Francesca Bossert's Blog, page 2

FOREVER FABULOUS: On hips, colour, and forever-fabulous friendships

All dressed up and unable to go!

Hello,This poem waves shyly at Jenny Joseph’s wonderful “Warning” (When I am an old woman I shall wear purple) and at Maya Angelou’s “Phenomenal Woman” whose “sway of my hips” always makes me want to raise an eyebrow and wink at someone mischievously. It is also a love letter to my friend Sabina who remains forever fabulous, forever dancing on heavenly tabletops in scandalous boots. Sabina left us a few years ago, but I miss her every single day, so I was delighted when she came to sit next to me this morning, insisting on playing a big part of this poem.In other news, I'm back in Switzerland, and have loads of medical appointments lined up as my IBD is not improving with my current immunosuppressant; I had one of my worst flares ever last week and had to resort to taking cortisone again for a couple of days to be stable enough to fly home. I'm happy to be back here, even if a little freedom to go places would be a welcome bonus! Soon! Very soon...With love and gratitude,Francesca x

FOREVER FABULOUS

If I were elderly

I would not just wear purple,

But hot pink and turquoise and silver

And buttercup yellow,

In velvets and cashmeres and silks

And the softest cottons.

I would flounce down the high street

On my way to drinks with my friend Sabina –

She in orange or scarlet, or maybe, today, an exquisite emerald green.

 

Today, elderly me would wear turquoise and silver silk-velvet,

And sling a fringed suede bag over one shoulder,

Relishing how it bounces with the sway of my hips

As I flounce down the high street

to meet my dear friend

Sabina,

Forever fabulous.

 

Today –

Holy smoke! –

She’s in a scandalous scarlet number

With over-the-knee black boots with assassin heels.

Sabina forever has it going on.

 

She greets me with her mischievous

“Hello Madam”

Beige-busting hug

And we order cosmopolitans,

Pester the DJ

For Abba, Blondie,

And a whole lot of David Guetta and Ricky Martin.

 

Of course, we have no time

For the scandalized biddies in beige

Zealously guarding their handbags,

While Sabina,

Forever her fabulous self,

Let’s loose on a tabletop

In her scandalous boots

With assassin heels.

 

But wait a minute…

 Am I elderly?

Today I delight in a wardrobe bursting with colour and texture,

A swoon of hues.

I still flounce with relish

Whenever my hips are up for flouncing.

 

Sabina only greets me

With a mischievous “Hello Madam”

In dreams,

For she left this world far too early

And now lets loose on heavenly tabletops

In an endless parade of little numbers,

Each one more scandalous than the last.

 

Elderly, moi? Perhaps!

But I have Ricky in my hips,

Guetta in my veins,

And Sabina forever laughing,

Forever scandalous,

Forever fabulous,

Just out of sight,

Right by my side.

 

Sabina ❤️🦋❤️

THE CASE OF THE MISSING MINI

Hello!

Some of you may vaguely remember this one from early last year. I've tightened it up quite a bit, and it still makes me smile!

I'm trying to spend more time working on my novel, and so less poetically inclined, although who knows, since the poem pixies always arrive out of nowhere and demand my full attention. And of course, I ended up fiddling with this one for far longer than I expected!!

I hope this little story makes you chuckle! It’s inspired by something similar that happened to a friend of mine...

With love and gratitude,

Francesca xx

TAWANDA: Unstoppable! or The Amateur Cyclist’s Guide to Fearless Living

The only thing I stillpeelthese days –apart from fruit and anything thatcan’t otherwise be eaten, obviously - are the few stubborn layers offear-of-ridiculestill loitering in obscure corners of my body.However, those areasare so remote, so trivialI have no ideawhat they look like. Which is why, When I cycled to the post-box,smiling and helloing everyonewhilenonchalantlytrailing an entire roll of toilet paper,I failed to rousethe faintest blush.Tawanda!Hello! This poem was inspired by Beth Kempton's prompt for the new #tinysummerpoem. Yesterday's prompt was "peel". You're only supposed to spend ten minutes writing them, with no editing. But if I was a fusspot over words before, I'm even more of one now. So I spent longer, and I edited. Editing is not a crime. The poem was also inspired by my trip to the post-box yesterday... And no, I did not blush. I simply giggled, came home and wrote a poem. As you do.Have a ridicule-free day!With love and gratitude,Francesca xx

DEAR MR MOON: PLEASE REMOVE IDIOTS. A Formal Request for Celestial Waste Management

Image Alexis Antonio, on Unsplash

Good evening,

I’d like to schedule

A collection,

Please,

Mr Moon.

Can you send some

Mummenschanz

To pick up truckloads of VNI’s (Very Nasty Individuals)

Or maybe just ask Scotty to beam them up?

 

I’m sure I don’t need to tell you

Who’s on the Nasty List,

Mr Moon –

Your

main man

Must have been making a

List

And updated it

More than twice

Because,

Well,

Seriously?!

 

What should you do with them?

I’m thinking a

Supermassive Black Hole

should do the trick -

Without the melting glaciers, naturally,

This isn’t a Muse video.

 

One-way tickets, of course,

For the lot of them

As we’d all appreciate

Clear skies stretching out to the edge of

Forever.

 

Please note that this request is urgent and time-sensitive due to global idiocy levels.

Lunatically yours,

Francesca Bossert

 

LE JOUR OU JE SUIS DEVENUE UNE ROCKSTAR DE LA POESIE: Mais qui était donc cette femme pleine d’assurance?

Au diable la zone de confort, j’ai 63 ans et je me lance !

Ces derniers mois, j’ai décidé d’être plus courageuse. Plus audacieuse. De me montrer, de laisser briller ma lumière, de devenir ma propre plus fervente admiratrice. J’ai toujours eu horreur de parler en public – ce qui, dans mon cas, s’étendait aussi aux conversations avec des “VIP” – comme lors de certains dîners auxquels j’ai dû assister quand mon mari travaillait encore, et où je me retrouvais assise à côté d’un monsieur dont l’ego ne tenait même pas dans le restaurant, encore moins sur sa chaise. Je me sentais invariablement déplacée, à court de mots, à court d’idées – et, pour ne rien arranger, complètement invisible ! – pendant ces moments interminables et éprouvants. Bien sûr, il y avait aussi de très belles soirées, avec des gens sympathiques et intéressants.

Mais je n’ai plus besoin de faire tout ça, puisque mon mari est à la retraite ! Yes ! En réalité, même s’il ne l’était pas, je n’irais plus à ces soirées chic à cause de ma MICI…

Mais revenons à cette sortie de zone de confort, que j’ai effectuée en grand (en tout cas, pour moi !) vendredi matin, lorsque je me suis tenue derrière un pupitre pour lire quelques-uns de mes poèmes devant un petit groupe, lors d’une rencontre informelle des résidents du club de golf où nous vivons quand nous sommes en Espagne.

Je m’étais préparée depuis quelques mois en me filmant en train de lire mes poèmes et en postant les vidéos sur Substack. Plus je le faisais, plus je me sentais à l’aise – ce qui est normal, bien sûr, mais pour quelqu’un d’aussi timide que moi, cela m’a vraiment surprise.

Alors, lorsque j’ai commencé à réciter She Means Well derrière mon pupitre officiel de poète (haha) vendredi matin, et que j’ai réalisé que je n’étais pas seulement en train de lire mais aussi d’“interpréter” le poème – tout en souriant aux gens et en échangeant des regards espiègles avec des inconnus – je me suis demandé qui était cette personne si sûre d’elle et ce qu’elle avait mangé au petit-déjeuner (granola, puis deux Imodium !). Et lorsque le poème s’est terminé et que les applaudissements ont éclaté, ma confiance s’est épanouie comme un tournesol. J’ai enchaîné avec enthousiasme sur My Body Wants to Be Spanish – un titre qui a provoqué pas mal de rires – puis j’ai terminé en beauté avec The Bohemians.

Seulement trois poèmes ? me direz-vous. C’est court, non ? On t’a lancée des tomates ou quoi ?
Aucune tomate à l’horizon. En fait, si ça n’avait tenu qu’à moi, j’aurais lu Illicit Croissants at Dawn en entier. Mais j’étais invitée lors d’un café-rencontre pour favoriser les échanges, et comme tout le monde ne parlait pas anglais, trois poèmes un peu longs suffisaient largement.

Et puis, vous auriez dû me voir après, une fois l’euphorie retombée ! J’ai dormi une bonne partie de l’après-midi. En prime, je me suis réveillée le lendemain matin avec un bouton de fièvre – alors que je n’en avais pas eu depuis des décennies – ce qui est étrange, car je ne m’étais pas sentie particulièrement nerveuse. Mais je prends des antidépresseurs (et quelques autres traitements), alors je suppose qu’ils sont en partie responsables de mon aisance à lire : “Well hello there my dear! How’s you been? What’s your news?”

Pendant que je discutais encore au café-rencontre, plusieurs personnes m’ont félicitée, m’ont demandé d’où me venaient mes idées, et m’ont dit qu’elles n’avaient jamais imaginé que la poésie puisse être aussi amusante – car à l’école, elles avaient été forcées de lire de la “poésie sérieuse”, qu’elles trouvaient dense et ennuyeuse. Une charmante dame française, Charlotte, m’a acheté un exemplaire d’Illicit Croissants at Dawn car elle m’a expliqué qu’elle ne parlait pas assez bien anglais pour lire un roman, mais que peut-être l’anglais en petites bouchées amusantes serait faisable. J’ai signé son livre, puis deux autres personnes en ont acheté un, alors je les ai signés aussi.

Ensuite, j’ai mangé de tout petits croissants délicieux, bu du café, et j’ai eu envie de gambader dans l’herbe avec des ballons, tellement j’étais heureuse – un peu comme une star.

Rachel: mon agent, Jeff: mon garde du corps, Cedric: directeur cinématographique, moi: poète

Si, comme moi – et comme la plupart des écrivains – vous êtes timide, peu sûr de vous, et détestez être le centre de l’attention, je vous encourage à faire de petits pas pour sortir de votre coquille. Pas besoin de dire “hou” aux oies – ignorez-les simplement. Trouvez votre public, trouvez vos marques, et – au risque d’énoncer une évidence – profitez du processus de création et de partage. Allez-y doucement ou foncez à fond. Mais allez-y. C’est amusant. C’est gratifiant. Ça renforce la confiance en soi.

Et il n’est jamais trop tard !

 

THE DAY I BECAME A POETRY ROCKSTAR: who was that confident woman?!

Me?!

 

❤️🌿🥐🌿❤️❤️🌿🥐❤️ 

Comfort zone be damned, I’m 63 years old and I’m stepping out!

For the past few months, I’ve been pushing myself to be braver. Bolder. To show up, let my light shine, be my own most fervent advocate. I’ve always been terrified of public speaking, which in my case could also extend to speaking to people in “big positions” - like some of the dinners I had to attend when my husband was still working, where I’d find myself seated beside someone whose ego didn’t even fit in the restaurant, let alone in his chair. I invariably felt completely out of place, out of words, out of thoughts - not to mention completely invisible! - in those endless, excruciating moments. There were, of course, lovely evenings with friendly, interesting people too.

Anyway, I don’t need to do any of that anymore because my husband is retired! Hurray! Actually, even if he wasn’t, I couldn’t have gone to those fancy do’s anymore because of my IBD…

But back to flinging myself out of my comfort zone, which I did big time (for me!) on Friday morning, when I stood behind a lectern and read some of my poetry to a group of people during an informal gathering for residents of the golf club where we live when we’re in Spain.

I’ve been working myself up to doing something like this over the past few months by filming myself reading some of my poems and posting them on Substack. The more I did it, the more at ease I felt - which is normal, obviously, but for someone as shy as me, it really surprised me.

So when I began to recite She Means Well behind my official poet’s (haha) lectern on Friday morning, and realised I wasn’t just reading but also “acting” the poem - while smiling at people and making mischievous eye contact with complete strangers - I wondered who this confident person was and what she’d had for breakfast (granola, and then two Imodium!). And when the poem ended and people clapped, my confidence bloomed like a sunflower, and I segued animatedly into My Body Wants to Be Spanish - the title itself causing quite a few chuckles. I then did (did! Gosh, I sound like a rockstar!) The Bohemians, which closed my little show.

Just three poems? I hear you say. That’s a very short reading! Did you get pelted with tomatoes or something?

No tomatoes were involved. In fact, if it had been up to me, I’d have read the entirety of Illicit Croissants at Dawn. But I was a guest star at a coffee morning for people to get together, and not everyone spoke English, so three longish poems were enough.

Besides, you should have seen the state of me later, once the high wore off! I think I slept most of the afternoon. Also, I woke up with a cold sore on Saturday morning - something I’ve not had for decades - which is weird because I hadn’t felt particularly nervous. But I’m on happy meds (and a few other things), so I guess they were partly responsible for my “Well, hello there my dear, how’ve you been, what’s your news?” newfound performer persona.

While I was still mingling at the coffee morning, people were congratulating me, asking where I get my ideas, and telling me they’d had no idea poetry could be so much fun - because at school they’d been forced to read “serious poetry” and found it dense and boring. A lovely French lady called Charlotte bought a copy of Illicit Croissants at Dawn because she said she doesn’t speak English well enough to read a novel, but that maybe English in small, fun bites would be doable. I signed her copy, then two other people bought copies, so I signed those too.

Then I ate tiny, delicious croissants and drank coffee and felt like skipping around the grass with balloons because I was incredibly happy and felt a little bit like a superstar.

If, like me - and like most writers - you’re shy, unsure of yourself, and hate being the centre of attention, I urge you to take baby steps towards coming out of your shell. You don’t have to say boo to the geese - just ignore them. Find your crowd, find your feet, and - at the risk of stating the obvious - enjoy the process of creating and sharing. Take it slow or go full throttle. Just do it. It’s fun. It’s rewarding. It’s confidence-building.

And it’s never too late!

 

From left to right: Rachel: agent, Jeff : bodyguard, Cedric: filmography, and me, poet

The venue ⛳️☀️🕶️

Illicit Croissants At Dawn - poems

THE ART OF SMALL THINGS: Stitch by stitch, we begin again

I teach a small child

to crochet,

marvelling at his determination,

his drive to learn,

at his tiny hands grappling with

the precise repetitive dance

of hook and yarn,

of consistent tension.

Stitch by stitch. I demonstrate.

Pass him the work.

He tries again. And again.

Stitch by stitch.

We drive to the bazar to buy yarn -

he will make a scarf for his maman.

And in the grace of this mini-human,

in his love-driven willpower,

in the wonder in his eyes

as the green scarf begins to grow,

I am flooded with serenity,

with the knowing

that – beyond this small, delicious moment,

someday,

the world will mend itself.

Stitch by stitch

we begin again.

LET’S SEE WHAT IS GOING ON IN THE WORLD

Let’s see what is going on in the world,

my father would say

every evening at eight,

his voice a sigh of resignation

as the white dot in the centre of the television

turned into images

of skeletal children

and resigned mothers

with death in their eyes.

 

And I peeked over cushions,

Scared to meet their gaze.

 

I no longer use cushions –

the news is everywhere.

And my soul screams with fury

At the perpetual vomitorium of evil and insanity,

At the bullshitters in designer suits

Who not only choose not to feed

Skeletal children

And resigned mothers

With death in their eyes,

But sell the bombs

And bullets to kill them, too.

 

But I believe in retribution,

In names never forgotten,

In justice – slow, limping,

Yet certain

As the turning earth.

 

 

 

 

THE CLAN OF THE OLD OAKS

Across the road

from the ugly flats where I lived as a girl,

a small square of woodland thrived –

a pocket handkerchief of deep breaths

on the hemline of urbanization.

 

Augmented by birdsong, squirrel extravaganzas,

and landscaping provided by moles and rabbits,

patient, centennial oak trees

extended accommodating branches

to throngs of mini-Davy Crocketts constructing forts,

which – over time –

evolved into grand multiplex tree villages

accessible only by rope ladder,

and – of course –

restricted to Davy’s privy to the magic password.

 

Between these grand oak roots,

dolls and parents regularly play-feasted on buttercups and daisies,

served in dainty crockery tea sets.

 

In the after-hours, love-drunk teenagers

visited this oasis, moseying from base camp to nirvana,

their canoodling sometimes interrupted

by a pelting of acorns

launched by one of the more strait-laced

members of the Clan of Old Oaks,

while the sun chuckled as it slipped behind the mountain.

 

The oaks are long gone now, evicted by progress.

Smooth parking bays replace the forts,

the rope turned fire escape.

 

Still, I like to believe

each oak tree flung one last acorn

at the first of the invaders –

a parting shot from

The Clan of Old Oaks

 

 

 

MAD WORLD: JUXTAPOSITIONS OF PRIVILEGE AND WAR

Armed with a glass of Chardonnay,

I sit amid golden light

while swallows pond-swoop

for Michelin-star mosquitoes,

hoping the feral kitten’s mother

has returned from her evening hunt,

that nothing has befallen her.

 

Will we later watch

Drive

to Survive?

 

Armed with automatic weapons,

soldiers in vantage points

watch the frantic agony of the starving

and shoot,

just because they can.

 

I drain my glass.

 

Check the WiFi.

As if connection could save us.

 

ILLICIT CROISSANTS AT DAWN