Camping

In this canvas-shanty-holiday town,

you'll hear strange sounds when the sun goes down

and played out families are tucked up tight

in polyester slug-suits in the still of the night.

At half past three

you need to pee

in insomnia regretting that last coffee.

Your tent mate is oblivious;

they've been snoring for two hours

while you slithered up and down the slope

with great rustling sounds.

The decision made, you try to rise

and sit up with a plan.

But your elbow's caught inside your zip

and it pulls you down again.

The zip is caught! You can't get out!

Your bladder twitches a threat.

You cursing, muttering free your legs

which immediately don goose flesh.

Pull on shoes, wrong foot, wrong way

laces tied as long as they'll stay

and with screwed up face and finger tip

try to open the front door zip.

The slower you go, the louder it is.

You think “Fuck it!” and try to go quick;

The zip is caught! You can't get out!

The whole tent gives a wobble

and you burst into the porch of sorts

in a breathless, blundering bundle.

Picking past the other homes

newly acute awareness

of whispered squabbles, saucy moans

and farts confidently careless.

As eyes adjust you realise the toilets are worryingly distant

and like Lara Croft with lasers you must cross the guy rope alarm system.

You wheel and tiptoe, duck and hop

knowing you'll pee yourself if you stop.

Nearly there but then your heel catches and pulls out a peg.

You freeze and hear blamey whispers coming from inside that tent.

“That' the fifth time! I said not to camp here!”

“Fine, you can come on your own next year!”

Run away! Preserve yourself and reach the portaloos.

They'll be equally grubby, no matter which one you choose

and finding one with toilet paper's a great thing to behold.

You lock the door and sit but the toilet seat is cold.

The relief is blessed beautiful. You dress again with leisure.

And water free hand cleaner is a modern camping pleasure.

Confident, collected now you begin the return trip

and trip's the operative word as over the same peg you slip.

Twang! With owl wide eyes you scurry,

ducking, wheeling, tiptoeing in hurry.

The saucy moans you heard before

have progressed to throaty groans of “more”

and their unfortunate head torch shadow display

is giving delight to some, but others dismay.

You pass by and observe all this

but after five minutes, something's amiss.

Where did we put the tent again?

I'm sure it was here. I remember when

we pitched up. That seagull flag,

the leilandii trees, that plastic bag.

Oh look. It's starting to rain.

Didn't bring a coat of course, the noise it would have made

would have been a rustle too far.

Oh God, looks like I've walked right past

it. It's all the way back there.

Stumble, trip, grab the zip.

Slippy fingered wrestle with it.

The zip is caught! You can't get in!

Over in the next tent a stirring begins.

You've woken their kids and they've started to fight

An angry bellow rings out through the night

followed by a man's voice, shrilly;

“I've told you before not not stand on my willy!”

Back in your bag, the rain sounds heavier

but only liquid sunshine falls on the British Riviera.

And fresh air sleep is fuller

you wake feeling so refreshed

and sleeping under canvas for sciatica is best.

So when the sun comes up we'll cook sausages and bacon

And smile like we heard nothing of the other campsite's patrons.

Are You Sitting Comfortably?

If you like the theatre,

or going to live shows

there's a whole cast of characters

who to you are quite well known.

I'm not sure if they're real

or some sort of rent-a-crowd

but where ever there's a view to obscure

you'll find them gathered round.

It doesn't matter if you book seats

or turn up hours previous

to guarantee your front row view.

They're cunning and they're devious.

First up in this parade of pains

is the Giant Head-Geared Horror.

Whether hat or hair it doesn't matter;

its mass is a thing of wonder.

You crane to the left,

you strain to the right

attempt to secure

uninterrupted sight

of all the stagely treads afoot.

You finally find the best place to look

and now the 3 rows behind you's view's hidden.

As you hear them all shift you're a bit guilt ridden.

What you don't realise in your angsty little quest

is that now you've taken the entire armrest.

“That ignorant bloody space invader”

is how you'll be remembered.

But this about-to-be-a-bad neighbour

is of an individual standard.

He's invading space on the other side!

He got quite claustro when he tried

to avoid to being touched or crowded or crushed.

Now it's becoming apparent he's the Great Unwashed.

The stench started as just a whiff

the woman on the end wasn't sure so she sniffed.

It made her eyes sting and her nose hairs burn.

She gagged and the woman in front of her turned

and over glasses chastised a “hush!

You're ruining it for the rest of us!”

Gagging woman sees her chance

and joins the crowd at the front to dance.

And just as she's found a great view of the feature

enter the Four Legged Staggering Crab-Like Creature.

United at the shoulder, mutually supportive

but with feet and legs at war with each other,

attempts to walk are abortive.

Everyone they stumble into spills their drinks in shock

but from their own never-empty glasses they don't waste a single drop.

Another multi-organismed beast

makes incremental attacks and never retreats.

It's starts in on your peripherals,

usually embodied by a group of girls

who over time push their way into the space

that previously was taken by your arms, or your face.

They never tie their hair up

and it all goes in your mouth

when you try to light your cigarette,

then try to put it out.

Their bloody hair's on fire!

They use so much spray and mousse.

You put up with it for so long but in the end it's just no use.

You sidle to the sidelines and go for a quick wee.

At one point one of those girls ended up sitting on your knee!

Upon returning to the scrum,

sweaty, dancing, joyful.

Your space has been taken by a man

wearing a coat half-duvet, half-hairball.

A firm-fan-favourite song begins

the surge forth irresistible

and you fall forward into him.

As least when you land it's comfortable.

His po-faced wife or girlfriend is leaning over the railings

looking bored and slightly offended by these audio assailants.

I don't know why she came along,

it's not like it was free.

I think her space would be better taken by

a fan. You know, like me.

Upon closer inspection, you recognise these two.

They're the one's that annoyed you earlier

by pushing in the queue.

It wasn't fair, it wasn't cricket

But you 'd never say anything,

you're far too British.

And besides, you've been waiting a third of your life

for this very gig, for this show tonight.

So you put up and shut up,

choose the obstruction least offensive

and if you can learn to live with it

be an audience attentive.

So if by some lucky twist of fate your eye line's unimpeded,

you're comfortable and the toilet queue's non-existent when you need it,

check you aren't just pushing in or obscuring others' view.

Because you might be unaware that the annoying bastard's you. 

Anti-Shanty

We all sing the songs of souls lost at sea

and preserve in musical amber memories.

But what of the land-bound in fishermen’s towns,

Now the fish are all dead and the industry’s down?

These boatmen more solid on liquid than land

on coal-littered beach front at sunset they stand.

Watch while their mistress is tossing her waves.

Greying and gloomy. She resents what she gave.

Now she casts off the covenant and keeps all the catch

and the sails in the harbour are folded or slack.

Lobster pots line up, empty in the sun,

while their salted-faced owner silently burn.

For it’s pints they are downing

to tribute the drowning

of another in whiskey not sea.

For they know where they’re going,

it’s their own path he’s showing

a way out of their own misery.

The swallows that flit through the cherry blossom trees

know the sea demands her tithe ev’ry fifteen years.

She lowers the pressure and hitches her skirt.

Swishing them wildly unbuttons her shirt,

booming with laughter she rolls on the shore

and demands that more businesses pay her, and more.

Her revenge for her rape is undeniable and savage

for hell hath no fury like an ecosystem ravaged

The touch of the hull on her skin is well met

but behind these caresses is an anchor of debt.

She gives life and takes life; some later, some soon

changeable as wind direction, reliable as moon.

People flocked to pay homage in sunny days gone by

but they’ve mostly stopped coming since the monkeys learned to fly

and now the town relies on hand outs and the landing stage is closed

and they’ve paved over history with a red brick road.

The people left land locked pay their dues in installments

of barometric infirmity and camphor-based liniment.

Crippled by ozone and scattered by squall.

They yearn when they hear the Wind Maidens call.

It’s a lifetime of hardship and internal fights

when the wind’s from the West and the bells ring at night.

But the Goddess takes all, every bit in the end.

Either swallows with love, or starves and contends.

And if

you ask if in this contract they willingly took part

They’d say

They’d give it all again. Body, soul and heart.

Vacationcy

Suitcase castors skitter-clattering

fights the

cloudburst pitter-pattering

battering

homeward jetlagged smattering

of tourists in the dark.

Taxi tyres swishing

hitting

pedestrians with mists

of filth that were

puddles

moments before.

The roar and whistle

of the storm’s winds bristle

hairs on necks

suntanned

and long haul sore.

Cash for taxis crushed in numb hands;

plans of walks on sunset shores

are splattered monumentally

with clarity of fact.

You’re back

from your holi-bobs, your jollies,

back to bills and job and worries.

Scurry soggily, fog clogs

your vision and windscreen.

Familiar roads pass under you unseen

as fatigue erodes last run of sinew keen.

Tinnitus eardrums

numbed

to thrum of engine’s

 singing

lullabies

as hedges echoes follow behind.

The drive has never been longer.

wringing wrench of

muscles hunger

to feel some

relief

from cramps.

Angry clamp

stamping angles

into ankles.

Damp hats doffed,

clothing off

and duvet down.

As sounds recede, your thoughts

of pastures greener, all sorts

of golden reveries consort

themselves freely.

Home.

And comfort.

                                                                                                                                         

I had the honour and delight of running a workshop on the Writer's Day of Manx LitFest 2016. This is an event in which budding authors attend workshops, Q&A sessions and panel discussions with authors, publishers and agents. They also have the chance to pitch their idea to a publisher. 

The workshop I was running was all about the use of sound as more than the obvious. It's all a bit complicated to explain here, but is based on the Kiki/Booba experiment and resulting inspiration. It leads to very meta-rhyme and form. 

The point of it is to recognise that sound is almost as evocative as smell. That the sound of words affects you more than their actual meaning. The poem above was inspired by sound and written using the principles of the workshop. 

This style of writing is why there are so many tongue-twisters in my poems. 

Xx

Cheesecake: The Prequel

Wake up, late.

Dry mouth.

Morning after the house warming party before state

and yawning, stretch.

Slight retch

at tequila backwash acid.

Heavy lids

downstairs skid

past poltergeist pong of

overnight guests’ evacuations

exposing pot pourri’s limitations

and push open kitchen door.

Thirsty.

Detritus of guests

abandoned cups,

abandoned hats

for poetry and otherwise

plates on sides.

Kettle on: click

then the comforting promise of

pkchkchkchkchkchkch

as dry lips are licked in anticipation

of culmination

of delayed gratification.

Made three days previous

(and left out too long) grievous

sin to waste it though,

Too good to throw away.

Chocolate sprinkles, biscuit base,

New York style. The last piece placed

back on the shelf

in the fridge by itself

next to orange juice. Healthy.

A hangover cure.

Oh blessed breakfast, mon amour!

I reach for fridge door

stand on sticky spiky tines.

Raspy swearing cough

and hop

and hold my toe as I

sideways go

and fall against spillage stained sideboard.

Who would leave a fork on the floor

next to the fridge?

Grumpily slump

retrieve fork from floor

and squint.

What’s that?

Between tobacco stained finger and chipped painted thumb?

A crumb.

Suspicion aroused

fridge door open flung

 to reveal:

Someone’s eaten my cheesecake!

                                                                                                                                         

My good friend Bill Strutt wrote a poem about cheesecake which is often requested and always performed with great aplomb. I wrote this in his style, in tribute to all the fantastic work he does to introduce poetry to people on a daily basis.

 Bill has a great, deep growly voice which lends itself to characterisation, storytelling and the gift of the gab. An incorrigible poetry pusher, he can often be found performing at different events and open mics across the island. I urge you to experience his skill.

Rant

Fear

steers

our ideals.

I like to pretend

my intentions

are guided by pride

in my liberty

but honestly,

it’s obvious

that them and us

mentality

has still in some way

stuck to me.

Headlines. Lies. Wage discrepancies.

Turmoil. Spilled oil. Unwanted pregnancies.

Terror. Hate. Islamic State.

Ukraine. Fascist Spain. Corrective rape.

We are all in the throes of compassion fatigue.

Our syndrome’s symptoms are nationally glaring;

nonchalance not-so-much as simply not caring.

Heads in phones, wearing headphones.

Drown the sound of the world.

Limit your vision to screens

that only show scenes

 you enjoy.

But ignoring a problem doesn’t make it go away.

Borders are force fields that only bureaucrats and Ultra-Nats believe in.

Between here and there

the air is barely blown,

just breathed across the seas

and when it reaches from them to me

it still carries discordant disharmony,

tasting of wasted life,

of sighs and suffering.

 It howls in the night.

Insomniacal  I howl back

attacking the geminid specters of

Worry

and

Guilt

with mindfulness.

Breathe in.  Breathe out.

Leery beasts grow bored of fangs

and inconclusive forms.

As aurora creeps forward

reluctantly they resolve to return

appropriately costumed.

Donning masks of questions asked uncomfortably.

Of bills and will,

sobriety, propriety,

duty, judgments…

I thought once I was free of these.

It turned out I had nurtured alternative anxieties.

If 2014 was the year of mock outrage,

is 2015 the year of sincere apathy?

Disempowered, disenfranchised. disinterested and diseased.

This stiff upper lip is slippery with sweat

and yet, and yet…

we plough on.

Heads bowed.

Backs bent.

Begging bowls deflecting heat.

Al l the better to beat you with, my dear.

From this disadvantage point we focus

on dropped litter

unscooped poop

and the life-changing necessity

of gadgets built with slavery.

When did we lose sight of reality?

We’re the quiet kid in class.

We gave them our lunch money when they asked.

Right now we’re being left alone but we know they’ll be back.

Attacks on disability, on obesity,

on smokers, on pensioners…

all in the pipeline.

And in time

even you.

Spurious statistics trick citizens into soul sickness.

Scared of what strangers might say

they toe the line.

Seeking only to be allowed to survive.

Never even dreaming of the freedom to live.

Times are hard for dreamers.

But is this really the time to be dreaming?

Massacres masquerade as aid resulting in mass graves and raids

and despite all this we still maintain

that we’ve done nothing wrong.

As long as we ignore Mrs Doasyouwouldbedoneby

We are living and

they are dying

by the bad mistakes we are making.

Simple moral codes forsaken.

Deserted water babies we are,

gasping, gulping in the arid air.

Mrs Bedonebyasyoudid

blows the lid on thoughtless theories.

Preposterous postulations applied to human populations,

pushing politics, suffocating nations.

Freedman economics makes

slaves of man to profits.

It galls me to know that both bullets and blossoms

are patented

with pocket linings in mind.

We click, click, click on little links,

as if it makes a difference.

We: raise awareness.

They: raze cities to the ground

in our name.

As a life-long, tie-dyed, self-sufficient Dove

I’ve always had faith in the power of peace and love

but I’m beginning to see the

necessity of action.

Funding and fueling feuding factions

is certainly not a diplomatic tactic learned at charm school.

Such cruelty only stokes the hate,

chokes the hope,

halts the growth

and seals the fate

of recipients of its offensive.

And it is offensive

to tell you that out of 287 plane crash victims,

8 were British.

As if that’s the only reason it’s a tragedy.

Assume the air of supremacy.

Motherland knows best.

These modern-day quests

to slay behemoths of our own creation

are an exercise in the power of misinformation.

Cnut now I stand ,thigh-deep in blood

and rage at the rising tide.

Sweetness swept away in the flood.

Read the bones that remain.

We are all in the throes of compassion fatigue.

Ignoring a problem doesn’t make it go away.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Resolve to return

empowered, enfranchised, interested and enraged.

The life-changing necessity of

attacks on spurious statistics

seek the freedom to live.

The choices are simple moral codes.

Make a difference.

Stoke the hope.

It’s a tragedy to assume the air of supremacy.

This world is our creation.

This (long!) poem was inspired by conversations with a few dear friends. We all feel something in the air at the moment. It feels like change. We hope we're right. 

Women Today on Manx Radio.

Today I had a great time on the Manx Radio program Women Today, talking about all things poetry, the Oscars and performing some of my poems. You can listen to a recording of the full show here:

Yes! I want to listen to awesome women! 


Many thanks to the whole team. As for writing a poem about my experience... well, you'll just have to wait and see.

Xxxx

31

My body is my body. I’m not bothered what you think of it.

It’s carried me through all these years no matter what I’ve thrown at it.

The marks on my flesh; the scars on my organs

They’re trophies from my battles with the metaphoric gorgons.

I’m feeling freed from the cycles of love and hate and love and hate

Now I’ve relinquished thinking on self-comparative debate.

Some people get my name wrong and they pronounce Georgina

But I’m not diminutive in stature or demeanor.

Dubbed as weird, mad, aggressive and crazy

Because the clarity I see, to them, is hazy.

Censored by illiterati, told I’m inappropriate.

Asked if I was born with bollocks, labeled frigid, called a slut.

I’m conscious of all my decisions, chosen to remember them

At times when I am finding out if they were right or they were wrong.

I don’t claim omniscience. I hold intelligence in awe

I’d rather know I’m ignorant and perfectly flawed

For the journey’s earning’s learning in its absolute form

And it gives your seasons reasons for your earthly sojourn.

They say “Don’t get her started” and “Not again, here we go”

When engaging in discussion and opinion of their point is low.

This is my elixir, though. This heady mix of raw debate.

With sowing of seeds and the joy to watch them germinate.

Frustrated by the limitations I cannot see

That seem to bind most others to a life semi-free

With their worries of decorum or etiquette or saving face.

I’d like to rip their blinkers off, put Technicolor in their place.

You’ll never know what you could be if you never try

And then you’ll blink and you’ll be at the end of your life.

I’ve seen too many dreamers go to holes in the ground

And damsels in distress choosing to wait to be found

By princes preoccupied with kissing the seeming dead.

I can’t understand why they don’t rescue themselves instead.

I love Lara, Xena, Tank Girl and Janeway

For standing up and counting, for doing things their own way.

Ignoring real heroines, a culture habitual.

The women on that list were completely fictional.

I’m not sold on the Lady myth. Keep your expectations.

Sell them to someone who’ll accept that degradation.

Do you want your daughters to grow up with choice?

Then encourage them to speak in an authorative voice.

Teach everyone to accept that “no means no”

But it also means “stop asking” and “leave me alone!”

If someone cannot answer it’s still not consent

And you don’t get to decide what unconscious people meant.

Those lines that you claim are blurred beyond compare

Are clear as Autumn air, no matter what clothes you wear.

Attraction’s not a circumstance of pink and blue

So stop trying to squeeze a right foot in a left hand shoe.

I stole that line from Carroll, from the Man Upon A Gate

But unlike him I know that there is too much to relate.

For the journey’s earning’s learning in its absolute form

And it gives your seasons reasons for your Earthly sojourn.

There is too much to discover for to ever be bored

And you’ll find its only you who is even keeping score.

So accept your physicality and mistakes of the past

For your time here is limited and goes pretty fast.

Do you honestly want your last thought to be

“I didn’t spend enough time just being me”?

Inspiration

That intake of breath

Of fresh

Air.

Bringer of new ideas

Unfair

-ly mined

By a dozen minds

Or more.

These spores of thought

Are cultivated

Through mediums and means

Averages avoided in passionate extremes.

We find it

All

In scattered places.

Lost and founds

Fractals

Faces

Forms of clouds and outer space;

Equally in the grotesque.

Sparks flare catching

Clutching

At life.

Kindled by contemplation

Fuelled by frustration

Ventilated by imagination

Tempered by the midnight oils

As we watch our best laid plans

Burn.

We learn.

We turn to disciplines unschooled.

We spool our nets far and wide

Outside our comfort quarters.

Research has shown us one path

But doubt is crazy paving.

Stop saving for that rainy day

And discover for yourself,

your truth.

“I think therefore I am”

Is all we really know.

Why spend your precious life collecting objects just for show?

It’s not the breaths you take,

It’s the breaths that’re taken from you

It’s the things you make them feel

It’s the ones who matter and mind

It’s a million people just like me

Telling a million people how to see

The world, the truth, society

As if there’s just one

answer.

As if I somehow know better.

In my oh-so-limited life.

 I don’t

and never will have

The answer.

All is confusion.

All is loss.

Why try to mold this chaos

 after your image

When your image is only

Breath in frost.

You cannot force the muse

Or trick her into her prettiest dance.

You cannot even ask her for help

For fear of her reprisals.

Abandonment comes naturally to one so self-involved.
And artists such as we all are are not sufficiently evolved
to survive such isolation.

Frost bites back.

Not a Popular Opinion

I’m culturally appropriating.

You’re rating my passion

through the eyes of a career gold digger

looking for meaning unwritten,

themes and motifs and meta imagery.

I say what I see.

I’m on catchphrase constantly.

I’m good, but I’m not the one.

I’m frustrated by what I've become.

<sigh> narcissistic ramblings…

This child that went brambling

Now sips prosecco listening

To pseudo-socialist expressions espoused

By folk who don’t want to work.

“The system’s not working”

But you use it to support you.

You don’t earn any wages but bemoan the ways things are

while you profit from the sweat of others who are.

Thing is, I agree, things aren't the way they should be

but I find it hard to take you seriously.

You see, when I drag my bones out of bed

and pay all my bills and work ‘til I’m dead

You’re still sleeping.

You’re reaping your meager existence

from the aches in my muscles.

And honestly, I know there are some who can’t work,

They’re too sick, they’re too hurt by the weight of their age

But when you rage that your cheques not through

That the world’s not fair,

That it owes something to you

I can’t help it.

I’d like to give the help that you’ve received

To someone who knows what it’s like to really need.

A refugee.

Someone who wants to work,

Wants to support their family.

It’s not a popular opinion, I won’t earn any friends with this.

And honestly, there are some who will call me a hypocrite.

I claimed money when I first had my son.

Was made redundant when they noticed my bump.

It’s not legal, but neither was the war in Iraq

And we all know that that situation’s coming back.

Zero hour contracts, 50 hour working weeks

Flush the weak from a system that rewards the wolves.

There’s no paid overtime, we’re on Victorian rules.

Now, here I sit eating quince and cardamom jam

And my old punk friends wonder who I think I am

With my fancy little accent and shoes that have no holes

Now there’s middle class flab on my working class bones.

But my ideals haven’t changed, I still think we should protect

The vulnerable among us, give our elders our respect.

Speak to me statistically, romance me with the cold hard facts.

I don’t want to hear recycled bigotry, especially if it’s Murdoch Media backed.

I believe in the freedom of education.

I believe in the N.H.S

I believe that if you tell one generation

They’re doomed, you’re dooming all the rest.

I believe in the power of discussion.

I believe in empathy.

I believe that the kindness of strangers

Shows truthful humanity.

The amount of tax unpaid is now 30 times the money claimed

And yet the papers tell us that it’s benefits to blame

For why the cupboards empty and the pension pot is bare.

They tell that the CEOs don’t have enough to share.

Now.

I don’t work in finance.

I failed economics.

But I did work in promotions and

I know my demographics.

These pigeon holes we box us in, through judgement and research

And the one you’ve chosen causes my causes to be smirched.

And objectively I know there are so damn few of you

That the cost of it is almost worth forking out

Just so the folk who want to work

Don’t have to deal with you!

So when I’m fighting for the corner of the ones who need the aid

I would appreciate it greatly if out of my way you stayed.

You can pass you life in this way, you’ll find no judgment in me,

But please do consider if this help you really need.

Or if it would be better going to a refugee.

Someone who knows what it’s like to really need.

It’s not a popular opinion.

I won’t earn any friends with this.

But in this situation,

Empathy wouldn’t go amiss.