a Poem for Mag 129

A Dinner Table at night 1884 John Singer Sargent.

Many thanks to Willow at Mag 129  for this prompt.
I had just read an article in the Saturday Guardian about when dinner actually occured.
It seems to depend on whether you are a northerner or a southerner.
Working, middle or upper class here in England
We had dinner at midday in Belfast and tea, not as in afternoon tea, for we often also had that!...but as in at 6.00  early evening.
That was sometimes the main meal of the day and sometimes just a light meal.
 

The Dinner Party

I‘m never sure what I should wear.

The velvet with my upcombed hair,

The silver lame evening gown.

To dress it up or dress it down.

For what is dinner now I ask

Is dinner lunch, or is that passed?

Is dinner five in’t afternoon

When family’s home from work and schooling?

Or should one wait ‘til half past nine

To eat one’s fill, to sit and dine.

Confusion is the very word

I’ve often seen it writ or heard..

That one can turn up ill- prepared

For beans on toast or pasta whirls.

When all along you thought it would

Be consommé and gourmet food.

Blest, best,  of all, the family,

Who wear their clothes with easy ways.

Or friends who laugh at all my jokes.

Say “scrumptious” to the cheese on toast,

Ask,”how’s the kids?” and “are you well?”

And ,”isn’t this year’s summer - hell?”

And when they’ve gone their laughing way

To home and hearth, to work or play,

To stack the dishes in the sink.

Raise glass and “toast” and have a drink.

I’ll pack away the velvet dress

The lame  with pretentiousness.

The consume`, the lobster bisque,

The sinking soufflé, stinking fish.

The game terrine with gamey chips

Their taste that lingers on your lips.

That conversation so polite

With talk, to quench your  appetite.

So, feed me at a table round.

With children’s chatter, family sounds.

With heated subjects bandied round

Where food and drink and love abounds

And there I’ll dine, I’ll lunch, I’ll sup,

And drink my overflowing cup.

  

The River Irwell

So...did old Lowry sit beside the fluss?
and did he think I'll paint that lot one day?
or did he only see the children run
 barefoot across the stinking bank
toward their Salford homes
to pray for hotpot on the stove.

Did Lowry hear about the one who'd had enough
when times were thin and thinness was in vogue?
who sank into the mud and stayed in it
between the empty prams and beery glass?
is that the reason Lowry stayed so long
when he had reasons of his own to up and go?.

They called his people... matchsticks...that they were
such skinny children, all of them unknown.
they've planted trees now where there once were weeds
and the river's rancid  smells are sanitised.
proud Irwell once the Roman's northern fort
now has the cache of Lowry's tender daubs.

L.S.Lowry the painter lived in Salford near the Irwell River.
Today we took our granddaughter to see the art in The Whitworth Gallery, and passed by the River now all clean and pretty , My friend grew up within the shadow of the factory buildings that Lowry painted and knew the scenes as home.
Much of Lowry's work now hangs in The Lowry Gallery on the banks of the Manchester Ship Canal

This is for Magpie Tales 116

                                                                   and Poetry Pantry 99

I'm also adding this in to this week's poetry pub for dVerse.week 43...what fun!