The Postal Collection

In List of Ists

Is this a hobby, album style,

some charity, kiloware bag,

a subject, perforation count,

the watermark, or phosphor bands,

adhesive self, or lick and stick?

If these are correspondence stamps,

a catalogue or letter trail,

then where’s that stamp, date, place postmark,

the proof of posting, missive sent,

for are they used, unused and mint?

As country, postal origins,

alone, we never print our state -

sufficient, sovereign head proclaimed,

a stamp, nation’s authority,

art Wilding, Machin, now the King.

A craft, the satisfying part

to present page, spread stamps alike,

definitive of palette range,

a commonality in size,

those bedded plants yet each unique.

The interests of philatelists

in wide vocabulary summed,

just fascinates, collecting bug,

a weevil weaving web design,

with list of ists in antique fairs.

There is a history of sorts

on this quadratic label stamped -

of custom, arts, technology,

communication, nationwide,

and greetings shared from hand to mat.

Sealed, Stamped, Delivered

Torn by my often muddling mind

these perforated jagged lines,

on closer inspect, not so neat

as viewed, whole holed composite sheet.

Enhanced, fibre feathered tufts,

skeletal make up of this stuff,

a paper tear, as any might

when separated from home site.

Ignoring counted phosphor bars,

a watermark, securing stars,

increasing philatelic sales -

to me, new issue, blood-line fails.

Approval stamped on rainbow bands,

mosaic, coloured tint dye strands,

paned stained glass, spread ranged light diffused -

on one page, palette portrait hues.

The anoraks remain hung up,

much worn, charm ending though, when young;

but Wilding ways or Machin mould,

fan image in repeat displays.

Back in my head, dissonant words

sing like unordered mockingbirds;

I hope for tones under control,

definitive, shift block, re-coil.

Wilding

Patina melting into wood,

hydrangea sapped, skeletal drop -

was cottage pink or iron blue?

Fond fountain pen, Quink laid to rest,

long superseded, Wilding stamp,

fear Machin corner, older crown.

To Chagford, tuppence, in her thatch,

from Newton Abbott, 59;

warm beer at Ring of Bells, chime lost,

ramrod, her cycle to the church

for Mrs Goodale, Dartmoor edge,

the children paddling, River Teign.

Two decades past her days were wild,

her middle age mixed WAAFs around,

moved Harrogate to Buckingham,

of Spitfires, Park, enigma found;

but Bletchley changed to Milton Keynes,

new town, moved world, though tors remain.

And so retreat, hall corner chest,

her past ingrained, bees wax as seal,

the floriography of age;

before class slowed her envelopes,

the rich in castle, poor at gate,

when all was bright and beautiful.

Class

We know how class division lies

both first and second much alike;

though class distinction saw its mark,

those ladybirds in reading’s art.

The King’s Head framed, not swinging board,

but Davidson, now ranked with few -

a first without a crown I think -

were that still cost of stamp itself.

They print commemoratives yet,

with high priced for the parcel van,

but Amazon, the longest reach -

philately picks up the tab.

Nostalgia looks back, Penny Black,

or old postcards of Uncle Jack

because they’re marked by date and place,

that space when we thought all was good.

But fantasy, for Krays were Kings,

and Dock Green was corrupt as hell,

our children’s homes meat market stalls,

where unimagined horrors lurked.

Those daily stamps have been at all,

serene though monarch, corner saw,

as postmen slid slit, solid doors.

What now is hatched, goes on next door?

The Last Post

But posting, think outside the box,

that pillar of community,

but brazen stands, street corner sites,

awaiting callers by the kerb.

His reputation, Edward, Rex,

would standout, stamped out, florid, red,

now ‘Stamp it out’, a fated course -

his mother’s plea as not amused.

While he was fȇted, hangers on,

a popinjay - they understood

in Keppel, with her Nell Gwynn ways -

but her indoors was not amused.

So Alice, mistress of the house,

while gross, indecency of flab -

for Battenburg, that Windsor source,

the heat on Kaiser, so entrenched.

They stamped their feet in bloody mud,

that war to end all wars, no hope;

new coins, stamped out, minty fresh

as lights stamped out, prone slimy guts.

More hundred on I still recall,

for Frank, Dad’s Dad, when Dad was two,

so father whom he never knew.

Young widow, Grandma; she I knew.