Lyrical Living

So I’ve been to all these gigs

and listened to the bands

and heard how nobody understands

the loss they feel,

the heartbreak, the pain.

It’s the same old story Sam,

sing it again.

I’ve heard all the fills, like

“Oh, baby, yeah”

Did you run out of words to fill that space there?

Am I getting old?

Or just getting pickier?

Or perhaps, with experience, cynical and bitterer?

It’s just that all this monotonous crap

as about as profound as clickbait video soundtrack.

Calculatedly sentimental,

as irrelevant as Blockbuster video rental

to the age we are living in and the way I experience

emotional ambush and unspoken inference.

Blandy McBlanderson.

Selected generic

when we lives in such interesting times.

LED screens on with lightshows mesmeric

to distract from the mundane straight rhyme.

That’s not to say I don’t love it.

Dancing is pure bliss.

Eyes-closed-bass-pounding-through-my-chest-my-arms-a-twist.

Exchange of energies intense,

connection of rhythm and chord and cadence.

Dance for sorrow.

Dance for rage.

Dance for anxiety.

Dance for tomorrow

belongs to those that can see it coming.

Dance because knowing what’s going to happen isn’t always a blessing.

Dance when you feel powerless. In

some small way you’ll feel better.

And whether you know it or not

the shot of joy I feel,

knees buckling after a night on the tiles

is the same depth of smile

I get

from poetry.

And so, although I seem

ungrateful

I’m really not.

I’ve had a summer of music never to be forgot.

And from my depths, thank you

for you’ve all heartily moved me.

It’s just that if I’m honest

I’d rather be at poetry.

                                                                                                                    

This was one of my entries for the Manx Lit Fest Poetry Slam this year. One young man mistook my friend for me. He asked her at the interval what her problem with modern music was. To him, I say two things: 1) Wrong tall dark-haired girl. and 2) You've totally missed the point of the poem. 

Much love. X

Some Poem

We are all searching for some meaning.

This curse of consciousness silk screens our experiences

into something more than just living.

Day to day survival;

waking, walking, working, wanting, wondering, whining.

Losing all sense of time and season.

The essence of humanity- the power of imagination

coupled with thumbs is a peculiar quirk of evolving mis-creation.

For our corporeal inertia alongside technology based modern culture

means we’re species-wide suicidal.

Maybe I’m just ignorant and if I am, please let me know

but, what other species carries the seed of its own destruction in its genome?

It’s all very well searching for meaning,

but would we recognise it if it smacked us in the teeth?

Romantic notions of noble knowledge wrongfully endorsing assumed superiority.

The “something more than this”

paying, praying, playing, planting, planking, pining.

Mistaking physical reactions as divine.

We’re tragically misusing the power of imagination,

arguing over imaginary friends instead of maintaining our own population.

If we’re going to survive we need to change our lives

There’s too many of us sitting idle.

I don’t mean to brow beat and I know I do go on,

but we’re distracted by searching for meaning while hurtling toward our oblivion.

Whether the meaning you find is friars, fractals or pterodactyls,

can you not do something more practical?

Anachronistic  practices are both more active and better for the environment.

sowing, stowing, slowing, growing, fore going.

We have much to learn from bumblebees.

Thanks to us, very soon they’ll only exist in the imagination.

Just like harmony, altruism and human rights legislation.

Go back to watching the Bake Off; never turn your magic slate off.

You’ll never sacrifice your idols.

You don’t have to listen to this.

You’ll forget it by the time you get home.

For I am just some person.

And this is just some poem.

Still.

I hope you found some meaning. 

_________________________________________________________________________________

This is the poem I performed at the Manx LitFest 2015 poetry slam. 

The winner was Jennifer Davies with her magnificent tale of a teenage practitioner of the occult. Funny, engaging, richly written and expressively performed, Jennifer is a new favourite of mine. I can't wait to hear her again.