Reappearance

"Yorkshire Pudding" by Daniel Halksworth

Having "come out" in my last blogpost, finally admitting through poetry that I am a poet, I tracked back through the annals of this ancient blog to find a poem that I posted years back. Yes - it was getting on for twenty years ago when I shared "Ode on Yorkshire Pudding" with an unsuspecting readership.

Actually, in those days, my readership was exclusive which is often a euphemism for small. Where are they now... Alkelda the Gleeful, Brad the Gorilla, Hazed, By George and The Blind Winger Jones? And I was but a sprightly lad of fifty two.

Poets are generally spurned and privately accused of being word-juggling weirdos. Coming out as a poet, I wonder if there's a liberation movement I might join with placards and marches and a certain unique colour for our lapel ribbons. Masses of poets descending upon London, raising our voices outside The Houses of Parliament...

"What do we want?"

"Poetry!"

"When do we want it?"

"Now!" 

⦿

Ode on Yorkshire Pudding

How simple thou art, risen through the years

I recall you marked my Sundays
Fat laughter and sharp tears
Golden wert thou - a vessel for mum’s gravy
Mashed potato memories
Brown ocean for a navy...
Of minted garden peas.

What an ordinary pudding you are -
Milk and eggs and plain flour
In a hot oven for half an hour.
You’re even made now by the famous Aunt Bessy
Supermarket packaging being not quite as messy
As beating those ingredients
In an old mixing bowl.

You bear my county’s name -
My land of hopes and dreams
From Flamborough’s chalky cliffs
To Barnsley’s deep coal seams
But in googling the world wide web
I find your fame at last has spread
From Timbuktu to Kalamazoo
The Yorkshire pudding rises…