Ojai Fire Desire
Ojai was under threat from the Southern Californian Day Fire lately. Flames crested the hills, the air was smokey and ash was falling everywhere for weeks. The fire consumed 162,000 acres in the end and was battled by 4000 valiant fireman. For weeks there have been firemen all over town with their sooty brows and heroic hoses. This is my tribute to them for their sterling work; heroes, every one:
Good fireman, let me mop your forehead,
Fighting blazes must be horrid.
Come a little while, and sit;
Catch your breath; relax, that’s it.
Tell me of the roaring fire!
Your courage, though the straits were dire;
The burning bush, the flaming stripling,
(Describe your manly muscles rippling)
If ’strue that all the worlds a stage
Pitting man ‘gainst nature’s rage,
Then you’re its hero, strong, bold, true,
And I, a villager, saved by you.
As you gave the blaze its drenching
Show me how your jaw was clenching
How through the smoke and raging blaze,
You kept your nerve, your steely gaze!
Beating back the fiery storm
To stride t’wards danger and perform
Lion-hearted acts of valour
(Oh! Be still my beating heart and ardour!)
Licking flames of crimson, orange
(There’s famously no rhyme for orange)
Hellish fire, infernal oast
For us, you risked becoming toast!
Oh, how can I reward you, fireman?
I, a young and comely maiden?
Some wine perhaps, delicious food?
To show the town’s great gratitude.
Perhaps your hose, now floppy, limp,
Needs filling so it will not crimp?
And what about your helmet, yellow?
I’ve just the thing for that wee fellow!
Does it need a polish? Buffing?
Some elbow grease? A right good sloughing?
I know of special oils and waxes
Intended just for choppers, axes.
Maybe, despite the stress and tension
Your equipment doesn’t need attention.
But, what’s your hand doing there, sir? Careful!
(My God, his thighs are huge and powerful!)
I know I said we love you firemen,
But liberties must not be taken!
Steady sir, don’t push your luck
(Sigh)
Oh, all right Smokey, lets go …
…Pluck some apples from the tree
And sing sweet songs, laugh loud and free
And if you’re nice and I feel plucky
Who knows, my friend, you might get lucky…
October 5th, 2006 at 8:18 pm
I love it! You should be writing librettos. I can just see choreographed dance on a Broadway stage ..
October 5th, 2006 at 9:18 pm
You know, it wasn’t until I met all you British Empire types that I discovered that a “chopper” was something other than a custom Harley-Davidson. Unless of course, you meant it in the American way, in which case, I feel suitably chagrined.
My bad.
Cheers.
P.S. You or someone from your site was my 10000th visitor early this morning.
October 5th, 2006 at 11:10 pm
Sam, that was a great poem.
Unfortunately, my ex-father-in-law was a fireman, and he has put me off them entirely. He used to fart at the dinner table (during dinner!) and ogle my tits.
October 5th, 2006 at 11:37 pm
You dirty madam you.
No matter how well written (and it was) that poem was borderline lewd and representative of teenage fantasy. You should take up writing “Chick Lit” fiction, you’d make a fortune.
I’d read it again but thinking of polishing and buffing has left me needing a shower (cold), don’t think my blood pressure could cope, besides I need to get some sleep tonight.
Is it just me or is it getting hot in here.
October 6th, 2006 at 12:08 am
Charlotte, oooh, yes! “The Dance of The Seven Firemen!” It’d bring the house down! Luckily there would be at least 7 trained professonals there to deal with the evacuations.
Ran’, I feel this pome speaks on many levels. A chopper may well be an American Harley-Davidson, it might well be a British euphemism. It may just be a food-service professional who sets portion sizes on lamb and pork. Who’s to know, who’s to say? It’s all true, and yet none of it is, at the same time. Interpretaion is a deeply personal thing. The beauty of poetry, oui?
Sparra’, lalalalalalalalalala – refuse to countenance anything bad about the firemen, they are all gods – lalalalalalalalala!
Tattieheid, I’ve read and reread this poem and I simply cannot fathom what you mean! “dirty”? “teenage fantasy”? “lewd”? Nope, I’m afraid I’m baffled. “…is it getting hot in here”? Have you thought about opening some sort of a window?
What stung me most was the Chick Lit thing. This is a serious work of poetry, by golly! An art form of the very highest highness!
I don’t mind saying I’m a bit concerned about you and Randall. You seem to be reading all sorts into a perfectly innocent pome…
October 6th, 2006 at 3:44 am
What of problem husband? Does he, too, want to have sex with the nice fireman? I know I do….
October 6th, 2006 at 4:02 am
Problem Husband is unmoved on the subject of firemen, SafeT, although he certainly admires their fortitude and valor. I show him my posts before I blog them from time to time; I showed him this one. He chuckled a bit but I saw no signs of him coveting the nice fireman during our discourse.
October 6th, 2006 at 4:14 am
I know i said it was my tribute to the firemen but, in any work of fiction or poetry, the protagonist cannot always be assumed to be the author. For example, I myself regard the firemen in a purely platonic light, despite the speaker of the piece thinking that a brave fireman fresh from the blaze is hotter than anything on God’s green earth, except maybe Alan Rickman as the Sheriff of Nottingham or Cliff Richard in “Summer Holiday” (although the speaker was very young when she saw that film, and knew nought of Alan Rickman yet, so can therefore not be held accountable for such a mammoth error in judgment).
October 6th, 2006 at 6:59 am
Great poem, Sam. Reminds me of Keats’s La Belle Dame Sans Merci.
Fat Sparrow: I’d imagine a tendency to break wind would be a drawback for a fireman, what with the flammable gases produced.
October 6th, 2006 at 7:59 am
“Fat Sparrow: I?d imagine a tendency to break wind would be a drawback for a fireman, what with the flammable gases produced.”
Footie, this man was a real prize. Know what a “Blue Flame” is? I started commenting on it here, but it’s way too long. I’m turning it in to a post over at my place, so Sam, be warned. It’s not slagging off fireman, just one guy who should not have been in the business.
October 6th, 2006 at 8:07 am
Apart from the literary encomiums (encomia?), you deserve a Sunday School prize for resisting the temptation to rhyme with “luck”. Or not.
October 6th, 2006 at 9:29 am
This is very perplexing. I loathe poetry of any kind and yet I read that right through to the end and not only sniggered thither and yon, I sent it to Etheline- who also hates poetry but likes firemen and she emailed me back saying she read it and laughed too but also found her actions disturbing…
I don’t know, very odd. I might need to go lie down for a while.
October 6th, 2006 at 9:58 am
now if someone would just make a film with Alan Rickman as a fireman……..
sigh……..
October 6th, 2006 at 2:05 pm
wow, wonderful as always. And yeah, a fireman’s equipment definitely deserves all the attention it gets. Literary or otherwise.
October 6th, 2006 at 4:56 pm
Mmmmmmmm firemennnnnnnn…. Saving lives, coming out of burning buildings holding kittens… No pun intended…that’s just hawt.
October 6th, 2006 at 6:31 pm
If you all just want a bit of rough I’m here, and due to me scaley rash I am quite rough.
October 6th, 2006 at 6:36 pm
I myself regard the firemen in a purely platonic light, despite the speaker of the piece thinking that a brave fireman fresh from the blaze is hotter than anything on God?s green earth, except maybe Alan Rickman as the Sheriff of Nottingham or Cliff Richard in ?Summer Holiday?
Sure….
Oh, and I must put in that all the firemen I know (and I went to school with a lot of firemen brats) were pretty much dicks who also had no concept of monogamy–not even the ones that were married. …of course, that goes for the cops as well.
Doesn’t stop me from wanting to have one just for the notch on my bedpost.
October 6th, 2006 at 6:57 pm
When we were in Las Vegas we met some holidaying female firemen (firewomen?) from Canada. They were pretty hot stuff! Lovely poem, I too find most poetry difficult to read but I loved this one.
October 6th, 2006 at 10:14 pm
Thanks for the comments, all! They’re much appreciated.
Foots, When the firemen started coming down from the mountains they had to cross my friend’s property. A train of about 300 portaloos came down with them, she stopped counting at 150. I’d have thought the efflux of 4000 firefighters might have been useful in the tinder-dry high mountains.
Sparra’ hon, that post of yours had me doubled up in laughter. It sounds like a Peter Sellers movie. The man’s a liability.
Arthur QC, and plucky too. Alas, our Sunday school never gave out prizes. We went to the very old, tiny wee Episcopalean church in Stornoway, (my mother’s family church) which was dwarfed by the behemoths of the nearby Free church (my dad’s family’s church), the Free Presbyterian church, the Church of Scotland, the High Church of Scotland, and the Gaelic seminary. We had no lack of churches in Stornoway but we were the poorest – we spent all our money on Godless flowers and upkeep of the devil-sent organ. In school some Mondays, I was forced to covet my neighbours’ Sunday school prizes. Have you any idea what that does to a person? Have you? I tell you the wounds just won’t heal.
fmc, it’s the old fireman/poem quandary – Aaaagh! Its a poem! But, and also, Oooooh! It’s got firemen in! Firemen win every time.
Birchsprite – I’d sharpen my elbows for the queue to see that! He’d make a very commanding fire-chief, I think, but deep down he will always be the Sheriff of Nottingham to me…
Mom101, there must be a fair few firemen in New York to admire. What firemen did and lost on 9/11 was unbelievable. A breed apart, they are.
Andraste, smokin’ baby!
Old Knuds, careful laddie, you’re turning my head with all your sweet-talk.
SafeT, I didn’t say I wanted to marry one…
Jennifer, welcome! It’s nice of you to comment so kindly. I tried to follow your link but couldn’t reach it. I’ll have another go and see if I can get there through my blog administration.
October 6th, 2006 at 10:36 pm
Well done! And on our National Po Day too!
If you said ‘orange’ in the French way you could rhyme it with phalange although what you would do with your phalange or even the fireman’s, I’m not certain.
You do have a gift.
October 6th, 2006 at 10:49 pm
“Sparra? hon, that post of yours had me doubled up in laughter. It sounds like a Peter Sellers movie. The man?s a liability.”
Glad you liked it, Sam, since you inspired the post. Hadn’t thought about that old twat (my ex-father-in-law) in a while now.
For the record, I’m with SafeT. Firemen in general cannot keep their hoses reeled up, from what I’ve seen.
October 7th, 2006 at 7:44 am
If poetry be the food of life, speak on.
Terribly good. You negotiated the minefield of hoses choppers etc. with considerable aplomb.
I tug my beard with respect at you.
Bit surprised at FMC though, I thought she liked my odes.
October 7th, 2006 at 12:19 pm
Ask Lindy, she’ll tell you, I am against all poetry ‘cept MacCavity the Mystery cat and The Raven.
October 7th, 2006 at 1:32 pm
the first poem i’ve read in ages that dint make me want to top myself. the firemen are always turning up round mine, little scuffer kids always setting theblock on fire so they take their time coming and only send the ones with lepresy, and the last time one of the told me i had to evacuate – he was smoking a cigarete
October 7th, 2006 at 1:45 pm
“…the protagonist cannot always be assumed to be the author. For example, I myself regard the firemen in a purely platonic light…”
LOL! Nice try!
Dang…I wonder whether our firefirghter look like that? Makes a girl want to set a small kichen fire just bcause!
Great poem! I’m a sucker for a bawdy lyric!
October 7th, 2006 at 4:28 pm
Sam, I guess I’m just jealous of their fit physiques, their romantic profession, dashing uniforms/equipment/smudged faces, and their ability to bed just about anyone regardless of their own or other’s marital situations.
*sigh*
Would that I could bed a fireman.
October 8th, 2006 at 10:54 am
Great piece. I think a waxed helmet mught be a bit of a fire hazard though, assuming it was the one on his heid!
October 9th, 2006 at 10:48 am
I remember fondly the breathless thump in the solar plexus when one was slung over his shoulder… Sorry!
October 9th, 2006 at 8:39 pm
I don’t know whether I mentioned this but I’m a fire man. Well, not technically that’s not entirely true, but whenever there’s a fire alarm at work I get to put on a luminous jacket and tell people to run for their lives, so it’s effectively the same thing.
October 10th, 2006 at 4:33 am
I don’t want to take away from Kieran’s glory, but I am an actual fireman, I break down doors with my big chopper and douse the fire with my mighty hose and I, well ok I’m just a sad attention seeking old man but I really like to watch ‘London’s Burning’ I hear its also a T.V. show too.
October 10th, 2006 at 8:35 pm
Blushing!
Goldie and I walked along the beach at Ventura during the fire, right by the staging areas at the fairground and at Ventura State Beach…for once I wasn’t gazing ocean-ward, as the view was quite nice in the parking lots!
October 13th, 2006 at 1:20 am
I thought it was very nice of the lady in the poem to show such gratitude to the fireman by taking care of his equipment, polishing his helmet and buffing …
Hey … Wait a minute!
… It’s got a catchy beat, too! Sweet!
October 13th, 2006 at 6:31 pm
Hmmm.
Sam’s not here.
I wonder.
I sincerely hope she’s not out on the razz with those intellectuals Des and Ivan.
Young wide-eyed girl.
Hollow men of straw.
Have some Madeira M’dear
the reason was perfectly clear…
October 13th, 2006 at 7:22 pm
Hmm, Pat – phalange, orange. That rhyme might set me on the road where poems go to die. Again. I travel that road a lot, you see.
fatsparrow, glad to have been instrumental in summoning up those memories, darling. That post was hilarious.
Doccy M. A tugged beard from you is as a Nobel prize to me. Thank-you, sweetie-pie.
Fmc, what about
“James James
Morrison MorrisonWeatherby George Dupree
Took great
Care of his mother
Though he ws only three.
James James
Said to his mother
“Mother,” he said, said he:
“You must never go down to the end of the town
If you don’t go down with me.”
etc.
(A A Milne)
Possibly the best poem in the world.
Count Orsino! The very first count to come to my we blog. Welcome. Come and have a seat! How do you like your tea?
jozet, you’re clearly a woman of impeccable taste. I find bawdy trumps profound and quiet beauty quite often in poetry…
SafeT, Try smudging some cocoa across your nose and see if that sets off the fireman receptors in Heather. (Your Heather mind, don’t be setting the heather alight, y’hear)
Apprentice, you’re right. It could very easily melt and gum up their eyebrows. I hadn’t thought of that.
Pat, the solar plexus, eh?
Kieran, so you’re a fireman. Why, draw nearer! Tell me, is your heart steady and true? And, and, and…are your eyes keen and alive with vigour? *sigh*
Old Knuds, London is one of my very favourite cities, you schweinhunt! (The Germans do do a very good line in violent-sounding insults don’t they?) Why, I’ll set Kieran on you if you persist in such crazy talk…
Suebob, i know exactly where you’re talking about. Were you much affected by the Ventura fire last year?
Welcome, Arthbard. You’re right, that character was most accomodating and attentive to the smudgy fireman’s needs.
Docs, sorry to be so tardy with the comments. I was out with Des and Ivan, as it happens. can’t drink for toffee, either of them. By the end of the night, Des had disproved his own PhD. thesis on Cartesian geometry and was last seen boarding a Greyhound to Texas with “Bunny” the bar-maid from The Philosopher’s Ruin hostelry. I left Ivan hugging a lamp-post and singing Hungarian stadium rock in the rain.
October 13th, 2006 at 10:06 pm
I was just moving to Ventura last year when the fire happened. I called my new landlord and asked him if everything was ok…I live on the Avenue, so I am pretty wildfire-safe.