Jenny. A Poem

Jenny by Paul Depasquale. He recently gathered together some of his previously published poetry into a collected works. This is one that made the cut. I cried as I listened to as a child.

I remember old Jenny, the bottle’o’s mare,

And the day they singed the hair off her belly.

It reminded me of things not worth a damn

Like the sacrifice that Abraham nearly made

(No one had told me about Jesus yet).

Old Sam the bottle’o’s cart was bogged

In black mud, axle-deep, and would not budge:

Four of us heaving, and Jenny straining,

But the mud was too deep (after a whole night’s raining).

My old man, a sensitive guy,

Was all for letting the day go by and trying tomorrow

When the ground was dry.

“Bugger the bottles!” my old man said,

“The mare’ll strain till she drops down dead.”

“By Christ,” snarled Sam, with spit on his mouth,

“Fetch me some straw, Johnno, out o’ that there shed.

She’ll move the cart.” Johnno and Sam made a heap of straw

Beneath the mare’s belly. Sam struck a match.

I had a funny feeling in my insides

Like a rat was having his breakfast in there.

“Listen, Sam,” said my old man, putting his hand

On his countryman’s shoulder. “Give her another chance,

Don’t light the straw.” The rat stopped eating.

Sam said, “One last chance, Steve, and then by God

And Jesus and all the sacraments and angels

And all the saints in heaven I’ll burn her belly

With the damned straw.” The rat was suddenly hungry again.

We shoved, and Jenny pulled, then Sam stuck

A rusty four-inch nail into the mare’s rump.

“God!” laughed Johnno, “didja see her jump?”

Jenny screamed for mercy and the trickle of blood

Ran down her arse and into the mud.

Sam struck a match again, and lit the straw,

Fire in my insides from the rat once more.

Jenny snorted, and stamped in terror, stirring the thick mud.

Johnno giggled and slapped his thighs, while old Sam scowled;

Somewhere in my consciousness a siren howled

“Put that fire out!” but nothing happened,

Except that Jenny’s eyes grew bigger with staring

Between her blinkers, and I stood hoping, but not daring

To say out loud, “Put that bloody fire out!”

My old man said, “Sam, I’ll go over the road

And ask them to come with their tractor.”

The fire was nearly out by then for Jenny had trampled

The last of the straw into the mud (Johnno had run for more).

There was blood in the mare’s nostrils as well as on her rump,

She quivered her lips as though she wanted to speak.

“You bitch of a mare!” Sam shouted wildly,

“Making a fool of me in front of my friends.

Take that, and that, and that, and that,

And that!” And he kicked her in the belly

Five times quickly with his hob-nailed boot:

And she trampled in the mud some more.

When Johnno covered her back and mane with straw

She was so frightened that she tried to roll

And got tangled in her gear, her near hind-leg over the chain,

And then old Sam started kicking her again.

The post-modernist limerick

I sent Petrus, an artist, an email that contained reference to a pair of jugs. He sent one back about knockers (and I’m not talking doors here). Why couldn’t a pair of jugs be just that, I asked him. Two matching pieces of ceramic ware that poured liquids? Before long we were embroiled in a vigorous intellectual tussle on the nature of jugs within a gender framework in a post-modernist context.

Frankly, the whole thing needed to be brought back to Planet Earth and what could do that better than a limerick?

There once was a mug with a jug
Who kept a big bug on a rug
He would lug it around
And thought it profound
To give it a very big hug.