen
into the sitting room
with a coal fire blazing
and the smell
of drying clothes
and past dinners
and Helen said
do you want to see my dolls
and the doll's house
my daddy made
out of boxwood
with lights you can turn off and on?
sure ok
you said
and you followed her
into her bedroom
where her toys and dolls
were laid up along the wall
next to her bed
and she took up a doll
and held her out to you
and said
this is my favourite
this is Jenny
and you said
hi Jenny how you doing?
and Helen smiled
her slightly goofy smile
and you liked that
her smile
and her eyes large as duck eggs
behind the thick lens
and she handed the doll
to you to hold
and you held the doll
and kissed the head
and hugged it close
thinking glad the other boys
can't see me now
here with this girl
and kissing and holding
the darn doll
out of some small boy love
and shyness
and you know
they'd laugh out loud
and point their tough boy fingers
and you're glad
they aren't there
just Helen
and her little girl love and kindness
against their rough ways
and small boy toughness.
poem by Terry Collett
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Like Mother Like Daughter
When I was a child had dollies and teddies
I played tea party and bookstore,
And followed mum around the shopping centre with my dolly in her pram
I had my pretend credit cards and they were the coolest thing ever.
Now the dolly in her pram has turned in to a real child,
And my pretend credit cards are real
I don’t play tea party but make dinner every night
And a bookstore is a place where I buy text books and parenting books,
Not comics and novels
Soon again it will be time for tea parties and teddies,
And going shopping with dolly in tow
But now it is my little girl who has grand dreams of being just like her mum
Of having credit cards and a daughter of her own.
But for now as I watch her sleep I pray she does not repeat my mistakes
poem by Kayla Lines
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Kicks of sons
I shall remember his kicks,
Inside my womb, in the cradle,
In the pram and while in hugs.
I shall remember his last kick
When he went abroad to settle.
As a mother, no kick hurts me,
Including his absence when I die
As he lives there high.
31.12.2002
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.
quote by Cyril Connolly
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dark Skies
Never trust dark skies,
Mother says, sitting next
To you in her wheelchair
Aged and infirm, her mind
Shot through with senility;
And you remember her telling
You, that as a young girl, she
Would walk with her mother
And younger siblings, to take
Her father’s Sunday roast dinner,
Hidden in the compartment of
The pram beneath her two baby
Sisters, to the work place where
He waited, and her mother saying,
Make sure the others do not make
Off Etty, and your mother as she
Was then, with her big blue eyes
And long curly hair, having that look
About her, as if she could see her
Father’s death in 1936, and him no
Longer waiting, no longer waiting for
Them all patiently and hungrily there.
poem by Terry Collett
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Tiptoeing
When I look at my rusty amazing pram
And search for your peculiar fragrance Mom!
Then I remember that you take me out often in those days
And listen to my prattle patiently.
Still I hear your precious fading lullabies
And I walk towards the humble graveyard
Where you rest with others quietly Mom!
* A kiss from my mother
Made me a painter.
-Benjamin.West
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Twin Sisters
We say we are twin sisters separated before birth, my sister dot and me
We seem to do and think the same each day, unbelievably
One of us has an idea, The other carries it out
Twins separated before birth that's what we two are about
Maybe our dad got disturbed while on the job with our mam
Maybe god knew two of us wouldn't have fit in our mams small pram
I have no idea of the reason we came sixteen years apart
One thing is I do know we have had a thread that joined us from the start
poem by Marie Causey
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I am who I am!
I am who I am
A heart that sings kind
To the poor I contribute
Such a rare commodity of an attribute
I am the roadside tram
I am the sacrificial lamb
I am the fraudulent scam
The little boy been pushed in a pram
I am the lover you have always wanted
The one in the forest you hunted
Yet, you ignored me when I fell into your trap
Instead took a nap as I painfully grunted
I am the angel in disguise
Playing the harp with retarded fingers
If you listen carefully
The rythms of the sounds are meant to linger
I am who I am
Accept me for what I am
I am the one who fell from grace to grass
Lying on the ground without any broken bones
Thereby I praise myself, for I can still fight on and on
I am the black and beautiful
Standing in the middle or side of your room
Polished by soft hands ever so often dutifully
Most of all
I am the one
who loves you like no other
I am the one
who knows you like no other
You treasure you and your freedom
And I will tell you no lies
For freedom itself, comes with a price
Copyright 2005 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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The baby sitter!
Angel!
If you look after me
This old good for nothing skeleton
Like the babies you fingering here,
I am not rich but I have my old pram
My poor deceased Mom brought from a junk yard.
And my last will I grant for you
The fragile heart you can use as a mirror!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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For Absent Friends
Sunday at six when they close both the gates
A widowed pair,
Still sitting there,
Wonder if theyre late for church
And its cold, so they fasten their coats
And cross the grass, theyre always last.
Passing by the padlocked swings,
The roundabout still turning,
Ahead they see a small girl
On her way home with a pram.
Inside the archway,
The priest greets them with a courteous nod.
Hes close to god.
Looking back at days of four instead of two.
Years seem so few (four instead of two).
Heads bent in prayer
For friends not there.
Leaving twopence on the plate,
They hurry down the path and through the gate
And wait to board the bus
That ambles down the street.
song performed by by Genesis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A brief letter to Equinox
I checked with your Great grandfather 'Encyclopedia'.
And he has written this;
'The time of year when night and day are of equal length.'
Anyway you visit us once in a year
Like a far prismatic relative who comes with a big pear.
Sorry, I add few more lines;
In the broad day light
I see a patch of darkness
And in the night sky
Surprise a Meteor falls!
*[ When I pushed my grandson's pram, I do remember now what I told;
' Sonny! One day you too push me when I struggle on my Wheelchair! .]
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Sonny! One day you too push me when I struggle on my Wheelchair
When I pushed my Grandson's Pram
I do remember now what I told;
Sorry, I have no any regrets my son
I am proud that you're being a Pilot!
And I know that you have a limited time of Freedom
When that Exists suddenly you run to your nest
I understand the Ladybird waits for you.
Your poor Grandma also old now
And she struggles to pass a silky thread
Through eye of the needle!
And I too already threequarter senile
But still I remember your name my son.
If you find a better place in your flying career
Which is not in the given map,
Your poor Grandma and the jigsaw Grandpa
Could have wait for a while at a stopover
Until your pretty Alloy-bird safely lands!
* To the poetess Unwritten Soul [PH] in gratitude!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Moralist
Three other soldier blokes 'n' me packed
'ome from foreign lands;
Bit into each the God of Battles' everlastin'
brands.
They limped in time, 'n' coughed in tune, 'n'
one was short an ear,
'N' one was short a tier of ribs 'n' all was
short of beer.
I speaks up like a temp'rance gent,
But ever since the sky was bent
The thirst of man 'as never yet bin squenched
with argument.
Bill's skull was welded all across, Jim 'ad an
eye in soak,
Sam 'obbled on a patent leg, 'n' every man
was broke;
They sang a song of “Mother” with their faces
titled up.
Says Bill-o: “'Ere's yer 'eroes, sling the
bloomin' votive cup!
We got no beer, the soup was bad-
Now oo will stand the soldier lad
The swag of honest liquor that for years he
hasn't 'ad?”
Sez I: “Respeck yer uniform! Remember
oo you are!”
They'd pinched a wicker barrer, 'arf a pram
'n' 'arf a car.
In this ole Bill-o nestled 'neath a blanket, on
his face
A someone's darlin' sorter look, a touch iv
boy'ood's grace.
The gentle ladies stopped to 'ear,
'N' dropped a symperthetic tear,
A dollar or a deener for the pore haff1ict
dear.
The others trucked the wounded to a hentrance
up a lane.
I sez: “Sich conduck's shameful!” Bill-o
took to ease his pain
One long 'un and another. The conductor
picked his brand;
The gripman lent his countenance to wot he
'ad in 'and.
And when they moved their stand 'twas
Sam
Lay pale 'n' peaceful in the pram,
'N' twenty flappers stroked his paw, 'n' said
he was a lamb.
The gathered in the tokens and they blooed
'em as above,
While Jim-o done the hinvalid 'oom Sammy
had to shove.
Sez I: “No noble 'eroes what's bin fightin'
for their king
Should smirch theirselves by doin' this dis-
'onerable thing.”
But fine old gents 'n' donahs prim
They stopped 'n' slid the beans to Jim.
You betcher life I let 'im hear just what I
though of 'im.
Nine, g.m. at St. Kilder, saw the finish of the
prowl.
Each 'ad his full-'n'-plentv, and was blowin'
in the tow'l.
As neither bloke cud stand alone, they leaned
'n' argufied
Which was the patient sufferer oo's turn it was
to ride.
Each 'eld a san'wich and a can.
Sez I: “This shouldn't 'ave began-
'Tain't conduck wot it worthy of a soldier and
a man.”
I cud 'a' cried with injured pride. Afore a
push the three
Got scrappin', vague 'n' foolish, which the
cripple boy should be.
Sam slips his scientific leg, 'n' flings it in the
drain-
“I'll auto 'ome,” he sez, “or never see me
'ome again.”
But I am thinkin' 'ard oo he
Tucked 'elpiess in the pram might be.
Comes sudden reckerlection. Great Gohan-
ners, it is me!
poem by Edward George Dyson
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Demise (Untergang)
["Fifth and last version:
To Karl Borromaeas Heinrich"]
Across the snowy pond
the wild birds have moved away.
From our stars blows an icy wind in the evening.
Over our graves
bows the broken forehead of night.
Under oak trees we sway in an argentine pram.
Forever resound the city's niveous walls.
Under thorny bows,
blind pointers we, oh my brother, are climbing to
midnight.
poem by Georg Trakl (1 March 1913), translated by Walter Aue
Submitted by anonym
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The First Photo That Memory Took
that moment when …
when memory first opened its treasured album
and began to make our picture of ourselves -
it belongs to all of us, to each of us.
it’s where each meets all, and all meets each;
more of ourselves than we have ever stopped to analyze:
that blurred, out-of-focus moment – was it
the pattern on the hood of our pram,
the strap around our kiddicart,
the turn of the stair,
the pattern of the bricks around the fountain in the park,
the memory of our first fall;
the lion’s head fountain on the wall?
was it not a person, of
those who peered into our cot, or lifted us,
simply because
we could already control those beings around us
with a dribbly smile, a vague wave of our hand?
was it the first thing that we remember
because it paid no attention to ourself,
but simply, was… was, outside our favoured world?
whether we ever open the album, or do not,
it sits there, unexplained,
holding some secret of a consciousness
beyond the theories of scientists and philosophers;
inevitably, ours
to be followed – some years after –
and this, we may deny at first –
by that moment of a further consciousness:
when - as equally mysterious, unforgettable,
and often unremembered to this day -
we knew that we knew something
but did not know what it was we knew.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Baby love, maybe love
so there you are in
your pram or kiddikarria
nicely tucked up,
being talked to in that
singysongylingo
that grown-ups grow down to
when that tingylingy, like
that stoopid thingy
dangling on your cot that
doesn't do anything else
goes hissdidahdidah
and she switches her attention instantly
from who's mommy's little treasure then,
sticks this silver thing to block her ear
and starts talking to thin air
it must be either the fairies
who don't seem to be very helpful -
'oh darling don't say you forgot I
asked you specially...'
or she's going doolally and
the adult world's not
what it's cracked up to be
I'll give her two minutes no more
or else
poem by Michael Shepherd
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