The Monday Monologue

Something About Mr.Henderson 

Anon

It was 2 am at the Blue Parrot Club,

I was tired - I was dead on my feet.

Then he walked in and gave me his coat

And my heart seemed to miss a beat.

I checked his hat - that was usually that,

Then he said "Can I walk home with you?"

Of course when a customer starts to get fresh

I usually know what to do.

But -

There was something about Mr. Henderson,

You know the feeling I guess,

I'm a girl who knows all of the answers,

But he made me feel like a princess.

Now a check girl gets plenty of chances

And I'd heard the old routine before.

There was something about Mr. Henderson

That I thought was worth waiting for.

We took a little apartment way up on the seventh floor.

We hadn't much money but I did my best

And I couldn't have asked for more.

We were happy alone up there on our own,

Just we two in our little flat.

I figured some day we'd get married

But we just didn't get round to that.

Still -

There was something about Mr. Henderson

Soon his career reached the heights

And he knew oh such elegant people

That we dared not be seen out at nights.

So I guess that I just didn't blame him

When he told me one day we were through.

There was something about Mr. Henderson,

If he said it was best - well, he knew.

Now, it's 2 am at the Blue Parrot Club

And I'm back where I started again,

But those years have made quite a difference

And I don't have much trouble with men.

This evening he came, he looked just the same,

And he smiled the same smile I had known.

There was nothing about him changed one little bit

Except that he wasn't alone.

And -

There was something about Mrs. Henderson

That seemed familiar to me,

I had somehow the feeling I knew her

Though she wasn't my sort I could see.

Then I glanced at us both in a mirror

And I realised why I felt so.

The was something about Mrs. Henderson,

She looked like me -  ten years ago.

Mr. Henderson, you were nice - to know.

-o0o-

Another Monologue next Monday

No.113

The Old Woman

 Joseph Campbell 1879-1944

(Seosamh MacCathmhaoil)

As a white candle  

  In a holy place,  

So is the beauty  

  Of an aged face.  

  

As the spent radiance     

Of the winter sun,  

So is a woman  

  With her travail done,  

  

Her brood gone from her,  

  And her thoughts as still   

As the waters  

  Under a ruined mill.  

-o0o-

No.112

The Little Vagabond

William Blake 1757-1827

Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold, 

But the Ale-house is healthy and pleasant and warm; 

Besides I can tell where I am use'd well, 

Such usage in heaven will never do well. 

   But if at the Church they would give us some Ale. 

And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale; 

We'd sing and we'd pray, all the live-long day; 

Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray, 

   Then the Parson might preach and drink and sing. 

And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring: 

And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church, 

Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch. 

   And God like a father rejoicing to see, 

His children as pleasant and happy as he: 

Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel 

But kiss him and give him both drink and apparel.

-o0o-

No.111

The Slave's Dream
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-82

Beside the ungathered rice he lay,
His sickle in his hand;
His breast was bare, his matted hair
Was buried in the sand.
Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,
He saw his Native Land. 

Wide through the landscape of his dreams
The lordly Niger flowed;
Beneath the palm-trees on the plain
Once more a king he strode;
And heard the tinkling caravans
Descend the mountain-road. 

He saw once more his dark-eyed queen
Among her children stand;
They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,
They held him by the hand!
A tear burst from the sleeper's lids
And fell into the sand. 

And then at furious speed he rode
Along the Niger's bank;
His bridle-reins were golden chains,
And, with a martial clank,
At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel
Smiting his stallion's flank. 

Before him, like a blood-red flag,
The bright flamingoes flew;
From morn till night he followed their flight,
O'er plains where the tamarind grew,
Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,
And the ocean rose to view. 

At night he heard the lion roar,
And the hyena scream,
And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds
Beside some hidden stream;
And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,
Through the triumph of his dream. 

The forests, with their myriad tongues,
Shouted of liberty;
And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,
With a voice so wild and free,
That he started in his sleep and smiled
At their tempestuous glee. 

He did not feel the driver's whip,
Nor the burning heat of day;
For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,
And his lifeless body lay
A worn-out fetter, that the soul
Had broken and thrown away! 

-o0o-

No.110

Afternoon in School - The Last Lesson

D. H. Lawrence 1885-1930

When will the bell ring, and end this weariness?

How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart

My pack of unruly hounds: I cannot start

Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt,

I can haul them and urge them no more.

No more can I endure to bear the brunt

Of the books that lie out on the desks: a full three score

Of several insults of blotted pages and scrawl

Of slovenly work that they have offered me.

I am sick, and tired more than any thrall

Upon the woodstacks working weariedly.

And shall I take

The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul

Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume

Their dross of indifference, and burn the scroll

Of their insults in punishment? - I will not!

I will not waste myself to embers for them,

Not all for them shall the fires of my life be hot,

For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep

Shall have raked the embers clear: I will keep

Some of my strength for myself, for if I should sell

It all for them, I should hate them -

- I will sit and wait for the bell.

-o0o-

No.109

These Foolish Things

(Remind Me Of You)

Eric Maschwitz 1901-69

A cigarette that bears a lipstick's traces,

An airline ticket to romantic places,

Still my heart has wings,

These foolish things remind me of you.

A tinkling piano in the next apartment,

Those stumbling words that told you what my heart meant,

A fair ground painted swings,

These foolish things remind me of you.

You came, you saw, you conquered me,

When you did that to me

I knew somehow this had to be.

The winds of march that made my heart a dancer,

A telephone that rings but who's to answer,

Oh, how the ghost of you clings,

These foolish things remind me of you.

-o0o-

No.108

Nettles

Vernon Scannell

My son aged three fell in the nettle bed.

'Bed' seemed a curious name for those green spears,

That regiment of spite behind the shed:

It was no place for rest. With sobs and tears

The boy came seeking comfort and I saw

White blisters beaded on his tender skin.

We soothed him till his pain was not so raw.

At last he offered us a watery grin,

And then I took my billhook, honed the blade

And went outside and slashed in fury with it

Till not a nettle in that fierce parade

Stood upright any more. And then I lit

A funeral pyre to burn the fallen dead,

But in two weeks the busy sun and rain

Had called up tall recruits behind the shed:

My son would often feel sharp wounds again.

-o0o-