Keeping the Moon Clean

All week I have painted and drawn. I take breaks, I go for walks, but I am tied by an invisible umbilical cord to my desk, steadily ploughing through dozens of illustrations, trying to crack the short deadline I have. Sleep is elusive and when I wake, my wrist feels bruised and weary. This is the difference between painting for yourself and painting for 'The Man.' And it involves no toys, no fairy tales, no Arthur Rackham sepias or wistful pencil shading. But it does bring in that most elusive (to me) of things, money. And it will be pretty, in its bright, cheerful, mass market way.

Once upon a time, I wrote poetry - well didn't we all? After my parents died, and I moved to the housing estate, I started keeping an exercise book full of clumsy, if enthusiastic, adolescent scribblings. On the way to school I would be overtaken by 'inspiration' and arrive late after stopping in the street to hurry my thoughts onto blue lined paper. (At least I had the instinctive sense to write the ubiquitous poem about the four seasons when I was thirteen: Spring being a fair, blushing young maiden and all that). It was not the kind of school where you would ever admit to writing poetry for pleasure - as it was, I was commonly regarded as a freak because I was always seen with a reading book in my hands. But blessing came in the guise of an understanding English teacher, who took a ruthless red pen to my efforts, and tried to corrall them into something more than youthful gushing.

I carried on, sporadically. Sometimes I would go for a few years without writing, then 'it' would happen and I would find myself scribbling again. I sent them off to publishers. Many rejection letters later, the habit died; I have to make my own way in this world, and if something does not bring in cold, hard cash, then I am afraid it must be sacrificed. But as nothing much is happening except the long trek to the golden horizon of Deadline, I am lazily posting an old jingle of mine, from a long way back when I was younger, slimmer and sillier and thought I had all the time in the world...

Keeping the Moon Clean

When they advertised the job,
Why, I jumped at the chance -
I mean, it's not every day you
Get a chance to work on the Moon
And I reckoned after all this time
It'd need a good going over:
All that space dust,
Not to mention the mess
Those astronauts leave behind them.

There were plenty of applicants,
But none of them could clean like me.
They do say it's a dying art
And I may not have a
Science degree but
I know the business end of a broom.

They thought I might be lonely at first,
But after all these years
Of cleaning big, empty houses
I'm quite happy with my own company
Thank you.
Just so long as I can have a little radio,
To break the silence.

Of course, you can't clean the Moon
With any old equipment.
I was a bit surprised at first -
I though moonshine was
Something that cowboys drank -
and every third month I
Sprinkle with
Powdered moths wings
(That's why sometimes it looks
A funny red colour).
The rocks I polish with
Evening primrose oil,
Just to give them a bit of a shine,
Then finish off with an old duster.

We don't have hoover up here -
Well, obviously,
There's no power point.
but I do have an excellent broom
Made with the hair of
Cancerian children
Born on Midsummer's night
And of course,
My mop.

It's a very special mop;
I couldn't be doing without it.
It picks up every speck of dirt.
See, if you look closely
There are a million wriggling snakes
In its head.
Oh, I wouldn't be without
My Medusa mop
For all the world.

I don't have a special suit for cleaning,
Just my normal overall
And the flowers do cheer me up
Once in a blue moon.

Sometimes,
When I'm having a bit of a break,
I like to watch the world go by.
I can't say as I miss it
Much
And I wouldn't like the job
Of having to keep it clean
(Although I've heard they're on the lookout
For a hard worker for
That particular little job).

Mind you, I've certainly got
My work cut out here,
Once a month when the Moon is full -
Although it gets a little easier
After that and some nights
I can whisk round in no time.
I like a nice sickle Moon myself:
They're easier on the feet,
And that shadow you can see
On the inside curve
Is me having a sit down
With a cup of tea
And staring at you lot down below.

There did used to be
A Man in the Moon,
But they sent him to the dark side
To stop children getting fanciful ideas.
I don't like the dark side,
But sometimes
I take him a slice of cake
And we talk about this, that
And the weather;
It's nice to have a bit of company
Now and then.

And when on dripping moonlit nights
You glance up and say
"How bright it shines tonight!"
Give a little thought to me
And my Medusa mop,
Keeping the Moon clean.

At the time I was working as a cleaner in private houses, trying to take my first steps into a much yearned for illustration/writing career. It was written long, long ago - pre-computers - and has been transcribed from type written sheets. But it's funny how it is still a heart trembling thing to reveal a poem, even when it is yellowed at the edges and covered in dust. Old moony pictures, old moony poem and a dollop of self pity. Well, I am a Cancerian after all.