Jenno

Jennospot 60  Jenno

Cripes, Oi reckon as ‘ow Oi’ve got an admirer. Any’ow, somebody ‘as written a poem about me, an’ Oi ain’t so modest as ‘ow Oi can’t share it wiv yew. So ‘ere it is. Oi ‘ope yew loike it, ‘cos Oi do. It’s called “Jenno”, wot is about roight:

Jenno

A red-head, all in yellow-green;

A cheerful kid who's full of cheek.
Her pleated skirt is short; its sheen
Is concertina'd, so to speak.

Her pullover is garden green,

It goes with skirt of yellow.
Although her name is really Jean,
She's known to all as, "Jenno".

And with her strongly-striding limbs,

She fronts the world with wilful walk
That takes its beat from martial hymns:
A fiery flower on sturdy stalk.

Her auburn hair is held, to wear

A primrose ribbon, catching in
Her golden topknot, tied with care,
And fixed in place with bight green pin.
 

She wins her races, and your heart,

By hurtling downhill headfirst
In speedy, yellow, soap-box cart
Called Emmeline Pankhurst.

In Widdlington where Jenno lives,
There's rivalry between her gang
And other gangs. And no one gives
A hang for grammar, all use slang.

Jenno, when she wants, can speak
With elegance; not to reflect
The English spoken by her clique:
With them, her speech is dialect.

She helps in trouble to win through.
Jenno's there when things get rough.
A loyal friend, who will be true,
Stalwart, steadfast, tiger tough.

Jenno is as Jenno does.
Jenno is a rebel.
Jenno gives us all a buzz.
Jenno's someone special.


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March Daffodils

Jennospot 59  March Daffodils

 

"Daffy-down-dilly is come up to town, in her yellow petticoat and her green gown."

 

That's wot the kids sing at school, but Oi don't know as 'ow the daffodils 'ave really come up ter town, 'cos Widdlin'ton is only a village. Wot Oi do know, is that we're in the month o' March, an' there's lotsa daffodils come out already. They look roight pretty in the garden, an' we've 'ad quite a lotta warm sunshine too, wot brings everyfink wot grows, on loike. Oi jus' 'ope there ain't goin' ter be too much wind, 'cos that knocks 'em down, wot is a pity.

 

Well, yew know wot they say about March: it comes in loike a lamb an' goes out loike a lion. So Oi got moi fingers crossed that the lion ain't a-goin' ter be too fierce this year.

 

Yeah, an' the birds are at it an' all. There's a little yeller bird wot's been comin' round the 'ouse a-tappin' on the winder-panes. Oi reckon 'ee see's 'imself reflected in the glass, an' finks it's a rival wot 'ee's gotta chase away. We 'ave ter draw the curtains 'cos the tappin' all day long gets on yer wick after a while. The bird is called a yeller-'ammer. Ain't surprisin' wiv 'is everlasting tappin'.

 

The blackbirds are squabblin' an' all, 'cos they've gotta make sure they've got a territory, loike us gangs. Lucky they don't 'ammer on the winders loike the yeller bird, ovverwise they'd break the glass. Yeah, the blackbirds are bigger. They sing real noice though.

 

Speakin' o' daffodils, Ol' Will Shakespeare wrote a little poem about them wot yew moight loike:

 

"When daffodils begin to peer

With hey the doxy over the dale,
Why then comes in the sweet of the year
And the red blood reigns in the winter's pale."
 

Oi ain't too sure about the meanin' o' the word "doxy", Oi fink it's a kinda sweetheart. Any'ow, Oi s'pose ol' William knew wot 'ee was talkin' about wiv that, an' wiv the red blood reignin' full o' life. It sounds noice any'ow, don't yew fink?

 

So now Oi'm goin' ter end by writin' it agen, an' Oi'm doin' it special fer yew: Hey, yew the doxy over the dale… 'ave yerself a red-blooded 'appy finish ter the month of March.

 

Luv from Jenno.

 

Website: http://www.peterstjohn.net/

Let's Leap Walls

Jennospot 58  Let's Leap Walls

Terday Oi'm goin' ter give yew a poem by Anne-Lise Brugger GrataLoup. It were inspired by "The Little Prince" of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. The pictures come from 'is book, "Le petit prince", an' it were Antoine de Saint-Exupéry wot drew 'em.

Anne-Lise, created an' runs a special school in Geneva called, "Passe murailles, l'Ecole de l'imaginaire". It were Peter St John wot done the translation inter English from Anne-Lise's poem.

Let's Leap Walls

Tell me…

Can you cast Spells:

The art of Wonder,

The art of Dwelling Outside Time

In Space beyond limit?

Tell me…

Can you cast Spells?

You, my misguided contemporaries,

Like me condemned

To run

Ever breathless…

Tell me…

Can you cast Spells…?

Then suppose we dream…

Of leaping walls;

Dancing with the wind;

Flying arm in arm with angels;

Becoming herbs and flowers in fields

Rocked by dewy breezes

Let's open our eyes

To moonless nights:

Recognize the star which shines for us

And laugh,

Remembering the sand,

Remembering the well...

In the bright sky of our hopes

A little prince tends

His rose.

Lovely in its silk

Which dares

Declare a faith in seeming thorns

And worries for

The caterpillar

Becoming butterfly.

Tell me…

Can you cast Spells;

The Art of Wonder,

The Art of a sheep inside a box

And of a serpent hat?

Then…

Suppose we go…

To the heart of that desert

Where gleams

Wild

The source!

Let's drink its limpid

Drunkenness.

Let's fill up our flasks

And go on,

Magic, Art and Wonder

For our friends.

Tell me…

Can you cast Spells?

And now, wot really oughtta come first but Oi put it second 'cos ovverwise yew English readers moight not never read any of it, 'ere's the original:

Passons murailles

Dites…

Connaissez-vous l'Enchantement,

L'Art de La Merveille,

L'Art de la Vie dans le Non-Temps

Et dans l'Espace sans limites ?

Dites…

Connaissez-vous l'Enchantement ?

Vous, mes contemporains illusionnées

Comme moi condamnés

A courir

Essoufflées…

Alors… si nous rêvions…

Passons murailles,

Dansons le vent,

Volons aux bras des anges…

Devenons herbe et fleur de champs

A la rosée berçante.

Ouvrons les yeux

Les nuits sans lune,

Reconnaissons l'étoile,

Celle qui pour nous s'allume

Et rit,

En souvenir d'un sable,

En souvenir d'un puits…

Au ciel joli de nos espoirs

Un petit prince soigne

Sa rose

Belle en sa soie

Qui ose

L'aveu d'une inutile défense

Griffe-Semblance

Et se soucie du devenir

De la chenille

En papillon.

Dites…

Connaissez-vous l'Enchantement,

L'Art de la Merveille,

L'Art de la caisse et du mouton

Et du chapeau-serpent ?

Alors…

Si nous allions…

Au creux de ce désert

Où rayonne

Folle

La source !

Buvons sa claire

Ivress,

Remplissons bien nos outres

Et repartons,

Enchantement, Art

Et Merveille

Pour compagnons.

Dites…

Connaissez-vous l'Enchantement… ?

Moi Gang Leader

Jennospot 57  Moi Gang Leader

Are yew in a gang? Well, the leader o’ moi gang, the Pepper Mill Lane Mob, were John Jay, or “JJ” as we called ‘im. That is, before ‘ee were called up ter go ter the war. ‘Ee were pretty big too were JJ.

Any’ow, Oi were there when JJ an’ Peter met fer the first toime, only Oi didn’t say nuffink, not then, Oi only jus’ watched. An’ cripes, it were quite somefink ter see. Oi reckon Peter were roight lucky ter get away wiv it. It ‘appened when ‘ee was a-lookin’ in the winder o’ Ma Jennings shop at Gables Corner. ‘Peter St John wrote it all down later on in ‘is “Gang Territory”. This is wot ‘ee wrote:

“I turned, to find my way blocked by a giant, or so he seemed to me in that first startled instant before I realized that it was a tall, bulky adolescent much bigger than me. He was flanked by Braces and Itchyprick who were grinning widely and expectantly. There was a redheaded girl behind them. The giant's face was expressionless.

‘So, this is the great playground pisser?’ was his opening remark.

I gulped and nodded, trying, without much success, to slow my galloping heart rate. It seemed of the utmost importance not to reveal my fear to Braces and Itchyprick.

‘Yeah, that's 'im, that's 'im, JJ!’ they yelled excitedly.

I decided to attempt a casualness that I was far from feeling. In circumstances such as these, a little bluff can often be useful. ‘So, this is the famous JJ?’ I replied with a smile, holding out my right hand. ‘I've heard a lot about you.’

He ignored my hand. He was not going to lower himself by treating me as an equal. ‘We don't loike them Adare Road lot neither,’ was his only acknowledgement of the Slug's humiliation in the privy. His use of the third person ‘We’ didn't escape me: that is how monarchs refer to themselves.

‘Neither do we loike the Lions Avenue Lot a-coming into our lane,’ he added.

I wanted to point out that in order to go almost anywhere from Lions Avenue, it was necessary to cross the Gables Corner end of Pepper Mill Lane. Certainly there existed another exit at the other end of the avenue but that only led away in the direction of Clayton.

I looked at JJ's stony face and decided that in the presence of his underlings he was unlikely to be open to reasonable discussion with an inferior from another territory; so I merely nodded. A nod committed me to nothing.

‘Yer new, so Oi'll let yew off this time,’ he decreed from his majestic authority. ‘Jus' keep outta The Lane in future or it'll cost yer.’

He pronounced ‘The Lane’ as though it were the ‘Kingdom of JJ’. For him, of course, it was.

I said nothing, but merely stepped around him and his humble subjects, to cross the road sedately, head erect, with as much dignity as I could muster.”

(Gang Territory Chapter 14)

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