the sink plunger
my family
is surely not alone in calling sink plungers “pink slungers?” And my kids gave me a pink one for Christmas. But this poem has nothing to do with that . . .
This poem embodies the transmission of hard-won wisdom.
I dedicate this poem to my dear sister Jenny who was travelling the world as far as Kashmir and Peru long before I ever got farther than western Europe.
The dedication was for no other reason than that I wrote the first draft on her birthday.
if you're
that kind of a person who thinks
one should plunge with sink plungers in sinks,
you are wrong, but I’ll soon put you right.
then your
wisdominiferous light
will shine: it will sparkle about –
so the people will sing and will shout
in awe of the brilliance you’ll show,
and the things that you suddenly know.
now,
some folks are led up the path
of a red herring’s garden. – Don’t laugh!
For, you see, the word “plunge,” (you may know,)
implies down’s the direction to go.
With less thought than a rocking-horse foal,
such people squelch down in the bowl
when
that up is the way of the wise!
some dry
scabby skin from between mummy’s toes;
indescribable slime, long since blown from a nose;
a tangle of short curly pieces of hair;
and some of your grandpa’s nail clippings are there.
All bound in some goo you hope’s purely saponic,
‘though that festering odour is surely organic?
best not
think of your brother who locked himself in.
those
strange noises he made – his half-guilty grin.
for a while now,
the gobbet has accumulated
and putrefied faster than it dissipated.
If that sludge-plug could have been flushed in the stream,
it would be long gone, and the pipe would be clean.
so please
don’t plunge with your plunger cup there,
for the cup will contain some proportion of air.
And that air will compress, then escape in the sludge,
like an impotent fart, with the blockage un-budged.
just pause
for a moment – and let us rewind.
Consider physical laws, and then we shall find
there’s a way we can use all that slime and the water
to assist in the clearance of blockage, dear daughter!
now
And we’ll succeed by the time I have finished this rhyme.
patiently
is all the pressure of the atmosphere!
first
press down the cup on the end of the pole
so it’s quite flat on the bottom. No! Not over the hole.
then
slither the tool, in a slippery slide,
over the waste with a sludge-slimy glide.
Now take a short pause.
And attack by surprise!
pull up
like a shot, and the blockage will rise.
In fact, to be sure, it will come up like a rocket.
And may stick on the ceiling, or fall in your pocket.
post script
Fine poetry needs no more words to explain.
But mine has nothing to lose; perhaps something to gain?
so
I’ll just pop in here, that an overflow
buggers the suction, as I’m sure you will know.
So if your wash basin has got one of those,
block the hole with your finger, or one of your toes.
and
the average plug-hole includes a small grid.
It’s there to avoid losing rings that have slid
off from your finger, made slippy by soap.
But don’t think it will spoil things; don’t give up all hope.
Cos the suction and pressure still work round the bend.
to be sure
the grid helps a satisfactory end
for the gobbet’s dislodged, just exactly the same.
Only difference will be, it won’t shoot from the drain,
So now, though you’ve unblocked the pipe: Oh, good job!
There’s no chance you’ll be bombed by a putrescent glob.
so
about the pink slunger that’s under the sink.
footnote to mobile site . . . This note appears in a sidebar on computers.
my family
is surely not alone in calling sink plungers “pink slungers?” And my kids gave me a pink one for Christmas. But this poem has nothing to do with any of that . . .
This poem embodies the transmission of hard-won wisdom.
I dedicate this poem to my dear sister Jenny who was travelling the world as far as Kashmir and Peru long before I ever got farther than western Europe.
The dedication was for no other reason than that I wrote the first draft on her birthday.
