Miss

 1935

After simply heaps of marking,

what sport we often had, before lights-out.

Being on the same landing,

I would walk from my bed sitting room to the girl’s common room.

There we would have some fun,

ragging and chasing, singing, dancing.

Listening to the Krakajax in the dorm,

wondering at Primrose Salt’s eyes in the Tatler,

visiting any poor soul who was in the Sanitarium.

There was some good natured chiding from

those I’d had cause to reprimand.

There were some tears, homesickness: a pony, maid, dinghy missed.

I wasn’t much older than them.

I think I was thought of as a good sort, a real ‘brick’.

I usually felt that the day had been worthwhile.

1957

My first lodgings were in Willesden, then I moved to Acton.

Very small, a narrow bed, ‘kitchenette’, tiny damp bathroom.

Smell of boiled cabbage on the stairs, sound of someone practising a saxophone.

The college is all plate glass and concrete, quite ugly.

My students?….. The ‘Beatnik’ wave is on, lots of black clothes,

poetry and jazz, style and being ‘cool’, that sort of thing; it all seems a bit affected.

They’re not a particularly interested or informed class, though most turn up.

Books for the term are ‘A Glass of Blessings’, ‘Room At The Top’and ‘Pnin’.

A few make the effort to read them; we analyse: philosophy, politics.

Sometimes I get invited to join them, to a pub, coffee bar, gallery.

I feel out of place and I think they see me as something of an oddity,

quaintly anachronistic perhaps; they’re young, enjoy showing-off.

The journey back to my room is pretty miserable; there I have pasta, cheap wine.

Sometimes I take a walk, St James’ Park, Little Venice, Soho.

My teaching goes well enough, it’s hardly inspiring, but it’s tolerable.

1976

There was a prevailing earnestness,

much research, diligence, some protests, activism.

sometimes a bit precious perhaps, but borne of sincere desires.

For the most part they were serious-minded young women.

Debating, dissecting texts, re-writing fairy tales, marching for rights,

raging against subjugation, against Kinder, Kuche, Kirche.

There were Greenpeace meetings, friends of the earth meetings, anti-patriarchy

meetings, They read books from Virago Press: Dinnerstein, Kathy Acker,

Irigaray, Kate Millett, Dworkin, plus Woolf and Wollstonecraft of course.

One of them went on to write for Ritz magazine, one for Cosmopolitan,

but most stayed pretty ‘left’, stayed within academia, published papers;

some found their way to Greenham Common, animal rights, the Anti-Nazi League;

I felt part of things. My lectures were attended, discussed;

my study groups were animated, sometimes heated, always thoughtful.

I usually felt that the day had been worthwhile.

1998

It seems I’m the enemy,

loathed Middle-class, home counties, grammar school;

staff meetings are dominated by radical sermons.

I’m asked to change the pictures in my classroom,

They’re declared “Too Eurocentric”, symbols of “Imperialist Oppression”.

There’s a marked anti-English sentiment.

Staff compete to be the most ‘marginalised’, discriminated-against minority;

indigeneity is much prized, as are dysgraphia, regional accents.

Preferment is given to those considered to be from disadvantaged areas.

Head of my English faculty talks much of her holiday in Cuba.

She was a member of ‘The ‘Society For Cutting Up Men’.

With all the politics, there’s not much talk of subjects or curricula.

Today there’s anti-bias training, countering ‘Internalised Western Superiority’.

The Head recently said she thought me “aloof, superior, contemptuous”.

I don’t feel comfortable here, I’m thinking of handing in my notice.

2019

How is it that they have emerged like this?

How can it possibly be that they are so ignorant, so hostile?

They know little history, no geography, maths only for betting.

Feral isn’t the word…. post-feral, post-compassion, post-humanity.

Such animosity, loathing, aggression, nastiness.

A savage, spiteful venom, they can barely speak English.

I am unable to keep any order, they’re staring at their phones anyway; the

language is offensive, behaviour intimidating, they show me contempt, ridicule.

They talk about their favourite ‘influencers’, misogynists are popular.

They swap indecent images.

Take-away chicken boxes litter the floor,

there’s always the smell of ‘weed’.

On the way to work I feel a sense of dread rising, upset stomach,

nauseous, fear of what might happen, what they might do.

I’m leaving at the end of term; there is no worthwhile work I can do here.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

2026

The Forest

The woods are where I feel most at home, away from clutter, prose and poem;

with trees, natural forms, I feel more free, that I have returned to where I should be.

Otherwise, by Georgian window, at walnut desk, languid, by all muses dispossessed;

distracted by empirical concerns, work eschewed, of indolence I often myself accuse.

Each daily walk, at first wearily, I pass the Institute for Logotherapy,

cross over the footbridge, into the forest, here arise the feelings most cherished.

The adventure begun, relief well-timed: a transposition of peculiar kind;

now flourishing, sensible to denser formations, the change of light, vivacity, imagination.

Along the tree-lined bank of the Amper, sun glitter shimmering across the river,

following me all the way to Schöngeising; moss, leaves, fungi, my hungry eye appeasing.

This is to where I always return, the trees and quiet, for which I yearn.

Before, by water, my hibernating spirit flowed, a small flame, never extinguished, glowed;

I waited for a mobilisation of the will, renaissance, regeneration, a quest to fulfil.

None came, but how I longed for such, amid the smell of the Fir, Spruce, Larch;

in the woods I searched, searched, with the Beech, Oak, slender white of the Birch.

In the winter, an occasional wonder. I danced in the snow, sometimes too far,

bedazzled from the radiated light, faint from dizzy endeavour.

Back at my desk, I ponder: has my imagination, creation, been squandered?

in some discomfort, some dismay, I think: have I anything left to say?

Now, my walk is with more solemn demeanour, hour after hour, just myself and Medeina.

This is to where I always return, the trees and quiet, for which I yearn.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

2026

Matters Foreign and Domestic (Die Au-Pair-Mädchen)

Often prey to luscious musing,

to calamitous infatuation;

and -thus enraptured- so bemused,

paralysed by enfeebling devotion.

Whence came this propensity?

the desire to worship at a shrine;

destined to repeat with such intensity,

this cursed, wearisome tale over time.

In the 1950’s, when I was young,

a succession of au-pair girls came;

from post-war Europe, part ‘help’ part Nanny,

I remember their faces, voices, names.

They magically appeared, transformed my world,

these young women who came to stay;

by strange inflections I was lulled,

at mealtimes, bedtime, bath time, play.

German accompanied my cereal, Italian my games,

from modulation, cadence, beguiled;

times of inventing, pretending, unconstrained,

a sensitive child with imagination wild.

I’ve wondered if such manifestations,

these appearances of another kind,

…in the way of astonishing visions,

set the patterns of my mind.

In between the visitations:

inertia, bewilderment, melancholy,

a yearning for the next liberation,

from colourless insufficient reality.

Then they would come! Oh Blessed Day,

bringing new scents, movement, sounds,

fascination, hope perhaps,

a change in mood, quite profound.

So the pattern was established:

dormancy, waiting, waiting, then

expectation, excitement, advent, bliss.

When they left, desolation, abandonment.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

2026

 NOISE 

(Moments Musicaux Discordante) 

1)  1983 : By ferry to Gothenberg, then a 

motoring trip ‘up Sweden, down Norway’

From Kviknes hotel Balestrand, a boat along the Sognefjord.

Wondering at the dramatic scenery: Indigo water, 

sheer cliffs, ice, waterfalls, circling birds.

-Best would be quiet- 

If any music, then perhaps some Sibelius, Beethoven?

Suddenly: over the boat’s tannoy, blasts South American 

pan flute and charango.

Such incongruity; such ghastly, out-of-place, unbecoming sound.

Shame. To be left with this memory of wonder spoilt .

2)   2007 :  Easter Sunday at the Dambovicioara Gorge

Ambling through the winding, narrow, steep-sided ravine; 

emerging into a wider grassy area, rocky outcrops, 

taking in the mountains, far-off villages,

-Best would be quiet, stillness- 

If any music, then perhaps some Bach, Scriabin?

Apparition: He stood on the roof of a battered Dacia, 

brandishing a large bone, grimacing, 

as if daring any to scale his citadel and usurp him.

The Savage roared, grunted, bellowed along to some 

benighted offspring of rap, grime, drill, or

other coarse din that echoed to the peaks.

Such imbalance, disparity; terrible, hellish sounds.

Shame. Across snowy slopes, this loud jagged scar.

 

3)   2018 : By car to Tulcea, then a boat along the Danube Delta

Gazing at the unique surroundings; 

relishing the blue sky, lakes, waterfowl, reeds.

-Best would be quiet, stillness, reflection-

 If any music, then perhaps some Schubert, Schumann?

Horror: two fast-moving craft creating wash and commotion, 

awful types draped over cabin and rails, waving bottles.

And blaring out.... some Balkano, slap-bass, 

syrupy-clarinet-riddled horror of swirling and bleating.

Such dissonance; unsuited, conflicting, unharmonious sound. 

Shame. A jarring imposition, brutish uproar ruining the exquisite.

Peter Jennings

East Sussex

March 2025