Elma Mitchell

Several Purple Cooers write about poetry, so I thought I would too despite having a small list of other subjects to blog about but never quite getting down to it.

I often design and produce score cards for ‘party’ sessions of bridge. I decorate the front with a picture or photograph and inside insert a shortish poem alongside the score table. Here is an example – Outside and Inside:

INSIDE

I was recently asked to recite at a ‘Poems and Pints’ evening arranged by our local Twinning Group. I was given a poem to read by someone I was not familiar with – Thoughts After Ruskin by Elma Mitchell.

Elma was born in in Airdrie, Lanarkshire. She won a scholarship to Somerville College, Oxford, where she took a first in English in 1941. She went on to take a diploma in librarianship at University College London, and spent her earlier working life as a librarian and information officer for the BBC (1941-43) and for the British Employers' Confederation. She won several prizes for her poems and there are several books of her work available. She died in 2000 aged 81.

Thoughts After Ruskin by Elma Mitchell

“Women reminded him of lilies and roses.
Me they remind rather of blood and soap,
Armed with a warm rag, assaulting noses,
Ears, neck, mouth and all the secret places.
Armed with a sharp knife, cutting up liver,
Holding hearts to bleed under a running tap,
Gutting and stuffing, pickling and preserving,
Scalding, blanching, broiling, pulverizing,
-- All the terrible chemistry of their kitchens.

“Their distant husbands lean across mahogany
And delicately manipulate the market,
While safe at home, the tender and the gentle
Are killing tiny mice, dead snap by the neck,
Asphyxiating flies, evicting spiders,
Scrubbing, scouring aloud, disturbing cupboards,
Committing things to dustbins, twisting, wringing,
Wrists red and knuckles white and fingers puckered,
Pulpy, tepid. Steering screaming cleaners
Around the nags of furniture, they straighten
And haul out sheets from under the incontinent
And heavy old, stoop to importunate young,
Tugging, folding, tucking, zipping, buttoning,
Spooning in food, encouraging excretion,
Mopping up vomit, stabbing cloth with needles,
Contorting wool around their knitting needles,
Creating snug and comfy on their needles.

“Their huge hands! Their everywhere eyes! Their voices
Raised to convey across the hullabaloo,
Their massive thighs and breasts dispensing comfort,
Their bloody passages and hairy crannies,
Their wombs that pocket a man upside down!

“And when all’s over, off with overalls,
Quickly consulting clocks, they go upstairs,
Sit and sigh a little, brushing hair,
And somehow find, in mirrors, colours, odours,
Their essences of lilies and of roses.”

The pink section I was requested to omit in case of giving offence to some elderly sensitive ladies present. No one seemed to think that I, at 68, fell into this category. Last week I was asked to reprise my performance by Cowbridge Rotary at their monthly entertainment to a local sheltered housing group.

It is a great poem to read aloud and although not being a regular performer I quite enjoyed it.

I have chosen the following poem also by Elma Mitchell for my next score card – a charity bridge event in May.

I’m Middling, Thank You by Elma Mitchell

Oh, the middle, the middle’s the right place for me,
Thirty-eight round the hips, voting Lib/SDP,
My job is the devil; my God’s C. of E.
I believe in His weather, on His BBC.

I’m neither a saint nor excessively vile,
My style has no life, and my life has no style.
No marathon runner, I manage a mile,
I won’t love you for ever - but quite a long while.

I plod after fashions, but never set trends,
Don’t know who matters, but still, I have friends,
My means may be golden - I’m frayed at the ends,
I accept, with loud grumbles, whatever God sends.

My successes were modest, and few, and belated.
I was neither adored nor distinctively hated.
My silver’s not solid, but just silver-plated.
My sexual urges are now dehydrated.

No crazes, no phrases, not hooked nor enthused,
Occasionally beery, nor thoroughly boozed,
Not acid, quite placid, not totally tee-
I’m reasonably happy - and dull as can be.

And here is another one that I like:

This Poem by Elma Mitchell

This poem is dangerous: it should not be left
Within the reach of children, or even of adults
Who might swallow it whole, with possibly
Undesirable side-effects. If you come across
An unattended, unidentified poem
In a public place, do not attempt to tackle it
Yourself. Send it (preferably, in a sealed container)
To the nearest centre of learning, where it will be rendered
Harmless, by experts. Even the simplest poem
May destroy your immunity to human emotions.
All poems must carry a Government warning. Words
Can seriously affect your heart.

The poem inside the score card is good too - it is by Roald Dahl and as the print is rather small I reproduce here in a larger font.

A HAND IN THE BIRD

I am a maiden who is forty,
And a maiden I shall stay.
The are some that call me haughty,
But I care not what they say.

I was running the tombola
At our church bazaar today,
And doing it with gusto
In my usual jolly way . . .

When suddenly, I knew not why,
There came a funny feeling
Of something crawling up my thigh!
I nearly hit the ceiling!

A mouse! I thought. How foul! How mean!
How exquisitely tickly!
Quite soon I know I’m going to scream.
I’ve got to catch it quickly.

I made a grab. I caught the mouse,
Now right inside my knickers.
A mouse my foot! It was a HAND!
Great Scott! It was the vicar’s!
Roald Dahl