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Saturday 31 March 2018

Modestly and most appreciatively, Sarah!


By Stanley Collymore

We were all of us - without any consultation on the part of
those who conceived and biologically sired us, far less
so any permission from us - born into this world that
inescapably, as far as I know, until the emergence
of death and the life hereafter must inevitably
stay here. All well and good that, if we’ve
been provided by those concerned with
a favourable start in life and the subsequent constructive
support, in all of its positive forms, that’s necessarily
and understandably required in the circumstances
that we find ourselves in and is critical for our
likely improvement as human beings. But,
all the same, the onus isn’t to be always,
unswervingly and exclusively that of
those who gave us life, for we too
have our part to play in defining
what we beneficially become
and how we can efficiently
achieve that desired goal.

And you Sarah, young though you evidently
are, have, however, already spectacularly,
thankfully and illustratingly developed
those crucial aspects of life which in
your instinctive and engaging way
you most excitingly empathize
with others, to forever infuse
in those who’re conferred
with the fortuitous luck,
in your case, of even
informally but also
most delightfully
too, in getting
to know you.

© Stanley V. Collymore
24 March 2018.


Author’s Remarks:
This work was completely inspired by, conceived and written for and is specifically dedicated to the named person who is visibly mentioned in it. Her name is Sarah and she’s an employee of a supermarket chain called Morrisons, and where I invariably shop when I happen to be in the UK.

British though I undoubtedly am I must honestly say that when it comes to customer service in the UK, and from my personal experience, large supermarket stores or other commercial firms the “service” – if one can call it that – is habitually appalling and that’s being as polite as I can get or care to in this particular instance. A perpetual state of affairs in which those, for the most part, whose individual job it is to be at minimal ordinarily polite to the paying customer is as rare as having a snowstorm in Barbados.

And the incredible thing is that many of them don’t seem to care, oblivious it would seem to them that those whom they’re treating in this off-hand manner are actually the ones at the end of the day who are paying their wages or salaries. But they get away with it and evidently do so for a variety of reasons. Among them stupidity.

But enough of these lowlifes. Therefore, it’s a rare treat and an undoubted pleasure when at times and wholly unexpectedly one does come across persons in these positions who are not only fully au fait with their jobs but are also polite, helpful and in a word human. And that’s where this story starts.

I’d never in all my previous occasions at this specific branch of Morrisons where the conduct of the staff members there and whom I’d dealt with before is overall excellent, and I honestly mean that, met Sarah before. But, I’m sure you’ll agree with me – those of you who have any worthwhile grey matter for a brain – that there are people that one for the very first time come across and one instinctively knows that they’re special.

I’m well-travelled and have met all sorts in my life – the good, the bad and the indifferent – and it’s all in a day’s work to me. That said, there are some people, who just like a scenic situation that tremendously inspires you – and if you’ve ever been to Barbados than you’ll know what I’m talking about (smile) - instantaneously do the same. And as a poet who is completely fascinated by things physically or inspirationally beautiful – whether these are animate or inanimate – I always either instantaneously or at the very earliest occasion soon afterwards enthusiastically commit my thoughts and the beauty of what I saw, physical or psychological, onto paper and thereafter a new poem is born.

That’s my general pattern when I’m abroad and there is no hesitancy on my part in doing so, as I know that when it comes to people there my efforts and actions will be appreciated in the altruistic sense in which they were conceived. Alas, that’s something that I definitely eschew in my home country of Britain and for very good reasons.

To begin with, altruism isn’t a word that the overwhelming majority of people in Britain have any notion of what it is, and even if one were to explain it to them they still either wouldn’t understand or care. So with my very erudite brain and my staunch religious upbringing in the case of my fellow Brits I always desist in their case of my casting pearls before swine, both literally and figuratively in their case.

And for good reasons too: Write a poem, against the backdrop I’ve earlier painted, for a Brit whether that person is male or female and he or she I can guarantee you invariably as well as instinctively thinks I MUST have an ulterior motive in doing so. And unconditionally being, as I unquestionably am, a straight, incontrovertible and an unapologetic heterosexual, Black male in unrestrainedly and exceptionally markedly proselytized Dyke, Queer and laughably professed Transgender Britain - or as one British writer aptly described the latter recently as “men in frocks” - unrestrainedly contaminating this purported green and pleasant land with their presence and attendant paedophilia doings - I most certainly don’t have to graphically outline the instinctive responses and the connotations behind them when someone different from them makes an altruistic gesture, even when it’s a literary work of art like poetry.

However, there are a few occasions when my altruistic nature rebels against my taking such a hesitant approach in Britain and, consequently, I do embark on taking the proverbial chance. And my enthusiastically writing this poem for Sarah - having earlier, decidedly courteously and entirely reciprocally on her part and in that procedure charmingly acquiring her assent fully informed her of what I had gallantly planned on doing – is a clear indication of that.

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