March 13, 2005
Birthday Poems
This is the season for birthdays it seems. Yesterday there were two big parties back in Canuck-land. My Grandmother had the first of a brace of parties to celebrate her 100th and my wise old uncle Pat had his 40th. Pat is actually a year younger than I am which pretty much makes my aunt a cradle-robbing trollop.
For his party we had been asked to send along a picture of ourselves along with a poem or story. Unfortunately, I am a crap nephew and forgot all about this until I was about to venture out the door. I had to go on a shopping trip for crucial hair maintenance unguents with my charming spouse. To remedy the situation, I sent a series of pictures from my phone with brief poems as we travelled around London. Unfortunately, I'm not entirely sure any of them actually arrived. I tried to send the photos to flickr but it's been several hours and they haven't shown up yet.
The other adventure we had last night was that we saw the play "Hedda Gabbler" at the Almeida. A crucial bit of the plot revolves around a fellow who has written a manuscript of great genius which he misplaces. This leads to his ruin and much unhappiness for everyone concerned. In an effort to forestall any similar crisis amongst my own circle, I feel I should record my poems immediately for posterity. Sadly, you'll just have to imagine the photos which should have accompanied them.
Greetings from the top
of the 277 bus.
Hope your party's not a flop.
Happy birthday from both of us.
Now we're on the tube.
It goes 'clickety clack'!
And, 'cause they don't use enough lube,
'Screech!' goes the rickety track!
This is a musical.
It's about a flying car.
We haven't seen this spectacle
Or driven in its star.
This is a store called Liberty.
Its wood comes from ships,
Which makes it very pretty,
If not particularly hip.
We're in a Belgian restaurant
With more beers than you could ever want.
The beers are brewed by Trappist monks.
Drink too many, and you'll totally blow some chunks.
Now we're back home,
Lying in our bed.
I'm out of clever poems
So I'll just say this instead.
Happy birthday to you.
You don't stink like poo.
Happy birthday from me.
You don't stink like pee.
Happy birthday from Vicki.
Who thinks you don't smell at all icky.
In fact, as birthday boys go,
You smell like freshly baked dough.
Happy Birthday, Uncle Pat.
Or course, my crapness as a nephew is nothing compared to my crapness as a grandson. I considered briefly trying to come up with a poem for my grand old Baba, but I was far too intimidated. The woman published books of poetry. Real poetry! Not lame-ass comic poems about poo and lube and Trappist monks, but poems about flowers and wheat fields and the prairies where she grew up.
I occasionally pretend I did some hard work in my day, planting trees in the wilds of the Liard and what not. But, my grandmother, Doris Elizabeth Yanda, was born in a sod hut in the middle of the Canadian prairies just after the turn of the century and never knew any work but hard work. She was still harvesting her own beets at the age of ninety-something. And you just know that anyone who grows their own beets is not someone who spent their early years with a silver spoon in their mouth.
She helped found the Ukrainian Woman's Association of Canada and helped broker its affiliation with the National Council of Women. I like to pretend I'm a sensitive new age guy but all I've ever really done for the cause of feminism is to marry a feminist, and that had more to do with the fact my wife is a total babe than she was destined for great things in the field of gender studies.
My Baba was also a champion weaver and made the most amazing Easter eggs. Her old art projects are in the National Museum of Canada. My old art projects were all thrown out by my parents as soon as they thought I'd forgotten about them. The woman raised tens thousands of dollars for various charities throughout her life. She raised four kids into some of the most opinionated and feisty adults I have ever known which can't have been an easy task. To think of that foursome as toddlers makes my blood run cold.
All in all, she's been a force to reckon with and my only consolation is that even if I haven't come close to matching her accomplishments so far, I have another 60 years to catch up.
And to that end, I hereby vow to devote myself more fully to my art. Here, then, is another poem. This one is dedicated to my crazy landlord who also just had a birthday.
Roses have petals.
Violets are gay.
I'll spank you with nettles
For your birthday.
(Please note that I have no intention of spanking the man with nettles. This is just an artistic conceit. I'm sure, knowing him as I do, he would be delighted to be spanked with nettles; the man's a horny old perv. But it just wouldn't be appropriate with my grandmother turning 100 and all.)
Posted by YandaMan at 5:42 PM
February 14, 2005
A Valentine's Poem
I wrote a Valentine's Poem for my Darling Spousal Unit. It went:
Roses are soft
Pine sap is sticky
The girl that I love
Calls herself Vicki
Last year I wrote one that went...
Roses are red
Auburgine are purple
You make my pants
Look like a church sturple
Just thought I should note them down somewhere so they are not lost to posterity.
Posted by YandaMan at 10:54 PM | Comments (1)
January 8, 2005
Irene's 90th
Contrary to what you might think, the dapper gentleman pictured above is not my Grandmother's lover, but her brother. These pictures were taken in August. The main reason for our trip was to attend her 90th birthday party. She's a grand woman, my grandmother. She really is one of the best people I've ever known.
My loudest aunt hosted a grand party with 90 green helium balloons floating around the ceiling. My gran had prepared a multi-page speech which was typically wise, funny, and demanding – she quizzed us all in her speech. My question had something to do with the Battle of Hastings, I seem to recall.
Vicki and I wrote a number of beautiful poems. Sadly, it is now several months after the fact and I can't remember any of them. I'm pretty sure they were thoughtful, brilliant, and touching though.
There were postcards and letters and well-wishings from around the globe, and a grand time was had by all. I just wish I hadn't sat on the photos for so many months. I'm looking forward to her 180th.
Posted by YandaMan at 12:05 AM | Comments (1)