E Y E W E A R, THE BLOG - FREEDOM MEANS BEING UNAFRAID TO WRITE WHAT YOU THINK

Par Avion Air-speeded letters sing the light of home. Lyrical with distance, the blue and red flecked envelopes become a mother.   Home so far away it turns into myth. Memory lapses into dream and dreams are forgotten. The only reality is ink.   Your mother’s handwriting - neat and clean on blue paper - soon spidered with age. Her hands tremoring, years passing   like the planes tearing overhead as letters exchanged over the arc of earth between a woman and her son,  Par Avion .   Faces, half-recalled, revived by pen: sisters getting married, fathers always busy, babies getting born, you missing.   Homesickness is an open wound you may have thrown the letters away, but I saw the blood through your shirt.   It spoke with a red mouth.   poem by Maria Taylor, copyright 2013.

Royal Mail 2012 Letters from Monday Are waiting in the frame. A postman went sick And none other came. Letters from Tuesday Are waiting in the frame. The bosses don’t care But just pass the blame. Letters from Wednesday Are waiting in the frame. The post is growing heavy – Another guy went lame. Letters from Thursday Are waiting in the frame. The staff just can’t keep up With this crazy game. Letters from Friday Are waiting in the frame. Royal Mail’s performance Will never reach its aim. Letters from Saturday Are waiting in the frame. After a week of failure The next will be the same. poem by Dennis Tomlinson, copyright 2013

ON THE ROYAL MAIL Santa Claus delivers but once a year to you, Yet he receives far more recognition than our postmen do. Up at four each morning, A ten-hour shift ahead; Sorting through illegible addresses, Fighting that overgrown tree and hedge. They wear the Royal logo, But Tories treat them more like slaves: ‘Sell ‘em to the highest bidder,’ That’s what Cameron says. The price on the Queen’s head will soar If Thatcher life is renewed. Don’t get mad at posties for being on the picket line; They’re doing it for you. poem by Bryony Harrison, copyright 2013.

Mail Junkie   Many are the ladies Who’ve had me smitten. Many are the letters I have written.   Many are the sighs That I have heaved. Few are the replies That I’ve received.   These days the only people Who ever write to me Are bureaucrats at the electricity And water company.   I get a bit of junk mail (Usually second post). I’ve a competition with the guy next door To see who gets the most.   I still listen for the postman With his firm familiar tread. It’s no exaggeration To say it gets me out of bed.   I seize hold of the envelopes In brown or white or buff. I don’t care about the contents - I just never get enough!   (Copyright  Simon R. Gladdish  2013)