Showing posts with label poet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poet. Show all posts

The Ballad of Bob and Mary

***TO BE READ IN A BROAD NORTHERN ENGLISH ACCENT***

Bob and Mary live in a semi.
They spend most every evening watching repeats on the telly.
Burying their heads in digital sand.
Bob sups his beer, thinks ‘Aint life grand’.
He belches, reveling in its echo, tone and strength
then half-heartedly apologises, to save the argument.
Mary is repulsed but merely gives a tut.
It’s not she doesn’t care, quite the opposite but
after all these years of chastising and nagging
her enthusiasm for home improvement is flagging.

Once Mary would have been described a dolly bird.
Now she is just bird-like with a faintly tinted perm.
She’s been smoking menthol superkings sine she turned 21.
They still make her feel sophisticated, though she won’t admit that to anyone.
It hasn’t been a bad life and she’s not one to complain,
but she thinks she’d do it differently if she had her time again.
She liked to have been an air hostess and travelled all over the world
or worked on one of them cruise ships, or been one of Pan’s People’s girls.
Just something a little more glamorous and less like egg and chips.
She gives poor Bob a sideways look and purses coral stained lips.

They’re a staple in their local. Bob drinks stout.
Mary likes a babycham and brandy when she’s out.
Bob’s not fond of Mary’s friends. He hates their gossiping ways.
Mary whispers too softly. He misses half the things she says.
At half past ten, habitually they totter up the road.
Arm in arm, step in step, it’s not a long trip home.
“Bob” says Mary, “do you ever wonder if there’s more than this?”
“Mary” Bob says, “I dearly love you, but you’re pissed.
When you’ve had more than three you know you get all philosophical-like
I’ve told you before about your limits, it’s too much at my time of life.”
He straightened his cap and Mary just sighed
then she looked up and saw how soft were his eyes.
“I know love” she said “and you’ve given me plenty
but sometimes I feel all used up and empty”.
“Oh, duck! We’ve had such good times, remember when we were young?
All those trips to the seaside, those summers full of sun?
Annual foreign holidays to the Costa this and that,
strolling, licking ice cream in a kiss me quick hat.
It’s only right you’re tired when you’ve lived as much as us.
That’s why they give us pensioners free rides on the bus”.

She squeezed his hand and sadly smiled.
They walked in silence a little while.
Then, as they reached their little front gate
Bob’s caught Mary’s arm and said “Wait.”
“What?” said Mary startled, spun into Bob’s waiting palms
“While there’s moonlight, we’ve no music but we’ve love and romance,
haven’t we darling?”
Mary’s heart flew like a flock of starlings.
As she lifted her arms Mary was glad
that night she’d remembered to wear her Tena pad.
She murmured “Let’s dance” and Bob stepped a tango
then screwed up his face and yelled “Ee! Me lumbago!”
Mary cried “Bob! You poor old thing!
Let me give you a hand. Do you want me to ring
for the doctor?” “No, no,” he said
“the best medicine for me will be us in bed”.
“Oh, give over” she playfully teased
“between your back and my dodgy knees
we’ll be lucky to make it up the stairs.
Thank god the hot water bottles are already prepared.”

She helped Bob to bed and fetched him his pills.
Unplugged the cords to save on the bills.
Locked all the doors and turned off the lights.
Got into bed and they kissed goodnight.
In well practiced harmony they both removed their teeth
put them into one glass and pushed it out of reach.
They snuggled into decades long impressions of their love
on a mattress worn equally below as above.
As Mary’s dreams encroached she saw flashes of her life
From after and before she became a mam and wife.
A joyful tear slid down her nose
and she reached her cold feet towards Bob’s warm toes.
“Bob, why don’t we take the grandkids out?
Down to the pier and tell them all the stories about
when you and me was courting
and the lido? and your car?
And that bar that you fought in?
Let’s see how they are.”
Bob just grunted but Mary didn’t mind.
She knew her face was laughter-lined.
For it hadn’t been a bad life, and she’s not one to complain
and she wouldn’t really do it differently

if she had her time again. 

Education

“Those who can, do.
Those who can’t, teach.”
is used usually at the end of a speech
in that tone of sneering smugness
reserved for lies
that have been repeated so many times
they have earned a patina of wisdom
to the unassuming eye.

The purpose of teaching is not to instruct.
It’s about introductions and opening up
a mind to possibilities.
Then gifting the tools
 to make the best of these.

The folk that sneer don’t hear about the stories of success

that come when students overcome feelings of powerlessness.

Perdita

As I woke the other day
the sky broke. Big, grey
splotches on concrete.
Each one a cocktail thrown by an ex-lover in defeat.

Dressing, dreading
resigned to a day of
unabashed antagonists,
washing, waking
this disturbing state
insistently persists.
I attempted to give the half squint that hair leaving the house demands
but could barely see the mirror for Kirby grips and hair-bands.
They had spilt off the shelf and onto the floor;
some in the bin, some in the drawer
this atoll of accessories, point of origin undisclosed
 was girt by the lagoon of lost socks and outgrown favourite clothes.

Confused, I clamour for caffeine.

Stumbling through the hallway,
bare soles bruising on abandoned ephemera
as pen lids, lip balm and bouncy balls roll away
care-slow moving like a long lost Lepidoptera.

Steaming kettle further blurring sleep clouded
eyes I turn and reach wrist deep into a tower
of teaspoons.
Withdraw.
To hullabaloo calamitous, I stir.
I slurp.
I stare,
trying to work out where I am.
Such stifling clutter!
It looks like a nutter
lives here, hoarding
all things
carelessly tossed aside.

This realization drove an elbow into my gut.
I checked the doors and windows.
Sealed shut.
Jellied legs delivered me to my cobalt velvet chair,
I sipped my tea most somberly, reflecting on my despair.
I finished, then straight-backed rinsed the cup,
head up high, jaw a-jut
then set about with mop and duster
until all of the items regained their lustre.
Gave each a home, it’s proper place,
put away pairs of briefs by the case
and learned to live through windows.
On tiptoes from upstairs
I can see a sliver of ocean.

I’ve chosen to make the best of it.
It’s orderly now. And quiet.
Some people would kill for this solitude.
I stoically abide it.

As for all the teaspoons, I’ve made myself a crown.
I accept I’m lost, for this is where I’m found

Hog Blop

So, this is not a poem.

I am breaking with my usual style to take part in a Blog Hop, nominated as I was by my delightful sister. You can find her musings on all things literary, triathlon and movie based at:

http://bookwormsandcofeemonsters.wordpress.com

This hop is all about writers and specifically, female writers. That's a broad genre. Who knows what you may follow by following the threads? Certainly not I, but I urge you to do just that. You may discover a new favourite.

And so to the exposition:

What Am I Working On/Writing?

I am (now, as ever) working on about five different poems of different types, for different purposes. I am trying to assemble something for the ManxLitFest Poetry Slam. I entered last year (and won! Yay!) with my poems No Apologies and Mystery of the Moon. One is most whimsical and the other is almost conversational in tone. I need to be able to show diversity and the performance has to be polished. I should add, the competition isn't until September. I don't want to give away too much about that just yet.
I am also working on a present for someone, which is taking longer than I thought it would and frustrating me. I keep having to remind myself that I can't force the muse. If someone figures out a way to do that, though, please let me know.
I am working on a dystopian series of poems set in Itsnotareal Town. The first few of these are already up on the blog, but more are required. The characters come to me in fits and starts, though. Oftentimes they are inspired by people I meet and are the result of traits amplified or amalgamated as required.
There are always a myriad of other rhymes and patterns going on in my head at any one time. This means that I must carry a book and pen at all times. Writing for me is compulsive. If inspiration hits and I cannot find anywhere to write I tremble, stutter and flush.
Yes. I am addicted to writing poetry.

How Does My Work/Writing Differ From Others Of Its Genre?

I'm not sure what genre I actually belong to.
Poetry is such a wide field and the variations on themes are massive. I tend to write for performance, which can mean that as printed word, the rhythm or pace are lost. I like to read other poets and found the communities on Google+ were really helpful, inspiring and supportive. When I finally found the courage to perform in public, I have found the same with the Isle of Man Poetry Society. Perhaps my difference is that I am somewhat confessional, honest, sometimes brutally. It is often preferable to write about false situations, things outside our own lives. Reflective poetry can so often become indulgent. I try to allow myself these indulgences, but balance them with poems about the world.
I think good poetry is honest poetry.
It's all about the feels.

Why Do I Write What I Do?
Did I just answer this above by accident? Maybe.
I write to clear my head. When I have strong feelings about something I find it rattles about in my head until I scrawl it over the page. If this comes out as lucid thought, so much the better. If not, I'll keep hold of it and try to channel it into something later. Some of the poems I write have been inspired by couplets I wrote 10+ years ago.
I'm a mother to a five year old child as well as a full time pharmaceutical dispenser. I adore my son and thoroughly believe that he keeps me on the straight and narrow. Without him I may well have run away and joined the circus, or ended up dead in a ditch somewhere. He is a great inspiration and a hell of a drain on my available writing time. Swings and roundabouts (are also things we enjoy).
Other times I write to escape. Some of the worlds my poems are based in are mirrors of this one. Sometimes they're allegorical.
I enjoy lucid dreaming on a fairly regular basis, as well as Alice in Wonderland Syndrome which affords me certain sensations and experiences impossible on the physical plane. The challenge is to translate these into a format that other people can share.
I'm still working on that.

How Does My Writing Process Work?

The time I have for writing is, as you can imagine, minimal.
I find myself staying up until silly-o-clock to complete things. It's usually a case of gestating ideas for a long time until they burst forth, fully-formed in phrasing and meter from my subconscious. When I work on something specifically, I am rarely as happy with the result and cannot help myself but pick and poke at the final result, as if it is a wound that I won't let heal.
Maybe the chaos is as important as the inspiration. Maybe the chaos is the inspiration.

Performance, however is something I have to prepare for thoroughly. It is as important as the words written, for this is how I convey my poems. For this, I lock myself in the toilet in the garage, where there is a mirror and perform to myself. It probably looks and sounds crazy. I am judging my performance and practicing. I try alternative stresses, look myself in the eye and try to separate from the image in the mirror. I found it a very good way to overcome stage fright. (yes, I suffer with it. Badly. My legs shake and will not stop. One day they will probably give way).
I would urge anyone performing poetry to do this, rather than recording yourself and watching it back. It's not as scary or off-putting as the sound of your own recorded voice.

Who's Next?

Well, the first person in my chain is Susan. She writes and suchlike over at :
http://inthevortexofthewhirl.blogspot.com/
as well as curating the 25 Awesome Poets and Me on Google+. She's supportive, wise and a wonderful person to have in your creative life. Just knowing that she's out there in the world makes me a more creative person. I keep promising her I'll be back and creating more often soon, and I WILL.

The last person I am sending you to is Fatma. Find her at:
http://www.fatmalatif.blogspot.com/
I love that she writes what she feels, her experiences, her angers, her desires. I love that she is eloquent in a way I can never be, spinning phrases and paragraphs that sweep me into her world completely. I don't follow her as closely as I should, which means I am regularly able to binge on her writing. A treat I allow myself gleefully.

It's supposed to be three women, but I am limiting myself to my favourites (outside of my sister who directed you here, obviously). I hope you've not found my ramblings too repetitive or dull. I can't wait to see who this hops to next.
Thanks for reading. Xxxx